Most efforts that achieve any notoriety start in the back room of some house in some town that you’ve never heard of, and typically by someone who never imagined where and how far their idea might go.

Look at Bill Gates. He hacked his high school computer system and changed the class schedules so that he ended up being the only male in a classroom full of girls. A classic teenage move. In time, that stunt gave birth to the brains behind this laptop I’m using.

My point is this. Remarkable ideas almost always have a humble beginning.

In 2003, a woman in Delaware had a dream one night. It wasn’t about her son who was deployed to Iraq, but it was about a soldier. Military moms have a lot on their minds. They worry. They pray. They feel deeply. Thus, they dream.

What she saw in that dream was a distraught soldier sitting on his bunk. No words. Just the face and the body language. She looked away and when she looked back this soldier had a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. Again, no words. But his face had changed. He seemed at peace with himself. It was like whatever had broken his spirit was healed.

The connection. This mom is a quilter. And the idea was born to see if she could get some of her quilter friends together in order to offer just a little bit of comfort to the soldiers who had been broken by the ravages of war. A few months later, she and her friends drove the 100 miles and walked into Walter Reed National Military Medical Center with 300 quilts.

They didn’t go buy them at the thrift store. They made them. Their hearts went into every stitch. They didn’t just hand them out like candy at Halloween. They asked the Chaplain who needed one the most. Room by room they draped their gifts over the shoulders of men and women who gave of themselves valiantly in service to our country.

It’s been 23 years since that day and over 457,000 quilts have been gifted through the Quilts of Valor Foundation to our military personnel for the sacrifices they made. Over 457,000 stories have been told. Over 457,000 tears have been shed. Over 457,000 humble soldiers have been overcome with gratitude.

I saw this for myself last week when I attended one of their ceremonies.

It turns out that anyone in any community can nominate any soldier to become a recipient of one of these quilts. And it turns out that when you witness this event, and those honored happen to be people you know, it has a profound affect on recipient and observer alike.

Before the ceremony began someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Will you keep an eye out for Bob? When he gets here, he’s gonna need help getting out of the car and inside.”

I was standing near the glass entry when his car pulled up to one of the handicap spaces near the door. By the time I got outside, his son already had the wheelchair in hand. A caregiver, a nurse I assume, had opened the passenger door and was trying to get Bob to swing his legs out to the side. It was a slow process. Stressful to watch. Even more stressful for him to achieve.

I’ve only known Bob for a few years. I didn’t even know he was a veteran. We just never talked about it. Mostly our conversations amounted to nothing more than the casual words of a friendly greeting. Plus, the last time I remember seeing Bob, he was walking just fine on his own two legs.

Obviously, that was some time ago and his health had taken a sharp turn.

Son, wife, and nurse were all guiding him into his wheelchair. Bent over. Feeble. Every move was unsteady.

When he finally got in his seat, I knelt down to speak to him. I wasn’t sure if he would even know who I was. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was here.

I spoke to him. He couldn’t raise his head, so he raised his eyes. He smiled when he saw me, and with unimaginable effort he raised a trembling arm toward me and we shook hands.

“Hey Paul. Good to see you,” he said.

It was about that time that I got something in my eye and had to look away.

Eleven soldiers were present on this day. Out in the lobby there were pictures of ten young men and one young woman suited up in military garb. All black and white photos of a time long ago. One sitting atop a stack of sandbags in Vietnam. One dressed in his flight gear with one leg on the bottom step to his plane. One seated behind the wheel of a Jeep.

I asked Reed, “Is that your picture all decked out in your flight gear.”

“Yeah,” he said with a smirk on his face. “That’s the one Linda always picks out for me.”

The soldiers on stage are not young anymore. The majority of them are in their 80s. They each have stories to tell, and they each have experiences that a non-military guy like me couldn’t begin to understand. Certain things they keep to themselves because they are too horrible or too sacred to repeat.

I asked Dan about his time in Vietnam one day about six months ago. He talked openly about some of the places he had served and the people he had met along the way. One particular story was very unusual, and when I unwittingly asked how things turned out, he got quiet. His lips had a slight quiver.

“No,” he finally said. “That detail stays with me and me alone.”

They sat in single file across the stage, from left to right. The first soldier stood as his story was told. His service. His medals. His family. One by one they stood, and one by one a quilt was draped over their shoulders. Each quilt unique. Each one carefully stitched to honor the one who received it.

Bob was seated in his wheelchair on the far right. He would be the last one honored. I think the whole room wondered if he would be able to stand. No one would blame him if he didn’t.

When it came his turn, the ladies with the quilt started to stand behind his wheelchair but stopped short. Because, when his name was called, his body began to move. Inch by trembling inch he pushed himself up out of his seat. The room was holding its collective breath. We were all straining with him. It was like watching a man rise from the ashes of a broken body he could no long control.

We applauded each veteran that day. But I think we applauded a little louder for Bob. I know I did.

After the ceremony, when asked why he didn’t just stay seated, Bob said something that only those so honored would understand.

“A soldier doesn’t sit in the heat of battle.”

Which is exactly the spirit we came here to celebrate.