My life changed dramatically on the morning of February 11, 2005, when my roommate woke me around 5:30 a.m. He said the ship had called, and I should go into work. They had some important news to tell me, so I unwillingly rolled out of bed and stumbled to the sink. I still felt the side effects from the night before. I had gone out with some friends of mine the night before, and it had been a late one. As I began to get ready I knew something had to be wrong. Why else would the ship call me in so early? The only thought I had racing through my mind was that something bad had happened at home: somebody was hurt.

I remember walking up to the ship with my stomach in knots fighting the anxiety overdose my body was going through. I had no idea what to expect. The Quarterdeck Watch told me to go see the Command Master Chief; he had something he needed to talk to me about. I remember thinking to myself this can't be a good sign having to come into work at 5:30 in the morning to see the CMC. I was unconsciously traveling on a long road to disappointment. He sat me down and told me that the ship received a message that my father had passed away, and he didn't have any details. I crumbled: ``No, this can't be true. Things were supposed to be better! He had come so far.'' The world around me had suddenly frozen. I felt like I had fallen off the face of the Earth. I was all alone. My heart was locked in a dark chamber of pain and grief, yet I had no key: no answer.

The next thing I knew I was on an 8-hour plane ride home, with my emotions running fiercely out of control. My thoughts were full of anger and disgust. I kept asking myself ``Why? Why now? Hasn't there been enough pain?'' I felt alone not knowing what to expect when I saw my family. All I wanted to do was try and sleep to hide my pathetic appearance from the relentless curiosity of the public.

The plane touched down in Dallas with a three-hour layover. The first thought that crossed my mind was to drown my emotions and fears with my good buddy, Jim Beam. I took a deep breath and came up for air. I knew that's not what I needed right then. I forced some food down at one of those typically priced airport cafes and waited to board the plane. My chariot of disappointment was approaching ready to guide me to the land of reality. I had no other options but to face the facts.

The airplane took off from Dallas with one more stop: home. The flight was only about an hour and a half long. It felt like an eternity with the lack of sleep and emotional stress I had put my body through in the last 24 hours. When I saw the Mississippi River laid out like a big slithering python surrounded by mosquito infested cotton fields, I knew I was home. The first thought I had was of a country music song, ``Walking in Memphis.'' How ironic. I was touching down in the land of the delta blues in the middle of the pouring rain. It's like they say, ``When it rains it pours.''

I came down the 2 mile long escalator and saw my wife and children waiting for me along with my childhood best friend. It felt as if the emotional monkey had been knocked off my back. I wasn't going to have to play this hell of a hand I'd been dealt alone: ``Maybe they could help me find that key?''

The ride home was a good one. It relieved some of the tension momentarily. We talked about how we've all been, what's been going on in our lives, and not the fact that my father had just lost his life. It may sound as if we were a little selfish, but it was a healthy way for us to escape the nasty reality of what's to come. My father had died and I didn't want to believe it.

The morning of the funeral came and I felt as if I had been the one who had died. The weather painted a perfect picture to set the stage for the gloomy nightmare I was about to face. The rain poured down profusely without any hope of letting up and the wind blew an evil chill upon my face. I felt the power of God upon my face, and I knew faith was all I needed to help carry me through this. I hoped, I thought, and I asked: ``Is this my key: faith?''

I had decided to wear my dress blues to the funeral. My dad was in the Navy for 8 years, so I knew that he would appreciate it. I felt it was my duty to honor him. He had always told me how proud he was of me for joining the service. He was the type of guy who thought every young man should do a little time for this country. I polished my shoes and pressed my uniform better than I ever had before for any inspection. Everybody told me he would have been proud. I thought to myself, ``He is proud.''

The whole family met at my grandparents' house so we could ride to the funeral home together. I nervously got into the limo with my brother and sisters still dreading the reality of the situation we were facing. The ride to the service provoked an inebriated sense of loneliness except for the vague sniffles and whimpers I heard from my younger sisters. The reality of the horrifying situation we were facing was inevitable.

When the limo pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home, my entire body was paralyzed with fear. The cars of the people paying their respects were lined up for days. The thought of having to walk into that place of death with all the mourners in there was terrifying. I just sucked it up and told myself to be strong for my younger siblings. I tried to tell myself to be faithful: ``Faith! That could be your key, Scott. Remember it can carry you through anything.''

My wife and I walked through the enormous wooden double doors and into one of the most beautiful, yet horrifying scenes I had ever experienced. Every step I took felt as if time had stopped, and my heart had skipped a beat. I hoped this memory wouldn't haunt me forever.

That's when I first saw it, the Stars and Stripes. A piece of colored fabric that serves as a symbol of victory, submission, pride, loyalty, and even hope. The flag that I work to defend every day: the American flag, our flag, and my father's flag. It was draped over his coffin like a protective shield carrying him home, away from all his mortal pain. My throat had begun to itch and lumped up; it ached with pain. My knees began to feel weak and sweat dripped from my hands. I felt my wife's hand squeeze mine and with a comforting whisper she said, ``It's going to be alright.''

I sat down and felt a great deal of relief after the thousand-mile walk I had just made in 30 seconds of hell. The preacher told stories of how great of a man my father was and how he had enjoyed the fishing trips they had made together in the past. It brought back memories of the same trips that I had enjoyed with both of them, things I had forgotten, and memories from my childhood that I had put away and buried. Things that are sometimes taken for granted, and you don't miss until they are gone. I felt guilty for forgetting the times my father took out of his life to teach me what I needed to know to become a man. Although the service was short it did everything it was supposed to do. Families shouldn't have to sit through a long public grieving.

On the way to the cemetery, I thought about how proud my father would have been of the American flag he had been honored with. I wanted to do something special for my grandmother. At the graveside before the coffin was lowered my father's best friend, an old navy buddy, and I folded the flag ceremonially and presented it to my grandmother, in turn, the most honorable experience of my life.

Later that afternoon I found out the flag had a history. It was flown over the Nation's Capitol on October 15, 2004, at the request of the Honorable Marion Berry. Then the flag was presented to the Adams' Estate in honor of my grandfather. My grandfather thought it would be nice to have it draped over the coffin at the funeral, my dad being a veteran and all. Later, my grandmother told me to keep the flag. At that very moment I knew that the flag's journey wasn't over.

Four months later and thousands of miles away from Arkansas on the 3rd of June, 2005 USS RUSSELL DDG 59 steamed out of Pearl Harbor Naval Base with a new ensign flying high. With the help of a couple of my loyal shipmates we had made the tribute to the old sailor possible. We flew the ensign over 3,500 nautical miles across the mighty Pacific Ocean en route to San Diego where it was brought down on the 14th of June, the day the flag was officially adopted by the United States of America back in 1777. It was no coincidence the flag had been saved to be flown from my homeport, Pearl Harbor, to the former sailor's homeport, San Diego. The flag was torn, tattered, and covered in salt just the way my dad would have wanted it.

The material or size of a flag has nothing to do with the importance of it. The importance lies in what the flag symbolizes. It has been said that patriots express their love of a country by hoisting their flag in honor. On June 3rd, I hoisted our flag in honor of my father, fair winds and following seas old man.