This Memorial Day: I Never Met Billy...

I never had the chance to meet Billy.

He lived just one street over with his wife, Ashley, and their two young children. Like many families here in Holly Ridge—just twenty minutes from Camp Lejeune—they were part of a community shaped by the quiet strength and sacrifice of military life. I'm a veteran myself, having served in the Army, and that shared bond always runs deep, even when you haven’t shaken someone’s hand.

One day, I heard about a tragic C-130 crash in Mississippi. The ripples of grief spread quickly—Facebook posts turned somber, neighbors grew quiet. We all held our breath, waiting. And then came the news: most of the fallen were from Lejeune.

I didn’t know what to do. None of us ever really do in moments like that. There’s a hesitation—should I reach out? Would that help or would it just reopen wounds? So I waited, watching as friends began leaving messages on Ashley’s Facebook page. Their words trembled with heartbreak.

I tried to imagine what she and the kids were feeling. I couldn’t.

Back when I served with the 82nd Airborne Division Chorus, I sang at more military funerals than I can count. Each time, we closed with The Last Full Measure of Devotion. I still remember the way the words would hang in the air, and how we were taught never to look at the grieving family—because the moment you made eye contact and heard that first sob, your voice might break too. We had a duty to sing with strength and reverence. That song still echoes in my memory.

Now, years later, I wasn’t a soldier—I was a photographer. But I still felt called to do something.

I reached out to Ashley.

I asked if she might be willing to come in for a portrait session. I’d always admired her striking features—her long brown hair, the calm, expressive eyes that seemed to hold so many stories. As a photographer, you notice these things. They stay with you, like melodies that haven’t been played yet.

I told her, “If there’s something of Billy’s you’d like to include, we can find a way to make it part of the session.” In my mind, I pictured maybe a t-shirt, a set of dog tags… something small.
When she walked into the studio, hand-in-hand with her mother, I saw the folded triangle of Billy’s burial flag.

I had to catch my breath.

She also brought along a couple of dresses—one of them the same navy blue she had worn the day Billy was laid to rest at Arlington. Elegant, respectful, strong. Just like her.

I knew I had to honor this moment.

We worked through a few poses—carefully, gently. Then, at the end of the session, I told her it was time for the flag.

She held it.

I took a few shots, but something was missing. It felt… distant.
So I paused, looked her in the eye, and quietly said, “Ashley, hold this like it is Billy.”

She didn’t hesitate.

She drew the flag to her chest and closed her eyes, as if in that moment, she could feel him there.

Click.

That was it.

That’s why I do what I do. Photography isn’t about lights and lenses—it’s about trust. It’s about being invited into someone’s life, even if just for a little while, and doing everything you can to capture the love, the grief, the beauty… the truth.

That photo lives in my heart to this day.

And so does Billy—even though we never met.

What I didn’t realize then was how time would continue to unfold that story.

Years later, that little redheaded boy—the son who had lost his father—stood in front of my camera for his senior portraits. Strong. Handsome. Quietly carrying a legacy.

And I hope, with all my heart, to one day photograph his little sister when it’s her turn. That sweet girl, whose eyes still hold the love of a father she’ll always carry with her.

That’s what photography gives us—a way to remember, to honor, and to keep telling the stories that matter.

– Jeff