By Troy Liquin
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As a retired law enforcement officer, I have stood at too many ceremonies where we honored the life of one who gave everything in service. Yet this time was different. This time, I stood not in uniform but as a father, watching my son stand shoulder to shoulder with his department as we paid tribute to a fallen hero.
The sound of grief
From where I stood, I could see the wife, the mother, the family, walking behind their husband, father and son. The sound of the bagpipes filled the air, but louder still was the audible grief of a wife whose life had just been shattered. Every step she took toward the mortuary doors carried a pain that cut through the ceremony and reached everyone’s heart.
I watched men I once worked beside, men I deeply admire, now entrusting my son to them. I saw the quiet strength of leaders like the assistant chief, larger than life, reaching out with a simple touch to steady another in their grief. These were moments of unspoken compassion that said more than words ever could.
A father’s quiet prayer
When the dismissal came, the tears flowed freely. The shared sorrow was heavy, and I knew at that moment my son would now carry this weight with him throughout his career — the burden of witnessing loss, of hearing grief in its rawest form. As a father, that realization pierced me. Yet I found comfort in reaching out, placing a hand on his shoulder, letting him know I loved him before we all silently blended back into the crowd, each returning to our own families.
The drive home was quiet, filled only with reflection. Then my phone buzzed with a message from my son: “Love you, meant to give you a hug.” A simple text, but to me, it was a tender mercy — one of those moments of grace that remind us of what truly matters.
For those of us who have worn the badge, it is not the lights, the processions, or the ceremonies that linger. Those fade. What haunts us is the audible grief — the sound of a family’s heartbreak when their hero does not come home. For the spouse and children, the pain does not end with the lowering of flags or the closing of doors. It becomes a lifelong companion.
May we honor that sacrifice not just in ceremony, but in how we live. May we have the courage to reach out to those around us, to offer compassion, to express love while we still can. Life is precious, fragile and uncertain — a gift whose end we never see coming.
About the author
After a twenty-five-year career with a sheriff’s office in northern Utah, Troy Liquin retired from law enforcement and now focuses on giving back to those who serve. He works to ensure officers have the resources and support they need for both their physical and mental wellness.
