The air crackled with tension in the nation’s capital as U.S. Park Police officers braced themselves at Columbus Circle for what would become a violent showdown against anti-Israel protesters.

From my perch on the seventh floor of The Heritage Foundation’s nearby headquarters, I watched with a mixture of disbelief and dread July 24 as a sea of protesters marched down Massachusetts Avenue NE, just blocks from the Capitol.

From outside Union Station, their derisive chants about Israel penetrated the building as I glared at their placards expressing rage toward Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, who spoke to Congress that day.

But it wasn’t until I saw the first lick of flame near the Columbus Memorial Fountain in front of Union Station that I realized the true gravity of what was unfolding.

Protesters lowered three American flags outside Washington’s historic train station and burned them alongside an effigy of Netanyahu.

This was not the first time I saw an American flag burned in protest, and it probably won’t be the last. Yet it remains a revolting and disheartening sight all the same.

Black smoke filled the afternoon sky as nylon withered and melted. I was filled with sorrow and became sick with grief.

This wasn’t just about a piece of cloth—it was about everything that flag represented:

My grandfather wore Old Glory in the fight against the spread of communism. At home, my father wore a flag patch as he served and protected our community.

In the Boy Scouts of America, I retired dozens of American flags with honor and respect, holding each flag close to my heart and treating it with dignity.

As both an Eagle Scout and the son and grandson of disabled veterans, Old Glory has come to have a significant place in my heart.

The colors red, white, and blue—representative of valor, purity, and vigilance—remind us of the values on which we founded, fought for, and sustained our union. Similarly, the 50 stars and 13 stripes remind us of where we are as a nation, and how we got here.

Since our nation’s founding, we have seen the American flag fly throughout war, famine, and disasters. We have seen it escort soldiers and servants alike to the grave.

Throughout our history, so much was given for our flag—from the blood shed in combat to the minds shattered through post-traumatic stress disorder.

And yet here I was witnessing its desecration right before my eyes.

After the anti-Israel protesters finally dispersed, I ventured out with two colleagues to Union Station. There, amid the day’s destruction and chaos, we found her—Old Glory—reduced to ashes and tatters at the base of the pole on which she flew.

Carefully, we gathered what remained of that one flag, vowing that this symbol of our nation would not be trampled under the feet of misguided idealists who fail to count the cost.

That night, as I reflected on what transpired before my eyes, I wept for our nation. Today, I carry a fragment of that burned flag in my wallet—a reminder of both the price and the promise of liberty.

We don’t let the American flag touch the ground. We retire her with honor.

This is Old Glory. And in our hearts and actions, she will live forever.