Our corner of the world lost a hero of sorts, just before Christmas.

It’s nothing new under the sun to any community. There are the movers and shakers, those who continue to be in the spotlight for their philanthropy, and those who just go about their lives, quietly doing, giving of themselves and serving others in every possible way they can.

That was the kind of guy we lost.

Everyone knew him. He was everywhere–working at high school events as a volunteer, and at weekend outdoor concerts all summer long as a security guard–looking like he meant business. If you spoke to him as he was roaming around there, he smiled or laughed quietly only if he was being ribbed about something. He appreciated the conversation, but when it was time to move on, he did so quite officially.

One of the public entities to which he devoted so much of his life was firefighting. He was a volunteer fireman for an amazing 43 of his 61 years.

Our community gathered to say farewell in a ceremony that took place at a large venue where he had spent entire summer weekends for so many years. His local and county colleagues showed up in full force to honor his work, his life, and his memory.

Fire and rescue trucks from every community were lined up in front of the memorial venue; trucks from two neighboring fire departments had the ladders extended with huge American flags at the ends of them, in a show of brotherhood, respect and compassion to the man and his family, paying tribute to an incredible lifetime of service.

Swallowing a lump in the throat is difficult.

Firefighters (active and retired) sat together in a large group at the service, honoring their fallen comrade. But the most striking reality came at the end of the service, when pagers went off in unison, and the dispatch officer spoke the final words of the ceremony: “Attention all area fire departments … this is to announce that firefighter (this man) of the Milford Fire Department died on Dec. 23, 2023.”

Some other official verbiage followed, with the dispatch officer wrapping up this moving tribute with the words, “This is the final call for (this man) of the Milford Fire Department. We’ll take it from here. Time: 11:28.”

Tears mixed with the heavy, eerie quiet of grief for those gathered as those words rang out in the heads and hearts of people there: “We’ll take it from here.”

Moving on in grief is hard at best; we feel like we’re leaving someone behind. When someone leaves this world, they leave a hole in the fabric of a family and community that is hard to mend. It’s as true in public servant groups as it is in the brotherhood of farming — or any number of other honorable professions that offer so much to the world.

Our world touts so many kinds of people as heroes–especially professional athletes. But if people need a farmer at least three times a day, then in my book, there is hardly a more fitting title to give them (at least) than “hero.” What’s it worth to us to be able to be fed, fueled and clothed? Who else is going to do the hard work of that for us? Or the hard work of any honorable professions around which our lives center? It’s all hard work, and it’s all necessary.

Our lives have been blessed by those heroes who work for the benefit of others, no matter what that work is — whether putting out fires, putting out heartburn, putting children to bed every night, putting vehicles back on the road or putting food on the table.

Heroes are our neighbors — common, everyday, work-a-day people. And their absence among us is felt when they go to the Lord.

But memories are kept alive through their work that is carried on by others who remain, who have toiled alongside that person, keeping them in their hearts as they do the work of tomorrow–perhaps (even for a time), in their honor.

Tomorrow comes, and we remember yesterday’s sunset as we prepare for tomorrow’s sunrise.

“We’ll take it from here.”

Karen Schwaller writes from her grain and livestock farm near Milford, Iowa. She can be reached at kschwaller@evertek.net.