For just a moment last Sunday, I was inconvenienced by the war in Iraq.

Sure wish I'd handled it better.

I was in Cincinnati for the funeral of Matt Maupin, a staff sergeant in the Army Reserve. A lot of you have heard of Maupin. He was missing in action for four long years, and throughout that time, his family publicly dared to hope that he would come home alive.

Maupin was captured in 2004 after his convoy was ambushed west of Baghdad. Soon after, his captors released grainy video of him surrounded by armed men for all the world to see. Later that summer, Al-Jazeera aired a videotape purportedly showing his execution. U.S. officials never confirmed that it was Maupin. His parents kept praying.

Late last month, though, soldiers found Maupin's remains.

Keith and Carolyn Maupin insisted the funeral be a celebration of their son's life. His flag-draped casket was poised on a platform near the pitcher's mound in Cincinnati's Great American Ball Park. Several thousand mourners pushed through the turnstiles, filling the stands between first and third bases and behind home plate.

On the scoreboard, under the Ohio Lottery clock and the ad for Bud Light, a slideshow ran a continuous loop of photos from the young man's life. Matt on Santa's lap. Matt holding on tight on a Tilt-A-Whirl. Matt in his cap and gown.

The program read:

BORN: 13 July 1983.

DIED: Known to God.

I stared at the date and did a parent's math. Had he lived, Matt would be 24. Just like our Elizabeth.

Immediately, I opened up one memory after another from the past four years of life with Elizabeth. Just as quickly, I shut them down and closed my eyes.

Those of us unschooled in military ways often feel like interlopers at these funerals. The crowd applauded the chaplain's hoowah at the microphone, and we knew there were parts of this life, of Maupin's life, that we never would understand. Most speakers wore uniforms, and they spoke of Jesus and Lazarus, sacrifice and heroism. They insisted this was a time for celebration, not tears, but many in the stands disobeyed the order.

All of us, though, could comprehend the magnitude of loss when a family member took the stage and read aloud the letters from Maupin's brothers and sister. They were responding to his last e-mail, the one they got too late.

"There's so much I want to tell you," his sister wrote. "I've got a child. … I'm married now."

For four years, the Maupin family waited. And waited.

After the funeral, it was our turn to wait.

The graveside ceremony was private, and most of us headed for our cars and into the rest of our days. Or so we thought.

Matt Maupin was on the road for the last time, and he would make his journey without interruption. Police cars blocked every ramp to the freeway.

"As soon as they turn into the cemetery, we'll be able to let you go," one of the officers said. "For now, you have to wait."

For just a moment, an embarrassing moment, I was really annoyed. What an inconvenience. I was on my way to visit our grandson. I didn't want to wait.

I'm going to feel bad about that moment for a long time.

Almost immediately, my face started to burn. Of course we should wait. Every last one of us.

I sat there feeling small and guilty and couldn't help but think that all of us should have to stop in our tracks every time another service member dies in Iraq.

Maybe then we would consider the toll of this war. Maybe then more of us would make our voices heard.

I pulled out a photo of Matt Maupin that was distributed at the funeral. In it, he looks so young and strong.

I flipped the card to read the inscription on the back:

"Please place me in your bible and say a prayer for me. I'm captured in Iraq, and prayers can set me free."

To view Connie's video blog, go to www.cleveland.com/schultz.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland and the author of two books from Random House: "Life Happens" and "… and His Lovely Wife." To find out more about Connie Schultz (cschultz@plaind.com) and read her past columns, please visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

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