Over the past year, with the decision to mark Fort Lewis soldiers’ deaths in a group at the end of each month, the poignancy of each loss has diminished.

Reading about the three or four or five young people who have died in Iraq has lost some of its immediacy, both because the biographies of each are, of necessity, truncated, but also because the soldiers died weeks or more before. The monthly ceremony marking their passing divides and somehow weakens the impact.

I noticed the difference last week while on one of my frequent drives to Eastern Washington. While passing by Grandview, I saw flags on all public buildings at half-staff and small flags lining every street in the town. I wondered what luminary had died or what anniversary was being marked. When I checked into my motel, I saw the local weekly newspaper, the Grandview Herald.

The large color photo above the fold showed a young man in a football uniform in the classic pose, on one knee, his knuckles resting on a football helmet for balance, his left arm cradling a ball. He seemed impossibly young and fragile to be a high school football player, slender, without developed musculature or even the trace of facial hair, his expression that

wonderful combination of shyness and bravado that athletes nurture. Underneath the photo was the cutline, “Matt Emerson.”

Above the photo, a five-column-wide headline explained who Matt Emerson was. “Grandview soldier loses life in Iraq.”

The first paragraph read, “Grandview’s community heart was overwhelmed with grief last week when word was received that 20-year-old Army Spc. Matt Emerson, a Grandview native, was killed September 18, 2007, in Mosul, Iraq, while serving in the U.S. Army.” The article covered one-fourth of the front page before jumping to the third page for another 26 paragraphs.

In a single sentence, the article revealed that Emerson died when his Humvee vehicle rolled and ejected him. The remainder of the article told the story of Matt’s first 18 years, of his role as a son, a brother, a friend, a football player, golfer, soccer enthusiast and San Francisco 49ers fan. It told us that hundreds of ribbons marking his death were tied to the fence at the local elementary school, where his mother is the school secretary. The ribbons were tied by grieving students to express their sorrow.

The article characterized Matt as “the ultimate hometown boy, with a big heart, a wry sense of humor, and an incredible capacity for friendship.” It traced his love of football from weighing 89 pounds in his freshman year to growing to 150 pounds and playing end by his senior year. Although never a star, he won the respect of his teammates and coaches for his determination.

Early in high school, he decided to join the Army, to serve his country and protect its freedoms.

His obituary notice filled out a portrait of a young man who enjoyed video games, listened to Metallica, drove a pickup truck and spent as much spare time as possible with many good friends. He attended church regularly and, according to his death notice, “had a solid, personal relationship with Jesus, and knew he could always talk with the Lord.”

On its editorial page, in the space ordinarily occupied by discussions of civic policy or other issues, the Herald ran the letter Matt’s mother and father had written to him when he graduated high school two years ago. They express their support of his decision to join the military.

“During your first 18 years we have been blessed to watch as you grew, not only in stature but in purpose,” they wrote. “You have always known that your freedoms in life were precious; that they were something to protect and defend.”

Their letter ended with the eternal parental hope: “We will remember to be thankful for our time with you and all the blessings you brought into our lives. We love you and respect you and will always look forward to your coming home.”

When Matt came home, it was to be buried with full military honors and with the love and sorrow of an entire community. His death reminds us that there is a loving family, a million memories, a grieving community left behind when each soldier dies.

War does not come without sacrifice, and it is the most idealistic and the most vulnerable who make the biggest sacrifices.