SwiftVets.com

[Mother]

I just realized that. It's not a right, or a privilege, or an entitlement.

I just found this on Bill Faith's webpage and am stunned by the coincidence of finding it today of all days:

Changes
Via private correspondence from Kimmymac, who doesn't blog but should.

"I think about this a lot, actually: How even if a man comes back from combat, he never comes all the way back. Even if he has all his external parts and pieces, something fundamental within him dies or is deeply wounded.

My dad saw 82 consecutive days of combat in Okinawa, with the 6th Marines; the 'Striking Sixth'. He was a 19 year old platoon leader. He left a high school football star, and soon found himself cutting the shoes off dead Marine buddies so he would have something on his feet, and cradling dying men in his arms as they breathed their last. Then he took whatever rations they had, and stripped them of anything else which might be useful. That was his war. That was his hell.

On the wall of my study where I sit and write this are a Samurai sword that my father took from the Japanese Imperial Marine he stabbed to death, and next to that are my father's awards, given for his heroism during the campaign. They serve as a reminder--the juxtaposition of heroism, represented by its awards and honors, and the sword taken away from that Japanese Marine, who was someone's son, but had to die. It is a reminder to me that heroes like my dad pay a much higher price than most of us would ever want to pay, and they pay it for a lifetime. I never knew the extent of my father's heroism until I was an adult, because he simply never spoke about it, nor did he allow anyone else to speak of it. But I do remember the occasional black moods, and the tinkle of ice cubes in a glass of bourbon in a dark room at 3 am, as he drank with his ghosts. I remember being afraid of my father at those times, and knowing instinctively, even as a small child, to leave him alone. I sensed he was someplace dark and scary, and I would have to wait until he was my laughing daddy again.

So for all those who did the awful work of waging war on their country's enemies, for all the heroes, I grieve for you, even as we celebrate [... the election results -- BF]. Some got the awards, some didn't; some got the parades, and some had to wait far too long, but none of that changes the debt we owe you. But it will need to be an IOU, because their is simply no currency, at least not in this life, which would suffice.

When my son, and then my daughter, left for Iraq, I waved good bye, and then went about my life, and wondered about how it is I can have my heart pierced clean through, and still pull the weeds, and do the dishes and laundry, as if nothing had changed. And so the long slow dance began, as each day brings another day of waiting, hoping, praying. And each day worrying over what that day has brought my children.

It isn't the fear for their physical safety that tightens my gut and keeps me awake at 4 am; oh, sure, I worry about that. But what keeps me awake at 4 am, what breaks my heart, is the certainty of knowing that they will not come back the same people they were when they left. They will be changed in a way most people will never know or understand, and I grieve that. I mourn for their youth. God willing, I will hug and kiss them again, but I wonder: will the light still be in their eyes? Will they still laugh easily, and smile those hopeful, cocky smiles? Oh God, let it be so.

To have them then be scorned for their service would be more than I could stand for them, and it is that which makes me swear allegiance to your cause."
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Yesterday, my son's radiator broke on the way home from seeing his girl in Chapel Hill. We got him and the car home. Went to eat a late supper. As we pulled in to our little town Johnny Mathis came on the radio, singing Blue Christmas. You could have heard a pin drop. Tears rained down my face in the dark. We pulled in the driveway to the last strains of the song and all just sat there in the dark, listening.

I woke myself up making some strange noises this morning, killing an insurgent who would not die by stomping his chest over and over with my foot, which was adorned with spiked heels.

This morning he dropped his sister and I off at church, her fourteen-year-old-eighth grade self came into the sanctuary with tears streaming. His father bid him farewell from home and then his eighteen-year-old senior in high school brother took him to the recruiting office. He processes in Raleigh at 4 am tomorrow and heads for Parris Island.

Changes. That has been my worst nightmare. I've known since the day he enlisted, three months ago at age eighteen, out of the blue, about the changes. All three of my children turned a year older since Gil enlisted, literally and probably figuratively. The changes worry me and I try to spin it by knowing there will be more of him, not less- more good, not bad. But the insurgents attack ME at night? I didn't expect that. I didn't expect to find the letter my daughter wrote to my son that told him she's been crying herself to sleep for days. God bless you, Kimmymac, for clearing this path for me so that there was a place for me to put my heart. And God bless SwiftVets and POWs for Truth for protecting our hearts.

There was a child went forth every day;
And the first object he looked upon that object he became;
And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day or for may years,
or stretching cycles of years.

This is the first stanza of a poem, by I-don't-know-who. My son's senior English teacher (whose son is a Morehead Scholar USMC pilot in training) assigned the class to finish it.

Gil wrote:

The child grew up in the open yard;
He was cutting the grass as soon as he knew how.
He enjoyed the running and playing until the sun went down,
But was always home when the street lights came on.
The open outdoors became part of this child.

The mother and father poured love into their child;
The gave him whatever he asked for with few questions.
The mother did not work and stayed home with her children;
While the father worked sunup to sundown to provide form them all;
Their hard work and love became part of that child.

On the first day of school the child did not want to leave;
He wanted to stay at home and be with his mother.
The teachers tried to coax him into staying with them,
But the child would not have it anyway else.
The love for love became part of this child.

By the time he hit middle school he was the coolest boy everyone knew;
Friend would call and ask him to come out and play,
But sometimes he couldn't because he was helping his mother or father
But when he finished he would run outside to go and play with them all
And the friends he hung out with became part of his life.

As soon as he hit high school he had learned a great deal,
His parents encouraged him to do well in school, as he played on the football team;
And throught the years he learned more than he thought was possible.
And now high school is over and all four years became part of this child.

While sitting with his mother he learned of the bombing of Iraq;
As while with his father he talked of the next president.
During the Oklahoma City bombing he asked many questions
To find out why some of these people did what they did.
Eighteen years later these talks have become part of this child.