This family went out of their way to find the Blockbuster Video with the hope of the store being able to find me. I hadn’t used that card, having gotten it in Florence on a previous visit, but the account had a phone number! Luckily for me, the most logical route from Tennessee to the Dismals goes right through . . . Florence, Alabama.
Of course, I thanked them profusely, but I still regret that I never thought to get their address. That kind act reminded me that there are truly honest people in our world, no matter how bleak things seem when we read the newspaper.
So, to that certain family of three, you seemed more like angels to me. If you are reading this story, I thank you again for your honesty, caring and kindness.
And to the mom in the group: my phone number and address are now in my wallet, updated with every move!
Lisa Cobb
A Soldier, Someone’s Child
Healing is not done in the mind or by the powers of the intellect; it is done in the heart.
H. B. Jeffery
We stood there awkwardly. He wore a camouflage uniform, looking like an adolescent playing grown-up.
Suddenly, he reached out and put his arms around me. He clung to me as if I was his lifeline. This man-child needed compassion, a human touch and the reassurance that someone cared. He had seen things that we baby boomers had tried so hard to shelter our children from. He was only nineteen.
I first met this young man when I was assigned to help him and his wife take advantage of all the resources available to them as new parents. Instead of living in base housing, they inhabited a tiny apartment in a decrepit neighborhood. Her family lived out of state and she had no friends. Although he was often present during my home visits, he barely spoke and usually retreated to their bedroom. I had the feeling that he didn’t really want me to be there.
Over the next several months, I made biweekly visits to their home. The young wife had overcome many challenges. She had been alone during most of her pregnancy while her husband went through basic training. While pregnant, she had been involved in a serious automobile accident and required hospitalization. They were now coping with the harshest reality of military life: He was deploying to Iraq.
She confided that he had recently lost his mother, still in her thirties, to cancer, and that he had not had the opportunity to grieve. He had never known his dad and had no other immediate family members. Additionally, in his early teens, he had converted to the Muslim faith. The war in Iraq would be a test for him: of his fitness to serve in the American military in a conflict that would test both his faith and his patriotism.
When he deployed, his young bride and their infant went to live with her parents. Six months later, I received a message stating that he had returned home and that she had called to request continuing services from our agency. She had also indicated that she wished for me to again be her caseworker. I readily agreed.
The first visit to their home was somewhat strained. I could feel the tension in the air. When the soldier left the room, his wife confided that she was suffering from depression and that worrying about her made his stress level even higher. He was sleeping fitfully and had become moody, but never violent. He had also attempted to talk to her of the things he had experienced in combat— the sights, the sounds, the smells. She wanted to be there for him, to empathize, but she didn’t know what to say or do.
We discussed the need for her to follow up with her primary-care provider and to request a mental-health referral. We devised a safety plan for dealing with episodes of anxiety and stress that could put any of the family members in jeopardy. We especially discussed the impact of stress on their relationship with each other and on the welfare of their child. We discussed resources available and agreed to weekly home visits.
It was now three weeks after my initial reassignment to the case. The young soldier was home during the visit and when I asked him nonthreatening questions, he answered in more than his customary curt responses. We discussed stress, grief and depression, and how they were all intertwined.
When his wife left the room to change the baby, he leaned over to tell me how worried he was about her. He began to talk, and I listened. As he talked, his eyes became moist. At times his voice shook. He spoke of his love for America, his love for the military and his love for his family. He spoke of the need to be strong for his wife and baby, and how unsure of himself he felt at times. He spoke of what he had seen and heard. He spoke of his love for his mother.
I told him about post-traumatic stress disorder and how normal the responses he felt were under the circumstances. He agreed to at least consider counseling, and I gave him some referral information for free clinics. His wife returned to the room and joined the discussion. She agreed to take advantage of available childcare resources so that she could discuss her situation with her physician, uninterrupted. I offered to accompany her if she wished. She also spoke of her desire to continue her education, to get a GED, to go to college. He spoke of his desire to send their daughter to college someday. Together they were focusing on a future filled with promise.
The home visit was over, and it was time for me to wrap up what had proven to be a long and emotionally draining day. However, I couldn’t leave—not just yet. This soldier, with the tracks of tears still on his cheeks, needed a hug. He needed warmth and compassion. So, for just a moment, I put aside professional boundaries. For just a few minutes, I imagined what my own grown son would be experiencing under the same circumstances. For just a few minutes, I gave him the hugs and encouragement that perhaps his mother would have given if she were here.
Then, with a heart full of hope and the tracks of my own tears staining my cheeks, I completed my paperwork as a home health nurse and drove home.
I checked the answering machine. There were no messages. I checked the mailbox. Finally! A long-awaited letter from my husband, who is serving in Iraq. I, too, am a military wife.
Elizabeth Martin, R.N.
All in a Day’s Work
No one is where he is by accident, and chance plays no part in God’s plan.
A Course in Miracles
My husband and my son are both serving in Iraq. Bill, my husband, is in the California National Guard, and Kyle, my son, is with the army’s 4th Infantry Division.
Listening to some Christian songs one evening in my kitchen I was reminded of my soldiers, who I miss and pray for every day. I sat down right there on the kitchen floor and began to talk to God, asking him to please wrap his loving arms around them both. I asked him to protect them, guide them, watch over them and bring them home safely to me. I begged him to bring them together, if it was his will. For half an hour, I just spoke my heart.
At about four the next morning, Bill called me and told me an incredible story. While I was at home praying for my boys, Bill had just finished his mission to Mosul and crossed the border into Kuwait. He was returning safely to base camp, and, on the way, they stopped in Tikrit. As they traveled in their convoy, one of the trucks ran over a crude Iraqi bomb. It created a huge fireball and one of the HET (heavy equipment transporter) vehicles was fully engulfed in flames. The driver was injured, but no one was killed. Their convoy stopped and pulled over on the side of the road, and there was a fight with enemy soldiers. One of the vehicles sent word to area military units that they were under attack. By the time support arrived, the situation was under control.
Then Bill turned a corner and walked right into Kyle! The message had been received by the 4th ID, and our son, who was stationed in southern Tikrit, heard the message. He jumped in a Humvee and headed north, because he knew that this was his dad’s unit. Kyle had been frantically looking for Bill, and when he found him, they gave each other the biggest hugs they had ever exchanged.
I don’t think that either of them will forget that moment. My husband and son may have been far away, but they were close to my heart. Bill and Kyle were with each other, as they had been in my prayers, and God was with us all.
Liz R
ae
2 I MISS YOU SO
Two persons’ love in one another is the future good which they aid one another to unfold.
Charlotte Perkins Gilman
A Navy Wife’s Prayer
How often we’ve stood on dark flight lines and piers . . .
“I love you,” “I’ll miss you” whispered through tears.
During long separations, in peacetime, at war . . .
my nights filled with dreams of this man I adore.
With only my memories to hold close at night . . .
I live for the day God returns my sunlight.
Yes, life goes on when your loved one’s at sea . . .
but the ache never leaves, the fear stays with me.
Dear Lord, I need your guidance, your love . . .
help me be brave, keep your watch from above.
Hold my dear one so safe in your heart and your hand . . .
bring him home to his family . . . this hero . . . my man.
Of us, Lord, I pray he’ll be filled with such pride . . .
of how we carried on without him by our side.
Please, help time fly quickly and soon I will hold . . .
the hand of the man whose eyes chase the cold.
Whose voice brings delight, whose touch eases pain.
How will I ever say “Farewell” again?
With your help, dear God, I’ll try to stay strong . . .
and pray that his time here at home will be long.
Still, “I know that the navy will need him,” I sigh . . .
but we’ll face it together, Dear Lord, you and I.
Sue Ellen Groseclose-Combs
Picture the Waiting
Hope is the feeling you have that the feeling you have isn’t permanent.
Jean Kerr
In my grandmother’s home, there is a framed image of a young girl with long blonde hair sitting on a high, rocky ledge overlooking the sea. The intense colors of the darkening, star-filled night sky mix with the deep blues of the calm ocean. She wears a white dress that glows in the light of the moon. Her tiny, sharp-featured face is sullen and sad, and her arms wind loosely around her legs. Her eyes gaze out longingly over the sea, but she cannot see what lies many miles away.
On September 18, 1917, my grandmother was sitting alone in her tiny one-room shack holding a newborn baby girl. The only things that adorned the walls of her home were a medicine chest that her grandfather had made for her and the picture of a young girl looking out toward places unseen.
Attached to the picture’s corner was a letter. It read:
Dearest Lenny,
Woodrow called me to serve and you know I had to go. I’ll send back my pay so that you and Grace will be taken care of. Pray for my comrades and me, and give Grace a big kiss. I’ll be home soon.
With all my love,
Jim
Her Jim was a man who never wrote, and this note was a surprise to her. She folded it neatly several times and tucked it safely in her apron pocket.
She did what she had to do, but the nights were long as she walked and rocked her young, crying daughter. A tiny radio foretold the possibility of war, and, on October 23, 1917, her throat tightened and her heart pounded as the news reported that “the first American Doughboys were stepping onto foreign soil.”
Grandma knew Grandpa was one of them.
Within two months, Grandma received Grandpa’s first check and was able to pay up the bills. An enclosed letter said that her husband had made arrangements for his checks to be delivered directly to her the first of each month. That comforted her because she knew as long as the checks came, Grandpa was okay.
As the months wore on, Grandma was grateful that the army hadn’t visited her door. Neighbors and friends were already dealing with the loss of husbands, brothers, uncles and children. Her own sister received an official letter that stated her husband was missing in action.
Grace started walking at six months. Grandma packaged a picture of their beautiful daughter stepping lightly across the floor with a long family letter. Sealing it with a kiss, she wrote, “Miss you much,” on the envelope and mailed it off. After several weeks, the letter and picture were returned with the handwritten message, “Unable to locate soldier,” scrawled across its front.
Grandma tucked the letter in her apron pocket and slumped into the big, overstuffed blue chair that faced the picture. Her tears flowed as she stared into the picture and placed herself into the body of the girl. She felt her hollow heart skipping beats as the Atlantic slammed her soul.
Taking a deep breath, Grandma prayed for all the men who were lost and scared this night. With a strong “Amen,” a calm came over her. She realized that the young woman in the picture was also waiting for her love to come home. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so alone. She had someone to wait with.
When the months had rolled into the second year of America’s involvement in World War I, Grandma had settled into a quiet routine. Grace was walking and talking, the house was immaculate, and life went on. Grandpa’s checks were arriving each month and she told no one about the returned letter.
On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, a cease-fire went into effect for all combatants. The war was over, but before the official armistice was declared, 9 million people had died on the battlefield, and the world was forever changed.
On April 6, 1919, Aunt Martha handed Grandma a letter that she had received by accident. It was official army issue, stamps, seals and all. She carried it inside and sat heavily in the chair. She called Grace to her lap and cradled her close as she opened the envelope with trembling, cold hands. As she pulled the letter out of the envelope it fell to the floor. Two words jumped out at her: coming and home. Retrieving the letter, she smoothed it out and started reading. Jim’s unit would be coming home on April 7, 1919, at 9:00 A.M. That was tomorrow!
The next morning, she dressed Grace and herself in their finest attire, and they arrived at the dock at 8:30 A.M. The ship was already there, and she placed herself at the end of the gangplank. A serviceman came over and asked her whom she was there to see. She told him but then asked, “Why?”
“We have special messages for some of the wives. Let me see if you’re one of them.” With that, he walked away.
Soon cheers were heard from the ship and men of all ages were running down the plank toward waiting arms. As the last of the men were embraced, Grandma found herself manless. Swallowing hard, she squeezed Grace’s hand tightly and scanned the ship. Suddenly, the serviceman appeared at the top of the gangplank with a handful of envelopes and a high-ranking officer. As they descended the plank, Grandma stepped back and caressed Grace’s hair. She closed her eyes and started to pray.
“Mrs. Adams?”
“Yes,” a weak voice sprung up from behind the crowd.
“We are sorry to inform you that Robert J. Adams was killed while in the service of his country. . . .”
Grandma’s heart fell almost as far as the just-widowed wife’s did.
“Mrs. Becker?”
Another note was passed on.
By the tenth passing, Grandma turned and started the long walk home.
“Mrs. Creed?”
Grandma’s heart stopped.
“Don’t you want to go home with your husband?” the voice said.
She turned slowly to greet the face that asked the question. Grandma fell to her knees and sobbed into Grace’s dress as Grandpa knelt beside her and hugged his family for the first time in almost a year and a half.
After they tucked Grace into bed, Grandpa found Grandma sitting in the big blue chair staring at the picture. For the first time, it looked to her as if her friend in the painting was smiling.
Candace Carteen
Letters of Hope
“Love is patient and kind. . . . Love never gives up; and its faith, hope and patience never fail” (1 Corinthians 13:4). Our Gran Lindsay who now lives in Burlington, Ontario, has this scripture
printed on a magnet on her fridge. To some visitors it is only a magnet to our family it is a gentle reminder of a cherished family story.
It all began with a message in the town newspaper: “LINDSAY: Darling I am well . . . Hope you and the children are fine.” The year was 1943. A ham radio operator had picked up the fragmented message and directed it to the small-town newspaper.
Martha Lindsay had waited thirteen long months for any glimmer of hope, that her husband William Lindsay had survived the sinking of the H.M.S. Exeter on March 1, 1942. Holding onto that hope, she waited for word from the Red Cross. The days turned into weeks, and no word from the Red Cross. Martha did her best to stay busy with the children, always keeping William in her prayers. Finally one afternoon, the Red Cross contacted her with the news that she had been praying for: A William Lindsay had been located and was presently a prisoner of war.
Martha’s heart soared. William was alive; she had never given up hope. Martha was instructed to write messages to William. She was to write no more than twenty-five words on a plain white postcard and then forward them to Geneva. Only one postcard a month was permitted. Martha wrote to William of the antics of their children Billy and Catherine, who had been babies the last time he saw them. She did her best to express her love and devotion to him on the tiny white postcards. In twenty-five words she kept reminding him that he was loved. Two and a half agonizing years passed without receiving a reply, but still Martha’s faith and hope never faltered.
One September morning in 1945, as Martha was getting ready to take the children to school, the mailman delivered a small scrap of paper through the mail slot. It had no envelope and no stamp. As she turned the paper over, her heart began to pound and her eyes filled with tears as she recognized William’s handwriting: “Martha, I’ve been released. I’m coming home.”