I was kneeling at the casket of my 24 year old son Daniel on a Tuesday when protesters arrived to disrupt his funeral. My husband Earl and our chaplain tried to shield me from the awful things they were screaming across the road. I closed my eyes and wondered why my boy had to endure this on the day we buried him. Suddenly 50 men on motorcycles rode through the cemetery gates and parked their bikes end to end to form a living wall between my family and the protesters. Most of these men had gray beards and carried American flags on their motorcycles
When a protester climbed on a van to continue yelling an older biker walked to the fence to address him. The biker calmly explained that his own son had come home in a casket in 2005 and he warned the young man to stop upsetting a grieving mother. His calm but firm approach caused the protesters to lower their signs and eventually pack up their van in complete silence. The chaplain was finally able to finish the service in peace while the 50 bikers stood shoulder to shoulder in respectful silence. During the playing of bugle music every biker placed their hand over their heart and the older biker gave me an encouraging nod as I received my son folded flag
After the service the 50 bikers escorted Earl and me to the reception at a local post where people lined the streets to show their respect. The older biker whose patch read Doc explained they had come because strangers had done the exact same thing for his son Michael and his late wife. Before leaving Doc handed me an envelope to open when I was ready to read it. Three days later I sat in Daniel bedroom and opened the letter to find a roster of all 50 bikers and the names of the fallen military members they rode to honor. Doc had written a note explaining that Daniel was now added to their list and he would never be alone because his 50 new brothers would ride for him forever.
Reading that letter made me realize I was never as alone as I had felt during my darkest hour. Six months later at 58 years old I got on the back of a motorcycle to travel to a funeral in Pennsylvania for a 19 year old Marine named Anthony Morales. Doc had previously invited me to join them as a support for other grieving mothers because he knew the power of shared pain. I walked up to Anthony 43 year old mother Elena and held her hands to explain that the 50 bikers outside were there to protect her family. I told her I came to support her because someone had done the same for me and I had sworn to be there for the next mother who needed an angel
