Her dear friend recognized this particular agony. And one day, at precisely 5:00 P.M., her friend knocked at the door and insisted Evangeline join her for a walk. After much urging, Evangeline acquiesced. After that, her friend came every day. Sometimes, she would have to come in the house, go into Evangeline’s bedroom and insist she get out of bed and walk with her. During these walks, Evangeline would cry and cry. She knew she was free to share her innermost pain and anguish. Her friend just quietly walked beside her, hour after hour, day after day.
They walked in rainstorms. They walked in the summer heat. They walked through the gentle breezes scented with the plumeria blossoms. They walked with the trade winds gusting at their backs. Winter, spring, summer and fall, these two friends walked the road of grief together. This friend walked beside Evangeline for three years! For three years, not a day was missed. Not a day was Evangeline left alone during “the big hour”; not until her friend sensed that she was strong enough to walk alone.
Mother Teresa remarked: “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.” Such a small thing to walk with a friend in her loneliest hour. Such a great love to walk with a friend, day after day, year after year. Such an act of Mercy. And the name of Evangeline’s friend? Mercy is her name. Her name is Mercy.
Evangeline Dionisio
As told to Shelly Mecum
Navy Pilot’s Wife
Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live.
Dorothy Thompson
When you are a navy pilot’s wife, every phone call makes you stiffen, and every knock at the door brings a lump to your throat and a knot to your stomach. The dangers of combat are obvious, but even routine flights have inherent dangers. Flying is a perilous business, and families of pilots face that on a day-to-day basis.
It was a difficult six months when my husband was deployed as a helicopter pilot in the Persian Gulf region. We had two daughters, and I was pregnant with our third. Dennis and I e-mailed each other as much as we could, trying to support each other from opposite sides of the world. I faced the challenges of being a temporarily single parent back home, and he faced the challenges of long, hot flights over the Persian Gulf.
We talked about everything except the dangers he faced. He didn’t bring it up because he didn’t want to worry me. I didn’t bring it up because I didn’t want to burden him with my worries. But the dangers were real, and we both knew it. I knew he was a good pilot, but that didn’t stop the nightmares I had of him flying in slow motion, the sand whirling around, the smell of burning fuel and the sound of clicking rotors as his helicopter plummeted to the ground. I never told him about the nightmares, but every time I had them, I awoke shaking and sweaty, with the taste of sand in my mouth.
During spring vacation from school, the girls and I took a trip to South Carolina with my parents. For the first time during Dennis’s deployment, I relaxed and let go of the constant worry. He would be home in another month, and all was well. Truthfully, I was relieved to be out of our house, where I had to wonder if every knock on the door might be that of a navy chaplain.
We were walking in from a bike ride when I heard my cell phone ringing. I ran to answer it but could only hear a lot of noise on the other end. “Hello?” I said, then yelled, “HELLO?”
Then, on the other end of the line, I heard, “Sarah? It’s me. I’m okay. I need you to know that it wasn’t me and that everyone got out okay. I’ll call you as soon as I can . . .” and then the phone went dead.
What was he talking about? I had no idea, but I felt my throat tighten and a sandy taste filled my mouth.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” my daughter asked.
“I’m not sure, honey,” I said, and I walked to the TV and turned it to CNN. The scroll line at the bottom of the screen said: “NAVY HELICOPTER CRASHES.”
I got a chill and started to shake. He was okay. I took a deep breath and patted my pregnant belly. “Daddy is okay.”
I didn’t find out the whole story until later. My husband had been the pilot of one of two helicopters set to fly in formation. He took off first, and, when he turned to spot the other helicopter, he saw it on the ground in flames. Everyone had gotten out of the aircraft, but he didn’t know that at the time. He landed nearby and found out that his squadron mates were okay. When he saw a news crew pull up, his first thought was how scared I would be if I saw video of the crashed helicopter on TV. He remembered he had his cell phone in his flight suit pocket, and, just moments after the accident, he called me. Amidst all the chaos, despite how close he and his fellow pilots had come to disaster, he was thinking about protecting me. His selflessness touched me and brought us even closer together.
I haven’t dreamed about helicopter crashes since.
Sarah Monagle
The Unseen Veteran
In order that she may be able to give her hand with dignity, she must be able to stand alone.
Margaret Fuller
To understand military life, or what it feels like to be the proud wife of a soldier, you need to experience it.
One day he was here and now he is gone. . . . He isn’t beside me in bed. . . . His scent slowly fades, as does the memory of his face. . . . I can barely remember the familiar sounds of him at home. I long for comfort when I have a nightmare. I want him to hold me. I wait for those comforting letters or the phone calls that come after three months of silence.
Now, I look upon single parents in awe . . . and I learn to do what they do, until my husband comes home. I don’t need a man to put a crib together, to take care of the car or to take out the trash. I have learned to be empathetic. I have become self-sufficient.
And even though these are wonderful things, I would give up everything that I have learned to bring him home right now.
When I think that I cannot go on, I rely on my routine so that I can support my husband while he defends our freedom. And I know that I am not the only one.
I am an unseen veteran. So are all the other military spouses out there. We have different battlefields. Our maps have pins in the countries of worry, heartache and loneliness. Our battles will end when our husbands are in our arms again. Until that day, I say thank you to all the invisible soldiers who are there for each other, who are there for me. We lend a strong shoulder when needed, and we keep up the brave front at home. The war could not be won without us.
Amanda Legg
3 RAISING
MILITARY
BRATS
America’s future will be determined by the home and the school. The child becomes largely what he is taught; hence, we must watch what we teach, and how we live.
Jane Addams
The Cost of War in Cheerios
Bring such talents as you have, use them, and they will be multiplied.
Ernest Holmes
“Honey, the air campaign started today.”
With those few words, countless thoughts exploded in my head. Winds of war already swirled around Fort Campbell. The 101st was poised like a bullet in the barrel, aimed at the heart of the Taliban. When the Department of the Army pulled the trigger, Doug’s unit was prepared to be the first shot fired. He was ready. I was ready. But were the children?
Since 9/11, we’d grown uncomfortably familiar with the need to discuss adult realities with our preschoolers. They had seen the towers fall. And, though we were a thousand miles away from New York, the landscape of our neighborhood changed noticeably. Heightened security brought armed guards to every Fort Campbell gate. Armored military vehicles presided over major intersections on the post while aircraft patrolled the skies. And guns, tanks and helicopters soon replaced soccer, ballet and Barney as favorite dinnertime topics.
Douglas drew a deep, solemn breath before he gave voice to our silent conversation. Like other discussions before it, this one brought the dreaded barrage of unanswerable questions: Do children die in war? Will our daddy have to kill somebody else’s daddy? Will our daddy die? We replied as honestly as we could with
out adding to their fear and worry. In the end, we focused on the humanitarian efforts of our nation toward the Afghan people. We weren’t sure what was within their reach, but they understood far more than we gave them credit for.
The next morning, Moriah, our four-year-old, scooped dry cereal from her bowl and announced that she needed a Baggie. “Mom,” she said seriously, “when Daddy goes to defeat Osama Bin Laden, he can take this to give to the children, so they won’t be hungry.”
With the same precision that their father uses to pack his rucksack, Moriah and her five-year-old brother Keith carefully filled plastic bags with Cheerios from their own breakfast bowls. That evening, the bags of cereal were ceremoniously added to the official packing list, poignant reminders of the costs of war and the willingness of little children to pay for it.
Mary C. Chace
“There are no K rations for TLC.”
© 2004. Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins.
Can’t Let Go
War is not nice.
Barbara Bush
I had said good-bye to my husband, Joe, so often, but this time was different.
We now had our first child. After nights of soul-searching and what-ifs, we made the difficult decision that Joe would go by himself to Alabama for the six-month training course, and I would stay behind with our new son. It was important that I hold onto my teaching position near our home at Fort Hood, plus we were part of a strong network of friends whom I could count on to see me through the rough spots.
On Joe’s last evening at home—always a melancholy time—I bathed little Joey, got him into his sleeper and was heading to the bedroom when Joe gently touched me on the shoulder. Lifting the baby from my arms, he said he wanted to tuck Joey in tonight.
They headed down the hall, and I busied myself with meaningless tasks, expecting Joe to emerge from the bedroom within a few minutes. A half hour went by, and still he had not come back. Figuring he was having trouble getting our son to fall asleep, I tiptoed to the baby’s room and peeked into the dimly lit room.
Sitting in the rocking chair, moving slowly back and forth, was my husband, stifling quiet sobs. He was holding our sleeping infant in his arms as though he would never let go.
I whispered, “Honey, what can I do?”
His pained eyes met mine, and after a moment he mumbled, “I just can’t put him down.”
That night, we stood over Joey’s crib, holding each other, consoling ourselves and saying over and over that we would make it through this separation and be together again soon.
Joey is six now, and he has a four-year-old brother named Jack. There have been many farewells since that night, yet my military hero still fights back tears when it’s time to leave once again in service to his country and give his boys that last, long hug good-bye.
Julie Angelo
Strains of Freedom
Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.
John Lennon
Still groggy from a sleepless night and numb from the previous day’s events, I wanted nothing more than to pull him back to bed with me and burrow under the familiar warmth and comfort of our covers, our front door bolted to simulate safety and guard against the terrors of the outside world. Instead, I turned to watch my best friend, my beloved husband of twenty-two years, lace the shoestrings through the eyes of his combat boots. Even in the gray light of dawn, I could clearly see, and shudder at, how different this morning’s battle dress uniform was from the customary white-collar attire—air force blues—of his past three-year Pentagon assignment. The change of clothing represented the way that, in less than twenty-four hours, life had changed with such intensity, such ferocity; that for America, “normal” would never be the same.
I followed David down the stairs and to the front door, wrapping my arms around him, burying my face in his chest. I listened for his heartbeat, searching for the scent of his skin beneath the crispness of his freshly starched uniform, losing myself in his embrace. At the same time, I memorized the way he felt within the circle of my arms. I longed to never let go. . . .
Selfishly—for my own comfort. And symbolically—for the ones who would never again hold their loved ones.
Keep him safe, I prayed desperately, struggling to be a good soldier’s wife and forcing myself to release him.
I would not cling. That no longer defined our relationship, our actions or us. Despite the fear in my heart, I gave him my bravest smile. “Please God, bring him home to us at the end of this day,” I whispered, and he walked to his car and drove away.
Twelve long hours later, he came back to us. Our young son and adolescent daughter raced to meet their daddy at the door, tackling him with their customary hugs and kisses. Our oldest daughter phoned, just to hear his voice.
Still trying to cope with the shock, we forked through our dinner and followed, to the best of our ability, our normal nighttime routine. All the while, we kept an ear to the television to listen for terrorist updates.
The children were sent upstairs to begin getting ready for bed as we turned off the TV, locked the doors and turned out the lights. In the otherwise aircraft-grounded skies, the distant overhead rumble of patrolling jets stopped us at the foot of the stairway. My question spilled out.
“Isn’t it hard to go back in there?” I asked. “It’s still burning, smoking. It’s a graveyard.”
“What is hard is that at the end of the day I can come home,” David told me.
I nodded, too choked to speak. I thought of the newscast of the woman holding vigil on the hill across the road from the Pentagon, waiting, watching, hoping and praying for any sign, any glimmer, that her loved one might step from the wreckage and rubble. I thought of all the people wandering and searching, and of the posters and flyers emerging in New York City of those lost in the World Trade Center. I clearly understood the meaning of his words.
“God has been good to us,” I whispered. “I thought I’d lost you.” My tears fell freely. My heart overflowed with thanksgiving, yet at the same time burned with shame, for that very sentence seemed to selfishly invalidate the lives lost. Most assuredly, God loved them and their families, too.
I could tell from his expression that he knew what I was feeling. His eyes were full of his own anger, the pain and demons of needless guilt. And where we could find no words, we reached for each other and held tight, searching for solace, wisdom and a way to understand all that was happening.
It was as we embraced, trying to soothe and fill the emptiness within, that the music began, first as a series of warm-up pizzicato plucks. Soon, the bow met the strings. We smiled at the rusty, scratchy, squeaky notes but then fell somber as the tune from our daughter’s violin grew to a recognizable melody. She played on, mellowing into the most lovely, beautiful, childlike rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner” that I have ever been blessed to hear.
Strains of freedom wafted from her bedroom at the end of the hallway, down the stairs to where we stood in the street lamp-lit foyer. We must have gasped in unison; our hearts jolted, our resolve suddenly growing keen as if we had both taken the first breath after our lungs were punched empty by hatred and bitterness. We pulled apart just enough to look into each other’s eyes, where we communicated at a level much deeper than words would have allowed.
“Have I practiced long enough, Mom?” our daughter called from her room.
“Please, just one more time,” I called back to her, my voice just a little stronger, a little more sure.
And as she again played the anthem, David and I, hand in hand, began to fill with new hope, resolve and determination. We reached for the banister and stepped onto the bottom step of the flight of stairs. We would climb to hug our children, to love them, to continue our journey as parents. We would teach them love and self-respect, and tolerance and acceptance for our fellow man . . . and tuck them in and kiss them good night.
On that fateful Tuesday of September 11, 2001, the very roots and foundation of Ame
rica and its citizens were shaken to the core. Yet, one by one, moment by moment, we each found our inspiration to redefine and reestablish the normalcy in our lives, to rise above the atrocities and to find a way to forge ahead in the aftermath. For my husband and me, it was the power of our national anthem, delivered by our daughter’s hands, that opened the way to healing.
Tracey L. Sherman
In the Arms of a Soldier
Here I am, where I ought to be.
Louise Erdich
The call came from Barton, my husband. He was asking me to come to Norfolk, Virginia, as soon as possible. “Please bring my little son with you,” he pleaded.
His ship had come into port for just a few days, a short stay. Big things were happening in Norfolk, the largest naval base in the United States, with many ships anchored in the area. Barton was sure the war would escalate soon.
I began to pack immediately, to prepare for the journey. Little Michael was just six months old. It would be his first trip. Baby food, diapers and clothing needed to be gathered and packed.
We traveled from my hometown of Ottawa, Ohio, to Cincinnati on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. There we transferred to the Norfolk and Western Line, which would take us directly into the large station in Norfolk.
In those days, the railroads were very busy shipping war equipment and transporting the military troops across country to the port cities. The country was at complete mobilization and was at full alert for the active duty of all troops.
Little Michael had six uncles in military service as well as his sailor father.
During the layover in Cincinnati, I was helped by the Travelers Aid Station. They gave me a room where I could feed the baby, heat his bottle and change his diaper. Even a rocking chair was available. We waited there until our train was called.