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Chief Tom Wibert, Lansing Police Department, State Memorial Speech May 3, 2010.  The first Police Line of duty death funeral I ever attended was the funeral of East Lansing Police Officer Jim Johnson, who was gunned down on October 25th, 1984. Over the years, I have been to several others. I have attended over half of Michigan's line of duty funerals in 25 years. I have been to police funerals in Lansing, Charlotte, Grand Rapids, Clare, Traverse City, Dewitt, Brighton, Detroit and several of its suburbs. I know the drill to the point where there are very few surprises for me. I know when to stand at attention. I know where to stand in formation. I know when the taps are coming. I know not to drink a big gulp during the car ride to the service. (I learned this lesson the hard way early in my career.) It is a sad statement to say that for me, line of duty death funerals have become "routine." As you approach the church to get into formation before the service, there is always a person, usually a lady, with a basket of tiny blue ribbons. She stops you, pins a blue ribbon to your coat, and gives you a smile and then you go and stand in formation with the other officers. That is part of the routine. A thousand police officers, from hundreds of different locations. We all have different uniforms, different equipment, badges and hats, but the one thing that we have in common is the little blue ribbon pinned to our shirts by that lady who stands in front of the church.
After the funeral service, back in the locker room, my routine continues. I take the black mourning band off my badge, I clean the cemetery mud from my shoes, and I remove the little blue ribbon from my shirt and I dispose of it. That was my routine for 24 years. And then 2 years ago, something changed. My former co-worker and friend, Officer Mason Samborski of the Oak Park Police Department was killed in December of 2008. Last year at this very service, we honored Mason. His wife Sarah was there, holding their 1 year old daughter, cute little Madeline Samborski, who was wearing clothes that had been cut and sewn from her Father's uniform. After Mason's funeral, back in the locker room I removed the mourning band from my badge, and took the little blue ribbon from my jacket .... But I couldn't bring myself to throw away Mason's ribbon. Instead, I pinned it to the fabric on a cabinet behind my desk. It is over my shoulder, less than one foot from me every day. There isn't any sign on the ribbon, no arrow pointing to it. Nobody but me knows what that ribbon is, but it is there. Why couldn't I throw that ribbon away? I could not explain it then, but I have put a lot of thought into it, and I am going to explain it to you now. That little blue ribbon itself has no monetary value. It is a piece of fabric cut from a large roll, which came from an even larger roll, that came from a factory that makes blue ribbon by the train car load. That little piece of blue ribbon costs next to nothing. The pin is probably made by the Acme Pin Company, and millions like it are made every day. Pins like this come stuck on new shirts when you take them out of the package - they are made to be thrown away. The ribbon itself costs next to nothing and the pin is disposable. Thus, the value and meaning of the little blue ribbon comes from something else ......... The value and meaning of the ribbon comes from the person who pinned it to my shirt. The lady standing in front of the church with a basket full of blue ribbons is not an employee that somebody hired. She is a survivor. That person has lost a spouse, a son, a daughter or a parent as a result of a line of duty death. The person who pins the ribbon on your shirt has experienced more pain and loss than any of us can imagine. The loss doesn't go away, but it gets better to the point where they can stand there in the cold and bring a little piece of comfort to a thousand police officers who are in need. ... Instead of worrying about themselves, (and they have every right to do that) they worry about us. For the family, friends and co-workers of Livonia Police Officer Ervin Johnston who lost his life in the line of duty, and of Jackson Police Officer James Bonneau, who was killed in the line of duty only a few months ago, and Detroit Police Officer Brian Huff who was shot and killed on a burglary call less than 24 hours ago, things may seem absolutely hopeless. But as you look around here at the ribbons and everything else involving this ceremony, please realize that this was all done by those who have felt the same despair that you are going through right now. This ceremony was organized by survivors of line of duty deaths. Not only will your loved one never be forgotten, but all around you are signs of hope, that you will someday be ok enough, that answering the needs of others will be your form of healing. That's a good thing. For me, in March I attended the funeral for Jackson Police Officer Jim Bonneau. I stood in formation, I saluted, I listened to taps and I mourned. And afterwards in the locker room, I removed the black band from my badge, and the little blue ribbon from my shirt. And I saved the little blue ribbon. It is next to Mason Samborski's ribbon, right behind my desk. I can look at them both, and not only remember Mason and Jim, but I also think of Kathy Cole, the wife of my academy classmate Sgt. Paul Cole, who was killed in the line of duty 15 years ago, who pinned Mason's ribbon on my jacket before the funeral in Brighton in 2008. And I think of Denise Scarbrough, the wife of Sgt Mike Scarbrough who lost his life in the line of duty in 2005, who stopped me outside the church and pinned a ribbon on my chest at Jim Bonneau's funeral 2 months ago. Very soon, we will gather to support our brothers and sisters of the Detroit Police Department in their time of despair as we mourn the death of Officer Brian Huff. And standing Outside the church will be an anonymous and unassuming lady with a basket of blue ribbons, offering a small sign of hope that I have come to realize is far too meaningful to be disposable.
Tom Wibert - May 3, 2010
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