More Than a Moment of Silence

Every year on November 11th, we stop for two minutes of silence. The world seems to still itself as voices fade, movement slows, and the sound of bagpipes carries through the air. It’s a beautiful thing, that shared moment of gratitude.

But this year, when we stop and bow our heads, we’ll be thinking of someone close to home, our brother-in-law Rick, who served for 26 years in the military. Two tours overseas. Countless days and nights away from his family. Training, courses, deployments, and even fighting fires and floods right here in Canada.

That’s the part we don’t always see, the quiet service that stretches long after the ceremonies end. The birthdays missed, the long phone calls from afar, the family dinners with an empty chair. The constant readiness that doesn’t switch off when the uniform comes off.

And even when the serving stops, the impact doesn’t. What they’ve seen, where they’ve been, what they’ve carried, it all comes home with them. The world expects them to slip back into “normal life,” to pick up where they left off, to be present and steady for their families. But some things can’t be un-seen or easily set down. That kind of service leaves a mark, sometimes visible, sometimes not, and it takes time, grace, and understanding to live alongside it.

We used to wonder why he never came around much. Why he skipped family events or showed up late to holidays, quiet and withdrawn. We’d catch ourselves thinking, does he just not like us? It’s funny how we always find a way to make it about ourselves, how easily we fill the silence with our own stories. But the truth is, he was going through things none of us could really understand. The kind of things you can’t just talk about over coffee and dessert. The kind that sit deep in your bones.

And it doesn’t just affect the one who served. It ripples through the whole family. Our sister, his partner, has spent years walking beside him through it all. The distance. The long stretches of quiet. The moments of uncertainty. She’s been the one holding it together when life felt unpredictable, showing up even when it was heavy. Service might belong to the soldier, but the sacrifice belongs to the people who love them.

My son has always felt these things deeply too. When he was around six or seven years old, he used to hate attending the Remembrance Day assembly at his school. He’d tell me it made him too sad. They would play videos, read poems, and have a veteran come in to speak, and he’d sit there with tears in his eyes, completely overwhelmed by it all. I remember thinking how beautiful that sensitivity was, even though it made his heart ache. Maybe that’s where remembrance really begins, not with understanding every detail, but with simply feeling the weight of someone else’s story.

It’s easy for people like us to live comfortably in our homes, meddling over our first-world problems. Wondering if we should build on an acreage or go somewhere tropical this winter, while so many people around the world are living through heartbreak, loss, and real fear.

There are families who don’t know if their loved ones will come home. There are children who have never known peace. And there are veterans right here among us still trying to find their footing after years of service, carrying memories we’ll never fully understand.

It doesn’t mean we should feel guilty for our comfort. But maybe we can hold it differently. With a bit more awareness, gratitude, and compassion.

You can’t always see the weight someone’s holding. Not all battles happen on the front lines. Some happen quietly, in kitchens, in hearts, behind tired eyes.

So this year, we’re remembering more than a moment of silence. We’re remembering what it means to lead with empathy. To give grace to the person who seems distant. To thank those who’ve served, but also to check in on them, really check in, because the hardest part of service doesn’t always happen overseas.

To our brother-in-law and to every man and woman who has served or continues to serve, thank you. For the sacrifices that don’t make the news, for the courage that’s steady and unspoken, and for choosing duty over comfort when it mattered most.

And to the ones who stand beside them, thank you too. For staying when it’s hard. For showing up when it’s heavy. For reminding the rest of us what real love and loyalty look like.

In 2026, we plan to start a podcast, and Rick has offered to share his story, what life has really been like as a veteran and what it means to find your place in the world after service. We’re so honoured that he’s willing to open up in this way. Life gets busy, families grow, and everyone’s managing their own chaos. But this conversation matters, and we’re going to make it happen.

Remembrance should live on through stories, through connection, and through the willingness to really see the people behind the service.

Today we remember. But tomorrow, and every day after, may we also see.