The Military Mom

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The Military Mom

He is a man, strong and true. And he is so beautiful. His eyes have become serious lately, so full and light blue, crystals in a stream.

His hair is short now, no curls. Oh how the curls used to bother him, shining in the sun, flowing with the breeze as he ran. He thought they made him look like a girl. I just though he was beautiful.

His skin was white then, not freckled but pale like Irish cream, and soft as a rose petal. Now he is bronze, and hardened by the desert sun that I thought would kill him.

I remember a time, so long ago now. We camped in the forest by a lake, in the wilderness. We played in the sand for hours, our feet tickled by tadpoles and minnows.

I taught him how to call fish, and he taught me innocence. We got sunburned and suffered together through the chilly nights.

He was afraid of the crawdads and I was afraid of the world.

I fed him on wild blueberries, and wintergreen leaves. He fed me hope and taught me how to blow good bubbles.

I don't think he blows bubbles any more.

His picture on the wall is stern. His jaw is square and set. His shoulders are wide and his hips are narrow.

His uniform is starched and perfectly creased and his shoes reflect his perfect posture. As per regulations.

Within that frame with his beautiful wife and his exquisite daughter is the poem he sent me. It is titled "A prayer for a military mother".

I helped deliver his son. He wasn't there.

When the war started, I thought I would lose my mind. I think maybe I did. The first bombs fell in rhythm with my tears as the 101st Airborn Division made its way into Baghdad.

I screamed when the hand grenades flew into his camp. I fell. Then the doctor said, "No more CNN", and gave me pills.

I slept a lot. I dreamed my golden boy home and safe in the wilderness by the lake in the forest. I dreamed of bubbles torn apart by machine guns.

My father died in December, and I fell into a black hole. I don't remember taking down the tree and the lights.

Anxiety became a full time job and I couldn't answer the phone anymore, but I couldn't let it ring.

Every knock on the door stopped my heart.

His son was born in the spring. He is beautiful but so unlike his father. His hair is straight and thick and soft and his eyes are deep blue like his sister's.

They are all so lovely. I was surprised that my heart could hold them with its ragged edges. But Love has its way.

Six weeks later his wife and kids went back to Fort Campbell to wait. She needed to be in her own home, where she could still smell her husband's fading scent on his pillows.

I learned to cope in my usual way. Writing is therapy. When life is too hard, I turn on the computer, and time passes in the fog of another world.

The phone call came. Only God could have given me the courage to answer the call. Only His spirit could hold my bleeding heart together. I knew it was her, calling from Kentucky with news of my son.

"Mom, he's coming home!" She whispered through her tears. "He is really coming home this time."

And he did.


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My son Christopher has recieved orders back to Iraq. He will be leaving in January 2005. The last time he was gone for a year. This time...
We just don't know. Please Pray for us, and all the families with loved-ones overseas.
Love,
Shell