Holding The Line

“We have flown the air like birds and swum the sea like fishes, but have yet to learn the simple act of walking the earth like brothers.”
― Martin Luther King Jr.

It is not unusual to hear reference to the law enforcement profession as closed, reticent, hard for outsiders to enter or understand. With the murder of El Paso County Deputy Micah Flick this evening the familiar conversations unfold. We hug each other, say supportive things to each other - grieve together, cry together and, eventually, tell funny and illustrative stories about the fallen...together.

In the midst of this horrible period - three Colorado Law enforcement officers killed in five weeks - we turn to each other. It is not that we are more worthy, or better. It isn't that the courage it takes to be one of us is superior to that of other professions or callings. It's that we know what this particular calling entails, what it takes to make a go of it, and what it extracts from all of us.

It's the officer responding to a call, at the same time on the phone hearing of another fallen brother or sister. It's the significant other that packs lunches, washes undershirts and vest covers and eats dinner, or sleeps, or puts the kids to bed...alone, four nights a week. It's the mom and dad, the cousins, the nephews who watch from afar and hope...pray...that they never get that phone call. It's the man, or woman, who marries into the profession and, before too long, gets a belly full of processions and Class A uniforms and "Something happened in the Springs tonight." It's the cop kids who grow up understanding far beyond their years what mom or dad...or mom and dad...risk every time they go to work.

It isn't that we don't trust others. It's that we trust each other so much. With our lives, with our hearts... With everything we have. When an officer falls, we have each other. And we know, when it happens again, and it will, we are there for each other once more.

Then, we see the flags, and the citizens. We see the firefighters, ambulance attendants. We see construction workers and kids and military. We see the people we serve standing by the side of the road, saluting. We go for a cup of coffee and find out our money is unnecessary - it's been paid for by the woman with the little kids who just left, wanting nothing in return.

And we suit up. Our loved ones say good bye and cope with our absences. And it all, somehow, makes sense.