By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

AS I WALKED OUT OF THE NATIONAL ARCHIVES and into the late afternoon sun, I was overtaken by a warm wave of patriotism. I walked aimlessly for a few moments, thinking about the glory of America, and suddenly found myself standing before the Vietnam War Memorial. The impact of that wall of tears-name after name of our boys lost in battle-was overwhelming. I kept thinking that each name was attached to a face, a dream, and ten thousand reasons to live. Every fallen soldier, sailor, airman, and marine had friends and family too. I saw them, their hands placed over the precious names carved in the stone, standing still, frozen in time and sorrow. After lingering there for a few minutes, I felt something moist on my cheek and realized that I add been silently crying. Slowly I walked away, filled with grief and mad as hell about the futility and mindlessness of war. Walking toward the massive Lincoln Memorial, I began thinking that the war of his time, the War Between the States, was perhaps the most cruel and tragic of them all. As I stood there in that solemn hall, gazing at the face of Abraham and reading the familiar words of the Gettysburg Address, I was again filled with sorrow. Over 50 thousand men were slain in the three-day battle of Gettysburg, 13,000 in one onslaught alone-Picket’s charge. In that battle the confederate troops had marched across the rolling open fields of Gettysburg. The Union soldiers waited on the boundary, protected by the woods. When at 200 yards the federal troops open fired, entire regimens were destroyed in one volley. It was the single most tragic event of the war.

I have been told that on the 50th anniversary of that battle there was a reunion of the Gettysburg veterans. The highlight of the gathering was a reenactment of the catastrophic Pickett charge. When the old men of the confederate army approached their enemy, a long sigh was heard among the union soldiers. Those old warriors could not take it any longer; they stood up from their hiding places and ran out to their former enemies and embraced their brothers.

I was thinking about all that, sitting on the top step of the Memorial to Abraham Lincoln. I was lost in thought, gazing across the reflective pond, and the Washington Monument, and the Capital Building beyond.

As I pondered a Boy Scout, 12 or 13 years of age, sat down beside me.

“There are 78 steps from here to the reflective pond,” the young man told me.

I awoke from my reverie. “Seventy-eight, you say.”

“Yes, I counted them.” And with that the boy was gone.

The sky was fading now and I decided to head back to my hotel. As I walked down the steps, I found myself counting the granite treads, all the way down to the reflective pond. 76, 77, 78. Seventy-eight steps-exactly. There are things you can depend on in this world of ours. You can depend on the scourge of war. You can depend on the heartbreak of struggle-regardless of the virtue of the cause. And you can depend on the vitality, hope, and mathematical accuracy of our boys who have sworn their allegiance to the principles of scouting.

In my hotel that evening I thought about the day’s events. I thought of the heartache of the Vietnam Memorial. I thought about the innocence and promise of an inquisitive 12-year-old American Boy Scout. I thought-with a deep reverence and a sorrow as heavy as the tears of all the loved ones of all the wars in all the countries of the earth-why can we not forgive? Why can we not do the right thing? Why can we not, like the 50th anniversary warriors of the Civil War, throw down our weapons and embrace our brothers-today, right now-once and for all time?

During the Civil War Abraham Lincoln once delivered a speech in which he spoke kindly of the Rebel soldiers. An angry Unionist woman criticized Lincoln for his sympathy. “You should be talking about destroying your enemies,” she pronounced.

Lincoln’s response was characteristically simple and profound:

“But, Madam, would I not destroy my enemies by making them my friends?”

That, for me, is the true test of nobility: to remain an advocate for peace in the face of fierce adversity, to seek understanding when our impulse is to attack, to render forgiveness when we have been grievously offended. After all the tears, is not peace a better way?

Lincoln’s words ring true, because they are based on a natural principle: the timeless power of love. As such, it was not surprising to hear the grand president’s conviction echoed by another peace-loving American during a more recent tragedy in our nation’s history. Following the September 11 attack on the World Trade Center, I walked solemnly through a memorial of flowers that were spontaneously placed by grieving Americans in the dry fountain at the Seattle Center. The messages attached to over 10,000 wreaths and bouquets were heartbreaking-all calling for peace and healing. But of them all, the message that most touched me was the four-word prayer squalled at the bottom of a child’s crayon drawing of five human figures. The five characters-linked hand in hand and colored red, yellow, black, brown, and white-encircled a world globe. Below the drawing were these four words:

LOVE THE HATE AWAY.