My son-in-law arrived home from the Middle East on Father’s Day. He had been gone four months, leaving behind his seven-week-old son, his three-year-old daughter and his lovely wife.

A reservist in the National Guard, he flew refueling missions during the conflict with Iran. On the first night of combat, his squadron was told that 25 percent of the pilots taking off from the base might not return.

Imagine hearing those words.

A moment doesn’t go by that we aren’t grateful the prediction never came true for him. But we knew the nights were long and dangerous for his squadron–rockets’ red glare, bombs bursting in air.

This was a war.

It must be strange to find yourself in the middle of one in the modern age, especially when only a day earlier you were sitting at your kitchen island, drinking coffee in the lovely glow of home.

Most of us will never have to imagine that.

Back home, we held our breath as the days dragged on. The baby learned to roll over. His sister grew into a little girl. His wife discovered reserves of strength she never knew she possessed as she learned to manage a household, two young children and the loneliness that accompanies deployment.

She didn’t do it alone.

Friends showed up with groceries. Family members babysat.

Neighbors checked in. Someone sent coffee by Uber nearly every week. Relatives visited.

War does not exist in a vacuum. It ripples outward, touching parents, spouses, children, grandparents, neighbors and friends. In one way or another, everyone who loves a soldier serves alongside them, carrying a different kind of burden.

All of this kindness reminded me that communities still know how to rally around people in need. In an age when we often hear about division and isolation, my daughter’s little village quietly demonstrated the best of America. No one could replace a husband or a father, but they could make the days a little lighter. Sometimes support isn’t dramatic. Sometimes it’s a casserole, a ride to preschool, a few hours of babysitting, or an unexpected knock at the door that says, “You’re not in this alone.”

As the Fourth of July approaches, I’ve been thinking about what it means to be a soldier in America today.

Most of us experience war through headlines, social media posts and television commentary. We debate it, analyze it, argue over it, or simply scroll past it. But for a very small percentage of American families, war isn’t an abstract discussion. It is birthdays missed. First words unheard. Sleepless nights. A phone that rings unexpectedly.

It’s easy to forget that less than one percent of Americans serve in the military. For many of us, we may never personally know someone deployed overseas. Yet every time our nation asks these men and women to serve, they go carrying not only their training and equipment but the hopes, fears and love of everyone waiting back home.

We often picture soldiers as larger-than-life heroes. Yet before they put on a flight suit or lace up combat boots, they are ordinary people. They are fathers kissing babies goodbye, mothers missing school concerts, sons and daughters leaving aging parents behind. They shop for groceries, mow the lawn, laugh around the dinner table and worry about mortgages just like the rest of us.

Then their country calls, and we ask them to do extraordinary things.

Whatever our opinions about wars themselves, surely we can agree on this: the men and women who volunteer to serve–and the families who quietly serve beside them–deserve our gratitude.

This Independence Day, as children wave sparklers, neighbors gather for cookouts and fireworks illuminate the summer sky, I know one young family that will hear those explosions a little differently. They will celebrate not only the birth of our nation, but something even more personal.

Perhaps that is what patriotism looks like at its best–not loud slogans or grand gestures, but ordinary people quietly accepting extraordinary responsibilities. A young father answers the call. A young mother keeps the home fires burning. Grandparents pray. Friends step in. Children wait for the day they can run into their father’s arms again.

A father came home.

And for one family, freedom has never felt more precious.