By Gary Dobson

It would have been understandable, perhaps even expected, that the young woman who stood before her husband's coffin on December 10, 2001, at Arlington National Cemetery would not only shed many tears, but would break down and be unable to continue in her devastating mission of grief. However, although her eyes were misted over with the dew of almost unimaginable sadness and loss, Shannon Spann did not break down; she did not collapse; she did not falter. Instead, she succeeded in delivering a final gift to her hero of life and love. It was a public and private gift and it taught a lesson that is inestimable.

George Harrison once described the end of our time on Earth as the art of dying. It may well be an art form, but regardless of whether death is welcomed because the loved one went gently into that good night, or was robbed of life by forces of monstrous brutality, such as experienced by Mike Spann at the despicable hands of those who tortured him in a prison in Afghanistan, it is but the first act in a surreal drama that unfolds over a brief, albeit seemingly endless period of time.

The second act demands that the living make arrangements for the conclusion of the play of misery. Among other details, a casket must be chosen and while friends and other supporters of the bereaved will say, "It's beautiful and so appropriate," there's nothing nice about it. A coffin is always foreboding and terribly cold. The handles are cold. The wood or metal is cold. Even the satin lining of the container is cold. And it could never be anything but because it holds the lifeless body of a person that we desperately want to be alive, young in spirit, and still desiring our kisses and granting us the same. But now that life is gone, the kisses are no more, and the coffin is cold, so cold.

Still, the drama continues and as the now art of death and goodbyes shudder towards its conclusion, the realization that there is nothing private about the play burns into the hearts of the survivors and especially those who were the closest. For Shannon Spann, all of 32 years, her 6-month-old son, and daughters Alison, 9, and Emily, 4, the word closest is surely an understatement of gargantuan proportions. And for all, including other family members and friends of Mike Spann, a time of privacy, the kind that drapes a person in stark and complete solitude, was undoubtedly yearned for, demanded, and yet, particularly for Shannon, unattainable.

Because of the way he died, and was a marine and then a CIA operative, there was nothing private about Mike's art of dying and art of death. Hours after he succumbed to the beatings delivered to his body by cowards of the most insidious nature, not only his family knew about what had happened to him, but so did the world. In a different era, and long before another young widow and mother endured the invasive public microscope that detailed her husband's art of dying and death, privacy to mourn and experience that tragic, but so necessary stark and complete solitude would have been granted. But it wasn't given to Jacqueline Kennedy and it wouldn't be given to Shannon Spann.

And so, on the afternoon of December 10, 2001, Shannon faced a public goodbye to her beloved Mike. As the final act in the drama unfolded, her children, other family members, and friends sat and stood by her side and offered what support they could. But also in attendance were strangers operating a phalanx of television cameras, brace of radio microphones, and some old-time reporters may have even been scribbling on paper. Each of them was recording the final scene of Mike's art of death. Each of them was ensuring that this would remain a public viewing and inadvertently demanding something of Shannon that no person should ever have to bear.

Following speeches by those whose line of work often calls upon them to make orations, Shannon rose from her chair and began to teach the lesson that would forever remain almost indescribably influential, heart breaking, and lovely, oh so achingly lovely. As an honor guard exhibited almost mythical precision in stoically and steadfastly holding the flag of this great country over Mike's casket, Shannon told the world about her perfect love for her husband. She told all of us about what an exceptional husband, father, and friend Mike had been. Pristine tears welled up in her eyes as she explained that Mike's love for life and all who shared his vision of decency, responsibility, and faith was, to her knowledge, unparalleled.

Although she was garbed in black, simple, unassuming, and dignified black, her words served to paint her as brilliant and shining as the tears that sparkled in her eyes and those of so many around her and throughout the world as they watched this remarkable woman say goodbye to Mike. And suddenly the coffin was no longer cold, but had become a warm, hallowed place of rest for her husband's body. With that, the drama came to a close.

Who among us can fathom what it took for Shannon to do what she did? But more than this, who among us cannot hold unfailing reverence for this young wife, this mother, this woman of incomparable grace? Surely none and surely not Mike Spann. For on that day at Arlington National Cemetery, Shannon didn't fail her husband. She gave him a public farewell, but also one that was so very private in that only Shannon and Mike knew and will always know the power that surpassed the breadth of the words that the young woman spoke.

It was a public, private, and glorious lesson about love.

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