The People Who Were There

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to travel to Gettysburg to work with a school district. It was my second year working with this delightful group of humans. The interesting thing about returning to a place is realizing how much you missed the first time around. 

Like last year, we visited the battlefield. We heard stories from the past that invited us to think more deeply about how we lead today.  

The year before, there had been so much to take in—the history, the stories, and the sheer scale of what happened there. This year, one passing comment from our guide captured my attention. 

We were standing in front of a massive memorial. Every wall was covered with the names of soldiers who had fought in the battle. Thousands of names etched into stone. As our guide spoke, he mentioned that if we looked closely, we would see that some of the names had been scratched off. 

He explained that over the years, people had discovered that certain individuals listed on the memorial had not actually fought in the battle. When evidence surfaced showing they weren't there, their names were scratched off. 

Something about that spoke to me. 

If you have ever been to Gettysburg early in the morning, you know it doesn't take much imagination to transport yourself back in time. The grass is still wet with dew. The air is quiet. You see the rolling hills in the distance. And if you stand there long enough, you can almost see it—the smoke, the chaos, the screaming, and the sound of cannon fire echoing across that place. 

I found myself staring at those names. Not at the names that remained, but at the names that had been scratched off. Someone had once believed they belonged there. Years later, someone else felt strongly enough about the truth to remove them.  

I can only imagine the pain, grief, fear, and trauma the soldiers carried long after the battle ended. So it made sense to me that years later, people would look at that wall and say, "Wait a second. He wasn't here." 

There was something sacred about honoring the people who had actually endured the battle. 

Somewhere in that moment, I realized this wasn’t just about Gettysburg.  

I was thinking about the people whose names have become etched into my own life. The people who sat beside me during difficult seasons. The people who helped me survive heartbreak. The people who listened when I didn't have answers. The people who checked in, showed up, and stayed when life became heavier than I could carry alone. 

The older I get, the more I believe there is something sacred about a shared struggle. I do not believe suffering or hardship is the goal, and I certainly don't believe it is something we should seek. But I do believe that some of the deepest relationships in our lives are formed when people choose to walk through difficult seasons together. 

I've noticed that when people find themselves in painful seasons, they often go looking for answers. What they frequently discover is that they need people. People who understand. People who have walked a similar road. People who can honestly say, "I've been there too." 

One of the gifts of being human is that we don't have to grieve or grow in isolation. We become who we are in relationship with other people. We are strengthened by community, shaped by connection, and often transformed because someone else was willing to stay present when life became difficult. 

The names on that monument reminded me that there is a difference between knowing about a battle and being in one. There is a difference between observing someone's struggle and walking with them. Standing near someone in pain and helping them carry it are not the same thing. 

The people whose names remained on that wall had endured something together. Years later, others were still protecting the integrity of that story because there is something sacred about remembering who was there. Maybe that's true in our lives too. 

When I think about the people who have shaped me most, I rarely think about the smartest, most talented, or most successful people. I think about the people who showed up. The people who stayed. The people who sat beside me when life became difficult. The people who quietly carried part of the weight until I could carry it again. 

Those are the names I carry. And if we're fortunate, our name might someday be carried by someone else who remembers we were there.