The helicopter went down in Gia Dinh. The grief never left.

Although my own family never lost a loved one in war, my childhood best friend, “Buddy,” did. His uncle Jack was killed in Vietnam in 1967. More specifically, Buddy’s mother — my “emergency backup mom” growing up — lost her kid brother in that war. She remains part of my life to this day.

Buddy was too young at the time to remember Jack or the news of his death. But Jack’s picture hung on the wall of their house, and his memory quietly lingered. The family held him in reverence.

Grandfather didn’t just want to remember Jack — he needed to believe his son’s sacrifice mattered.

As the 1970s turned into the 1980s, Jack began to feel like a figure from a distant past — rarely discussed except on Memorial Day and increasingly removed from the rhythm of everyday life.

Then, in the early 1990s, our two families planned a multigenerational beach vacation on the Gulf Coast. Buddy and I were now young adults. His grandparents — Jack’s parents — joined us from out of state.

In that rented beach house, I finally understood the depth of their loss.

Twenty-five years after losing his only son, Buddy’s grandfather still talked about Jack often. He told stories about Jack’s strength of character, his patriotism, and how much he would have loved to be with us. He said Jack would have been a great father. He wished Buddy had cousins — the kids Jack never lived to father — playing with us on the beach.

One morning, as Buddy, my dad, and I packed up for a fishing trip, Grandfather told us that Jack had loved to fish. He would have joined us, if only he could have.

Each night at supper, Grandfather bowed his head and thanked God for the years they had with Jack. He prayed that Jack would remain in God’s care until the family could one day be reunited in heaven.

He also talked about the war. About the helicopter shot down in Gia Dinh Province. About the impossible task of finding meaning in that loss. He didn’t just want to remember Jack — he needed to believe his son’s sacrifice mattered.

Buddy’s grandmother cried often during that trip. The grief never left her, not even after 25 years. It stayed with her until the day she died. I pray she and her husband are now reunited with Jack. Buddy’s mother still mourns the brother she lost 58 years ago.

We are blessed to live in a country where men like Jack give everything they have — willingly — for a cause greater than themselves. May God comfort those they left behind. And may He give us the wisdom and courage to build a world where fewer families must endure such loss.