Coins, Camaraderie, and the Quiet Lessons of Memorial Day

Memorial Day has come and gone, but its meaning hasn’t left me—not even out here in the dry heat of Boise, Idaho, where I’m currently in the thick of my Annual Training with the Army National Guard.

This year, something small caught my eye—and heart. Coins, carefully placed on the headstones of military graves. It’s a tradition I had noticed in the past, but only recently took the time to understand. And now that I do, I can’t stop thinking about it.

For those unfamiliar, the coins are more than a token of respect. They tell a story.

A penny simply means someone stopped by to pay their respects.

A nickel? You trained with the deceased.

A dime means you served together.

A quarter—the heaviest of meanings—says you were there when that soldier gave their life.

It’s a quiet, powerful language among those who wear or have worn the uniform.

That tradition got me reflecting on my own military journey, especially as I near the four-year mark of my enlistment this June. I haven’t seen combat yet, but I have experienced loss with a suicide and a car crash. 

Thinking back to the day I enlisted… oh, what a moment. Me—on the phone, full of hope, nerves, and exactly zero coordination—was all set on becoming a combat medic. 

My mom was on speaker, listening in horror as her daughter, who has had two surgeries on one ankle and can barely walk a straight line without tripping over air, announced she wanted to be the one running into danger to save lives.

Did my mom drop to her knees in prayer while the recruiter slowly retracted the paperwork like he was disarming a bomb? Pretty much.

Did she, with all the love and desperation of a mother, beg me to choose a different path? Also yes.

So I picked my second choice: military intelligence. You're welcome, Mom.

And honestly, it was the best unexpected twist of fate. That simple act—signing my name on a slip of paper—brought me not just a job, but a second family. The best friends I’ve ever known, spread out across the country and world, still manage to check in, encourage, and laugh with me through every odd memory and stressful moment.

Despite the distance and all life has thrown our way—marriages, divorces, new babies, far-flung travels—we still find time to laugh, cry, and celebrate together, no matter the occasion.

The military is, strangely enough, the smallest big world I’ve ever known and basic training was perhaps the most fun I might never want to experience again. 

Every now and then, I meet someone who trained at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, just like I did—not always the same unit, but they know. They know about the heat, the rare downpours, the way the air stuck to your skin, and yes, even the fire ants that turned push-ups into a squirming dance of pain.

Someday, I know I’ll visit those friends again—hopefully while we’re still very much alive—but maybe also when it's time to leave a coin. 

And maybe one day, they'll do the same for me. It’s a strange, beautiful thought.

Memorial Day is more than a long weekend. It's not just about a paid day off or an extra burger on the grill. 

It's a day layered with solemn remembrance, quiet pride, and yes—even joy for the lives that have intersected through this crazy, humbling life in uniform. I wear it proudly—as the first woman in my family to do so.

So while the calendar has turned, and Memorial Day 2025 is behind us, I invite you to carry its spirit forward. If you find yourself near a cemetery this week, stop. Take a breath. And leave a penny. Let someone know that, even now, they are not forgotten.