I kept looking at the flashing colors and growing grey. I suddenly felt like someone had spun a dial and the soundtrack of my life was in French. It was familiar sounding but unintelligible. They kept replaying it, hoping the next time it would end different.

The baby forgotten on the floor, crawled over the tower of fresh folded laundry toppling it as he moved on his mission to create chaos.

An urgent voice reminded me I had responsibilities.  The baby cried unanswered in the rubble of toys. I scoop the baby in my arms and watch the second plane strike.  I couldn’t look away as I stared at the screen unseeing.

I stood in the mayhem, holding the phone unaware it was in my hand.  My husband was in Atlanta.  The dead airspace crossed the distance as we clung to each other.

Twenty years of orders and ironing creases had not prepared me for this. The knowing was deep in the recesses of my belly. They would call him back; crucial to the mission, critically undermanned and completely screwed.

His voice told me he had to go. Suddenly unbalanced, I dropped the phone.

All I could hear was the pounding of my blood in my ears and something in the distance. The baby was crying. I take comfort in his warm breath against my cheek as the broadcast marched on. This all looked so familiar but wrong, a well-known play on the wrong stage.  Palestine. Haifa.  Yemen. Barcelona.  Not here. Never.

“I’m ok,” I mumbled looking blankly at the phone I don’t remember answering.  She was leaving her office.  She was in the tallest building in Norfolk. There were rumors.  I tell her to leave. Now.  Quick. “Call me when you are safe,”  hearing the lie in my voice.

“Man up for God sake. Pull yourself together,” the nooks of my brain chide me. I heave the baby to my hip and move through the house.

Whimpering pulled my attention toward the highchair.  The phone slides down my chest as it slithered into my kitchen unwelcomed.  Fear winds itself up my calf like smoke,  rising in my belly. Silence. The skies over my house were silent. The absence of jet noise was a scream in a horror flick. The background music of a decade had stopped.  I grabbed the baby and went to the street.  Vacant of purpose yet filled with frantic movement, It felt apocalyptic.

I looked up and saw him. He took the baby and swept me against his chest.  “They are gonna pay for this.” He whispered dark in my ear.

Gone was the lawn mowing Marine. The hand of a warrior, powerful, dangerous, guides me towards the porch, passing the baby to his wife.

“Michael?” she whispered. A paragraph of question hangs unanswered as we watch him climb into his jeep.

Fear in my bones told me I would never be warm again. I felt the gnawing hole of loss for something so constant it was cellular.  That thing so quintessential American, I relish its absence abroad.

Gone. Forever.

Today, we remain a nation at war.

Today, Facebook will be filled with contrite saying imploring you to not forget- as if that were a luxury afforded those plagued by memories living in the darkness, seeping out to bring them to their knees.

Today, we question the value of the check we cashed. We look at the consequence of emotions run amuck.  Residual damage of broken dreams, the aftermath of a three day bender- blurred, dirty and too much to manage. This wasn’t the plan. These old men with broken souls staring blind parasites in young bodies.  What role do we play in the healing of warriors?

Today,  That day’s battle cry that rang across our land now bounces hollow against the wind- a thready wisp of the passion it once held.

Today, the silence is deafening.

Today, acknowledge the sacrifices necessary to keep this very fragile experiment we call democracy alive. Today- have the conversation about what role you play in the aftermath of war and the healing of warriors.  

Today,  just a minute- between your Latte and your Youtube search, your trip to the mall and your bottled water, as you fill your tank with gas or scan your filled fridge- send a prayer of thanks for the being born in a country that has such bounty, such blessing and such potential to believe that anything is possible -is possible.

Today, I can’t forget that deafening silence. Nor do I want to; the deeds unsung risk being forgotten.

Tell your children. Tell you friends. Tell yourself. Today.

My father joined me for coffee this morning.  Watching the sun beams spotlight the dancing dust particles in the air, I curl up in the corner of my leather couch and savor our time together.

I sit in the silence of words unspoken.

The race track of my mind is filled with morning fog and worry. The worry born of a child in the city,  a child in the country and  a child on a journey.

Did I pack their bags with the right stuff? Or the wrong stuff? Or too much stuff?

I, I wasted so much time.

Time believing I didn’t have enough, missing what I had.

40 years of baggage,  finally off my back.

“How did you do it? Stay sane with 10 kids?” I ask every time.

“Did you see me?”

I hear his smile. No time to sweat what you can’t control.

The  reunion was spectacular.  The soundtrack of laughter replays in my head. All ten of us together. Again.  

You were missed. But you know that, you were there. Everywhere.

“Your burning daylight.”  My turn to smile with the hug of the familiar phrase.

Better get on with my day. Thanks for the coffee.

Who do I miss the Most?

I guess when you pull the same card at random several times- apparently there is something that needs to be said.

I miss that little girl who believed anything was possible- that freckled faced kid with poorly fitting shoes and hand me down blouse-

Who believed orange colored bell bottoms with giant white daisies were the clothes of super heroes.

The little girl who would sit besides complete strangers and ask them deep, pondering questions like “Do you think butterflies cry?”  because it was the stuff that really mattered…

The girl who turned over all the money in her pocket to the man before her because he must really need it if he was robbing a seven year old. She wasn’t afraid- not until she went home and told. Then she was afraid of the shame. Of letting everyone down.  Of the realization that her mother was afraid of black men.  That talking to strangers invited “things like this.”

Then she became afraid and began to die- not in her body but in her soul where it really mattered.

I miss that little girl who would twirl wildly in circles with arms outstretched, oblivious to the stares her knotted hair and smudged faced invoked from Mother Superior.

The Little girl who sings loud with joy even if she sounds like a croaking frog because gifts come in all kinds of packages even some that aren’t pretty.

I miss the little girl who could run like the wind, wild with abandon to win the race, even if that meant she beat John- the cutest boy in the school.  The little the girl who didn’t know that girls can’t do math or that it is rude to take what you want.

 I miss the little girl who thought that May Day was the most sacred days of all because instead of praying to the bleeding man on the cross in the dark inside of a church, we sing our prayers to the beautiful lady statue we have crowned with chains of Lilly of the Valley and toss rose petals  as we dance in the sunshine. I miss that girl.

I miss that girl the most…

We were supposed to have coffee. I have screwed up our meeting that last few times- said yes when I was driving and couldn’t write it down, so they slipped my mind like a leaf in a the river that is a post menopausal brain.  He would text to check if we were still on.  He would greet me with a smile and a hug.

So, this time, I set my alarm. I got up early, had my coffee.

And text him. I was proud of myself for being on top of things. I asked if I should pick him up or meet him somewhere.

He didn’t answer. I text again a while later, wondering if perhaps he forgot.   He doesn’t forget. I thought about military training and time. How the people in my life who served are also punctual. Punctuality has been my life’s challenge.

“I see you are running on Navy time.” The Army infantryman I interview would joke as I slid in just under the wire for our meeting.

But this is different. He would at least text me back and tell me he forgot. Nothing.

I sent another text telling him to call when he could and went about my day.

I read about the death of a young Army veteran in Idaho who has been missing for a several days. His family had been making frantic appeals on Facebook asking for help finding their loved one. He was missing. He had PTSD. He was in crisis.

The urgency was electric in the messages. Hope in the responses from people who thought they had seen him. It has been bouncing around for nearly a week.

Today- there was a simple prayer and an image of Erik Jorgenson in his Combat shirt and ACU pants looking softly at a puppy in his arms. Someone had photo shopped angels wings on him. Erik had taken his own life to end his pain.  But like a horrible virus that just keep mutating, his pain was merely transformed into the heart broken grief of his sister, mother, friends and battle buddies.  It was sad. I felt bad.  I did what many others did, I wrote a thoughtful phrase on Facebook telling his family how sorry I was.  And then I went on with my day.

But the universe has a way of shaking you awake.

At 1:42 pm I received a text from him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I had a rough night last night. One of my buddies I deployed with committed suicide and I found out last night.  I didn’t fall asleep until 6am. I just woke up.”

My heart sank. I called. His voice broke my heart. He tells me he is going to go run as he fights the tears on the edge of his voice.  He promises to call when he returns but he really just needs to go for a run right now.

I sit with the phone in my hand and think about how often he runs. He runs a lot.  Five miles. Ten miles.  In brutal heat, soft rain, doesn’t matter. He runs a lot.

Pushing his body to the point of screaming louder than the memories in his head, the pain in his heart and the loneliness that lives below that slow brilliant smile that fools everyone into thinking he is fine.

He isn’t fine.

There have been 7 suicides amongst the unit he deployed with.

Each death leaves another chink in his armor.

Each call puts another brick in his ruck that he silently shoulders alone.

His high school friends cannot understand.

He sees the fear in his father’s eyes.  He can’t even look at his mother.

So, he runs. He runs and all of his battle buddies are there as he pushes through the heat and humidity, losing himself into the dust in the winds of Afghanistan as he mechanically runs through the streets of his hometown.  He can’t run far enough or fast enough but for just a minute he is no longer alone.

And I wait.  And I weep. And I pray.

Please. God. Help.

This has got to stop.

As I shared yesterday, I am involved in a program that writes letters of support to the families of fallen service members.  I have only been doing so for three weeks and have so far written 11 letters.

That in itself is enough to make me pause and still my heart for a moment, but today, as I sat to write my letter, I found myself truly feeling heartache. See, today, my letter was to the parents of Brandon Meyers of Plainfield, Il.

Brandon was a Marine- like many his age, he joined the Corps. right out of high school. He served two tours in Iraq and returned home to his family in November  of 2010. He loved cars and motorcycles. He loved his sister and his parents. He planned to attend community college to become automotive technician.

He was my daughter’s age.

He was plagued by PTSD and struggled to come to terms with the memories he could not forget. He didn’t sleep. He left a note for his family saying they would be better of without him. That is what took my breath away- how extreme is someone’s pain that they would think their family would be better dealing with their suicide than their behavior. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I don’t say that in judgement but in sadness.  I realize there is no way to understand what was going on in this young man’s head- and I hold no judgement about what he did. My heart just breaks that he was in such emotional pain.  That he made this choice.  That his world was so black he could no longer see the sun. It is the absence of hope that kills the soul. I pray for his family and hope for them.

I have a dear, dear friend who lost her son. We don’t talk about it. She is a strong woman and has spent her live committed to helping people in need. I know this- there is no one else in my life who is as attuned to my moods,

so willing to reach out and say Hi- (even if that is all she can do-) so I feel seen.

so willing to stand and look you dead in the eye at your darkest moment and say “Hey. I’m here.”

It is this same friend who once told me she made a commitment to be open to the everyday miracles in her life- and she is.

So often, she is blessed with joyful memories of her son in the actions of her grandchildren and others.  Her life is filled with joyful laughter and  her days with purpose.  And that is truly a blessing.

I tell myself it is out of the losses in her life that she has learned to live. I envy her spirit in a good way and strive to follow her example.

That is my hope for the Meyer’s family. That they are able to find joy and laughter in the memories of their son to balance the ache that will forever live in their hearts.  I ask that you send up a prayer for the Meyers family. And for all of the veterans striving to find their way back from the memories that haunt them.  I wish you peace and  hope that you can again find your place in the world. That is my prayer for you- that you cling to hope to lift you from the darkness. That hope reminds you of the joy you bring to those around you and gives you strength to shoulder on. I pray for you. It is my hope, that you can unpack the torment you carry in your ruck and leave it behind. I pray for hope.

My heart is heavy today, so it is only fitting that I wake to gray skies and rain. It helps for me to think the sky is crying as I write the families of fallen soldiers cards of sympathies.

I wasn’t thinking when I opted into the program of writing Gold Star parents- what a bizarre name it sounds almost like they won a prize.  I understand that the name is from the Gold Star banners award to the families of fallen military members. I proudly hung a blue star banner when my daughter was deployed.  And was grateful the day I took it down when she was home safe.

So when the writing campaign came across my desk I thought sure- I facilitate a writers group for veterans this would be something we could weave in to the program. Little did I realize the frequency of announcements dropping into my email box. When I received the first one, I was excited in a weird way not in a good way but more like an “Oh- this does really work.” kind of way, but then I grew concerned about what to write- so I waited for jus the right moment when I would be able to say something poignant and meaningful- and the days passed and more notifications filled my email box.

It was overwhelming to see the emails- it seemed like a new one each day- when I finally sat down to write them, I realized it was because several of them died together on the same day in the same horrific, senseless rocket attack in Bagram, Afghanistan. They were on the FOB doing their jobs. And then they were gone.

As I read each of the obituaries of these young people I felt as if I was an intruder. Like I am getting a glimpse into the lives of these families at their weakest moment. What can I possibly write to make them feel better?

Nothing- that is what I came away with. There are no words that will ease their grief, make the day any less horrible. I stayed away from platitudes of heros and defending my freedom.  As a mom, that would not ease my hurt, offer me comfort. I just put pen to paper and let the universe take over- I am deeply sorry you lost your child. I will hold you in my prayers. I thank you for raising a child who was willing to serve and am beholden to your family for their sacrifice. I hope you can fill your heart with memories of joy to lessen the grief that fills you now.

All I can do is hope it was enough.

MAY 23,& 24, 2013

Happy military Appreciation month. I have been writing a tribute to someone in my life associated with the military everyday to honor the month. Today, I am going to write a twofer – and talk about my sister in law Alane and brother in law Danny. Alane served 10 years as a Machine Repairman in the US Navy. She served the bulk of her career on the USS Vulcan, which is a Tender. A tender is the type of ship that is a floating repair shop. The Vulcan was also a pioneer in the Women in Navy Ships (WINS) program, females made up one-seventh of its crew. Prior to the WINS program being a Machine Repairman would have been a difficult rating for Alane- she would not have been able to serve her sea ratio. Alane went to college right after high school and then decided to follow her brothers and father into the US Navy. She, like Jack was an east coast sailor, meaning she spent her career on the east side of the country and her deployments were primarily to the Med. She also served on the USS Spear which is a Submarine Tender. While in the Navy, Alane met her husband Danny. Danny was a 6 years sailor who was Navy welder. He served on the Vulcan, which is where they met. They married in 1986. Danny separated from the Navy in 1992. He began working for General Motors using the skills he acquired in the Navy and Alane finished the remained of her contract. The settled in Millersville Maryland on a 5 acre hobby farm. Alane went on to do machinist work for Vulcan stoves- (too bad she wasn’t a Star Trek fan, it would have completed the theme.) Alane and Danny remain happy and active, living the dream life of hunting, fishing and fun on the Chesapeake. Danny grew up on the Bay and salt water is in his blood. They are the favorite aunt and uncle to my children. It is hard to compete with someone who takes you fishing for your first fish,(in the Bay) which turns out to be a 31 inch striped bass. My children spent their childhood learning gun safety and how to properly shoot at the hands of Dan and ALane. My kids appreciate Crabs because they caught them themselves, working hard under the summer sun, swimming in the Chesapeake Bay while waiting for the traps to fill. Dan and Alane taught my kids how to weld, how to drive, how to shoot, how to fish, how crab and most importantly- how to respect the cycle of life that feeds us all. They taught my kids the responsibility of hunting and crabbing, how to give back and why it is important to work hard. I couldn’t have asked for a better influence on my children in the early years. My memories are of roaring laughter and eyes filled with wonder as the kids followed animal tracks, repaired a small engine or learned to make Johnny cakes over a fire. Dan and Alane are no nonsense people who are practical and kind. They taught my children to respect others and helped model that with their own conduct, whether it was properly cleaning and stowing your gear no matter how tired you were or aiding an elderly neighbor because they needed help.
Danny and Alane live a great life on a beautiful farm near the Annapolis dairy farm. They were “green” before it became chic- because it makes sense to use resources wisely and prudently. Danny would rather repair something than buy something new- because it makes sense to do so. Alane cans her own food because it taste better when you grow it yourself. Their lifestyle was so foreign to a suburbanite like me when I first met them- in fact, I was a bit judgmental about it. But their frugality led to owning their home in 5 years so they were free to do what they wanted because they were free to make choices most of us can’t. As I have aged, I find each year, I get closer and closer to where they started- and each year I am happier and happier. Live simple. Laugh often. Love Always. It is the motto they taught my kids and me, as well. I can not thank them enough for the memories they created for my children, for the support they provided me as a parent and for their service to our country.

MAY 25, 2013

Happy Military Appreciation Month. In honor of the month I am writing a tribute to a person in my life associated with the military. Today, I am going to honor Master Chief Shelby Miller. Shelby was born in Portsmouth, VA- the son of a retired Chief petty officer. He grew up in Huntsville, Alabama. He joined the Navy in 1969 after working briefly as a civil servant in NAS Norfolk. He went to “A” school at Great Lakes and “C” school in Dam Neck, VA. He had a illustrious career serving on the USS LUCE (DLG-7), USS HARRY E. YARNELL (CG-1), USS JOSEPHUS DANIELS (CG-27), Missile Systems Instructor GMS/SMS Dam Neck, VA, USS BIDDLE (CG-34), USS JOSEPHUS DANIELS (CG-27), and in December 1993, he reported on-board USS BRISCOE (DD-977) for duty as our Command Master Chief. This is when I met him. I was the Ombudsman for the USS Briscoe- which means I was the link between the command and the families. Think back to the days before cell phones and the internet. Back to the days when military wives would number their letters so their husband would open them in the correct order. Being an Ombudsman meant managing young wives who had no support system, parents who needed to get ahold of their sailor at often the worse times- terminally ill parent, the death of a loved one, or something equally critical and unpleasant. Instead, they called me and I relayed the information to the ship. Shelby told me in the beginning to “ be sure to keep my head and not to get wrapped around the axle.” It is was never boring, One time, I even had a Congressman call me- but Shelby took it all in stride. My favorite memory of Shelby was the Briscoe Bear. In an effort to connect kids with their deployed parents, we sent a stuffed Bear named Briscoe ( our ship name) as a stow away on the ship- he came on in a sea bag, and worked his way around the ship, staying with each unit and sending home a letter about his adventures. Shelby was the voice of Briscoe. The photos and letters sent “home” and published in our newsletter were a huge hit- kids had a better understanding of what their parents did for a living, the stories were a way to break up the boring days of deployment and the sailors stepped up. Of course, the natural competiveness kicked in and the stories got better each time. Someday, I will tell you about the tour with Engineering. Leave it to say, Briscoe will never be the same and has the tattoo to prove it. Shelby was an important part of my life as a Navy wife. He was my confidant. My boss. And My partner in crime. I knew too much, about ships movement, about their work and the ugly side of sailors – often before my husband knew. But Shelby kept me focused and sane. He had this laid back manner that help me KNOW things would be ok in the end. Shelby lived as a Geographical sailor so that his children would not have to move around. He lived away from his wie and kids so they could stay in one place. His son Aaron followed him into the Navy and spoke at his retirement ceremony. His daughters Anelise Marie, and Amy Elizabeth grew into beautiful young women who loved their father. His wife Mary Jane met Shelby on the pier after Shelby’s final deployment – in her arms was Mrs. Briscoe Bear- waiting for the return of her sailor. Master Chief is the highest rank you can achieve as an Enlisted Petty Officer. The Master Chief of a ship is a unique and highly respected position- the highest ranking enlisted personnel. You are the authority. You are the mediator. You are the no more bull shit stop. Shelby was all that and more to me. He had a heart the size of Pennsylvania with a manner that reminded you of Bob Marley. I could think of no better ally as I navigated broken toes to avoid ships movement, long dead mothers found in Brooklyn apartments and lonely days of blacked out communication to families. I don’t regret the absence of email for ship’s company. It made my job easier- more contained. I am sad that Congress is considering eliminating the role of the Ombudsman given the technological advances. It wasn’t the access that made my job easy- it was the relationship I had with Shelby. I will forever remember Shelby being piped off that final time at his retirement, turning to take his wife’s hand and passing through the raised flags with her. I think of Shelby often and wish him nothing but the best.

MAY 26, 2013

Happy Military Appreciation Month. I am writing a tribute to the members of the military in my life in recognition of the month. Today, I am honoring Micah Barcus. Micah served as a Sniper in the US Army from 1996-2001 and then later joined the Coast Guard to serve four more years as a Helicopter Mechanic. Forever looking for excitement and an adrenaline rush, Micah became a Paramedic. Micah is a force that enters the room before his body. He is a presence. He is an extreme athlete- running races, triathlon and even bicycling from Mchenry to Denver. When we met recently for coffee, he casually told me he ran a Xeterra Triathlon the day before. That is a swim in a lake, a mountain bike leg and then a trail run. Clearly not for the faint of heart. He is like the energizer bunny. Micah told me he knew he would join the Army long before he did- he grew up listening to stories from his father’s service in Vietnam and his grandfather’s service in Korea before him. It was the family business. He was assisting with drug operations in the jungles of Columbia before he could drink. Micah career was filled with helicopter crashes, rolled jeeps and late night phone calls calling for him to return to base to go on a mission. Micah left the Army with the intention to return to school. He was back and finding his way when the death of his brother in Iraq led him to hear the call to duty once again. It is difficult to be a sole surviving son- the want to serve your country balance with the need to respect your mother’s wishes. So, he joined the Coast Guard. He became a Helicopter mechanic, tearing down, inspecting and rebuilding the unit’s helicopters every two weeks. Micah left the Coast Guard and went to MCC to become a paramedic-. Being a first responder is natural for Micah; he is efficient, and capable- keeping a cool head in the time of crisis. Wanting more for his family, Micah is studying to become an ER nurse.
Micah is the heart bursting proud father of a 4 year old son. Micah is helping me on a project about the reintegration process for returning veterans. He has found the answer to how to continue to serve his country and respect the wants of his mother and father. I thank you Micah for all you have done, and all you continue to do.