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        The news of the Tragedy that changed our country came to me early in the morning, lying in bed after a long night with a sick child, the TV came on in my room and my husband sat at the foot of our bed. He was shocked staring at the news in disbelief. Then the phone began to ring, family members calling to make sure that my family was safe and ok. I responded the only way that made sense to me at the time.

         “Yes, we’re fine; the west coast hasn’t been hit yet.” I growled into the phone, annoyed with the self absorption of my family. If they were that concerned, why not call the Red Cross and find out where you could go to help. Why call family who lives ten minutes from you and was no where near the tragedy? It made no sense in my shocked brain. The news was everywhere; it was the biggest thing to happen in my lifetime. Years from now we would all sit around and reminisce where we had been when the planes hit. Just like my mother and her friends sit and talk about where they were when JFK was shot.

         I chided myself for such callous thoughts. Shouldn’t I be more concerned with the children who lost parents in that falling tower? Shouldn’t I want to hold my own children tight and reassure them that the same thing wouldn’t happen out here? But I couldn’t shake the relief that flooded me at the time. I sat for a long time, thanking god that I lived in a small town on the west coast. They would never attack out here. There was nothing of strategic value out here. We are safe out here

         The conscience of our nation changed that day. Hidden patriots came out of the closet, a righteous anger rose up in the streets of small towns all over our country. Paranoia bordering on religious hysteria gripped our country and a new type of racism was poured out on our streets. We demanded justice; we sought vengeance against those who would dare to attack us on our own soil. The government answered our cries, carrying our young men and women to far off places in search of the horrible people responsible for the loss of so many lives.

         Those who had lost nothing but a sense of security began to mourn the loss of those who died in the Tragedy. People all around the country developed the sudden need to take care of people who hadn’t matter to them before the incident, men and women found heroism in them that no one knew was there before. People who had called for justice and demanded vengeance cried out at the brutality of war. Protesters called for the government to keep our country safe without putting our own young men and women in danger. It is a silly thought but it is what the country seemed to demand.

         We all know someone who knew someone who had lost a loved one in the event. Or in the war that followed. Everyone had an opinion on the war and our troops, even those of us who had never cared before. Suddenly we were concerned about men and women who had signed up years before and knew what they offered their country. For years afterward, the aftermath of such an atrocity left us reeling, searching for answers and the sense of security we had felt before. Our men and women died on foreign shores for a cause most of us misunderstood.

         While they were away on foreign shores, they were heralded as heroes and multitudes of people raised banners, and held rallies calling for their safe return. Once they returned they were forgotten or dismissed by both the adoring public and their government. I was angered that people cared so little for those who gave so much for us. I lectured my children about the importance of our troops, I taught them as I had been taught that the American Troops gave us our freedom. Our nation should be thankful! Then we all went about our lives. Nothing else changed for us, not for years after the initial incident.

         Then my brother, Michael, who had been in the reserves for years, got activated. His unit was sent to Iraq, then Pakistan, or somewhere in the Middle East. If I had paid more attention, I would have known were. But I only thought of the inconvenience of explaining to my young children why their uncle wouldn’t be at all the important holidays and family occasions for a while. I became active in the local “war effort”. My family and I sent letters to the troops every week or so. Care packages to my brothers unit and those whose names and addresses came to our attention. My children learned to write letters and got information on reports for school from those brave souls who shared a bit of their lives with us.

         Then the nightmares started. I began to hear the news at night before bed. The body count seemed to rise more and more. When they first began, every soldier sent home in a coffin had my brother’s face. Then as time went on, they began to have young shocked faces of my own boys. The faces of children on the bodies of men, wearing shocked or pained expressions. Eventually they began to look at me, great hordes of familiar dead eyes turning in unison to stare at me and shed a single tear. The worse the nightmares got, the more I paid attention to the news reports. I started watching political shows and channels hoping to catch glimpses of information about the troops.

         I finally had to stop watching the news, stop reading the papers. I continued to send letters and care packages to all the soldiers we knew. To every young man who was known by my friends, or friends of friends, we sent care packages, letters, card, and pictures, anything that would remind them of home. To let them know they were loved and cared for back home, I prayed at night for the safe return of every soldier whose name I had learned over the year my brother had been away.

         Early the next October, as we were preparing holiday baskets for the troops, my family got a visit from the local base. Michaels’ unit had fallen under attack and the unit had scattered. At that moment, no one knew whether he or the rest of his unit were alive or dead, only that they had been attacked. The nightmares that night were the worst, dreams of shelling. Smoke everywhere, sun shots, explosions, men screaming around me, all calling my name, asking me to take them home, home to see their mothers. Every one of them had my sons’ faces. Childish hands reached up at me from bloody torsos, barely breathing. Faces caked in filth shed muddy tears, as they cried for families back home.

I woke up screaming my brothers’ name, in the other room I could hear my children crying.          Nightmares had wakened them as well, dreams of their uncle and their friends being killed on foreign sands. We huddled together, weeping and praying for news. Several nights passed like that. During the day we finished our projects, wrote our letters, and finished our chores and homework, at night we ate dinner, watched some TV, and then sat around the living room huddled in fear praying for our family to come home to us.

         Thanksgiving night, as we sat around a bountiful table, we all spoke a little on what we were thankful for in the past year. This year, with my brother missing and the rest of my family so saddened, there was little actually said. My family had all gathered at my house this year, I lived closest to the base, and my brothers home. Being closer together and closer to his house, made us feel like he was at least partially there. We said our grace and set about to carve our turkey and dish our holiday meals, leaving Michaels traditional spot set, but empty. As the Turkey passed beyond me, a knock came to our door. The entire family froze; hope shining in some eyes, horror in others.

         I slowly got to my feet, steadied myself and walked into the other room. Beyond the door there was a familiar looking young man with crutches wearing a crisp clean dress uniform. I smiled at him politely, assuming from his dress and the crutches that he wasn’t hear to deliver bad news, and asked him how I could help him.

         “Ma’am, I know it is a holiday and all, and you don’t know me, not really. But you see, I know your brother, we serve together, and well…” He trailed off, blushing a little, as he reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a tattered letter obviously written by one of my children. “I was invited to dinner if I made it home in time. So, I thought I would stop in. I have no family in the area, and I’m missing them tonight, I don’t mean to impose, I really just wanted to say hello and thank you…” He stuttered to a stop as I put up my hand.

         “Honey, what’s your name? We write a lot of those letters.” I asked smiling at him as I opened the door to allow him access. I called into the dining room set another place; a guest of honor had arrived. I looked back to the young man, to welcome him in and was surprised to find tears in his eyes.

         “Michael said ya’ll would treat me like family, but to take a stranger in on Thanksgiving… It is too much to expect. Thank you Ma’am, my name is Greg. Greg Mayers. You’re son Kevin has been writing to me for nearly a year.” The young soldier said all this quietly as he made his way slowly across the threshold. It was then I noticed that he was carrying a backpack on one shoulder and trying to work the crutches at the same time.

         I made the introduction to the family, who all welcomed Greg with open arms, my parents insisting on him calling them mom and dad. My sons already calling him Uncle Greg, my husband poured him a beer and took his pack as he sat down, next to Michaels spot. He smiled as he looked at the empty dishes.

         “Michael said you would leave him a spot. You guys are a truly loving family. I get a call every year and they all wished I would make it home. But I never get more than that really. I don’t think they ever leave an empty space at the table for me. But, I have something for you all.” He reached into his pack on the floor beside him, pulled out a small box, and began to rummage through it all. Inside there were trinkets for the boys, souvenirs from the places over seas that he and Michael had been. Then the true treasures came, letters from Michael. They had been wounded together and Michael had saved Greg’s life.

         Greg told us that Michael was recovering in a hospital in Iraq when he had left. The news is always slower than the transports. But Greg promised that Michael would be home by Christmas. We made Greg promise to be there as well. Homecoming wouldn’t mean as much without Greg there to represent where Michael was coming home from. Besides, Greg had been a part of this family’s life for the last year, he was adopted. He had to be here for Christmas.

         Christmas that year was more special to our family than any before it. The Tragedy changed more than the nation. It changed the way our country looks at things. But the war that followed? It changed our families in a way that no war before it had. In prior wars our troops came home as heroes or villains. In this war, we are just so happy to have them home. We welcome our troops back to us with very little noise, but their places in our lives have been carved in stone and cemented with our tears.

         

God Bless America and her troops, wherever they may be. Guide them safely back home.