Three-year-old Anna looked up dreamily from a movie she was watching and gushed, “That guy on TV is just bein’ a hero!” She obviously understands the concept. It amazes me that even at her tender age, she can recognize a hero. It’s too bad that so many adults have lost that insight. Too many of us look in the wrong places to find someone to emulate.

Far too often, the world chooses its heroes from among those in possession of ethereal mammon: fame, phenomenal income, or merely the audacity to do something that puts them on the evening news. We’ve confused celebrity with courage, and we’ve lost something in the process. I’d rather take my cues from Anna. I prefer to embrace the examples of those quiet heroes who, with unassuming dignity, brought peace and ease to those around them.

Within a year, my circle of friends buried two of its heroes. Both of them were taken suddenly, the victims of violent, self-serving disdain for the sanctity of life. As we reel in shock, we also stand in awe of the legacy each of them left behind. Both of them lived (as Mark Twain recommended) so that when they died, even the undertaker was sorry. That’s the true hallmark of a hero.

Sometimes we tend to glorify a person in death, remembering them as far finer people than they really were; not so with these two extraordinary people. They didn’t become great only after their deaths. They lived great—quietly, humbly, and unceasingly. We didn’t have to stretch to find things to praise about them; just the mention of either one sparked tender memories—vignettes in time of moments when we’d “caught” them in acts of kindness and caring.

In my mind’s dictionary, next to the word “generosity” there is a picture of Norma Barto. How many crises did she avert by offering her help and her prayers? How many tears were wiped away by her kind and giving hands? We’ll never know for certain. When I think of the Fourth of July, I will always see a sand-covered Scott Snider at the beach, hair mussed by the wind, smilingly beckoning passers-by to get something (more) to eat. His enthusiasm was contagious, as was his laughter and his joy. How many children cherish holidays and reading and pansies and playing because Scott made all those things special?

That’s my kind of hero: the kind that nobody outside our circle knew about until we lost the privilege of such good company. When the community spoke posthumously of their goodness and grace, we wanted to say, “Oh, if you only knew the true magnitude of their goodness!’’ As we contemplated their quiet acts of heroism, we all changed a little. We wanted to be more like them; we resolved to carry on the work they did so freely while they walked among us.

As hard as it is to lose special “someones”, how wonderful it was that we were able to know them at all! That’s the aspect that makes it possible to absorb the shock of their loss. The world is peppered with that kind of hero; and thank goodness there are enough of them around that most of us get to know at least one hero during our lifetimes. Losing them is awful. The grief can be overwhelming; but oh, how they enriched lives!

I hope that as our anguish eases, we’ll retain that firm desire to choose as our own heroes did: to lose ourselves in attitudes of service; to find ourselves in acts of love. And when a hero leaves behind a young family accustomed to his particularly tender care, I hope that we will each remember to honor that lost hero by stepping in-- not trying to fill his shoes, because we never can—but by cherishing his children.

As for you, Norma and Scott, I am certain that as you settle in beyond the veil, you will soon get down to the business of doing what you’ve always done best: just bein’ a hero.