Dear Son

This story was first published November 11, 2009:

Dear Son,

You are my hero and I love you. Never did I expect to be a military mother. You are the child most like me, yet my views of the world at 23 and yours are so different. Because of my love and respect for you, my first-born, I sat aside my wavering personal beliefs of war, politics, and global concerns when I was thrust into this new world of patriotism, defense, and Blue Star Mothers that will now forever be a part of our family.

When Southern Illinois lost Aaron and Brian to this war in Iraq, I watched young men in this town put down their baseball bats and gloves, lift their heads, and sign up to fight with them, for them, and because of them. Hearts were changed. Little boys began to grow up. I am in awe of the selflessness and courage of every one of you.

The easy part of your deployment to Iraq is the fact you made your own decisions, and I celebrate that. It takes me back to my own stand for independence and the excitement of living life on my own terms. I love every new, positive, thing you get to experience. I’ve always been weird that way. Unlike so many mothers who want their children to stay little, I couldn’t wait for you to get older and finally walk through that door to adulthood.

I said “new, positive” things. Of course, I don’t want you to hurt; I don’t want you to see injustice, violence, inhumanity. And you are. That is the difficult part. I scan your face over the webcam and know your mood; I look at your typed words and read between the lines; I listen carefully to your voice and assess the differences between what you say and how you say it. These things are second nature to a mother. “We are still traveling, but I am safe.“ “The trip was uneventful for the most part.“ “Today has been tough.“ “Have you seen the news?“ Such phrases have meant “A Blackhawk Helicopter crashed, killing two soldiers, right outside my barracks”; “I am in Baghdad after the double suicide bombings, securing the perimeter of the War Zone”; “The tank in front of the one I was gunner in, hit an IED”. What daily sights, sounds, and smells are you bombarded with? What is it like to have mortar attacks awaken you from sleep? You can’t tell us much. I imagine the worst and pray for the best. I know you are seeing things everyday, that will change you forever. I try to be prepared for the reality of any stories you might someday share.

Not only am I proud of the huge, obvious sacrifice you are making, but I am so proud of those small, lesser things that are “so you”, like asking us to send extra supplies for the Iraqi interpreter who, so much closer to her home than you are, can’t go home for fear of being killed or causing her family to be killed. I am sure having so many foreign exchange brothers over the years has made it easier for you to interact with others of different cultures, but it is heart-breaking to know it is conversely a negative thing, by creating a sense of trust of others that is not always appropriate in your situation. Your ability to never meet a stranger will no doubt come in handy in your civilian career. Keep that.

Your zest for making life a little more exciting and comfortable wherever you are, continues to crack me up. You should have plenty of gear from schools like SIU, NIU, and UK after the letter-writing campaigns you have embarked upon. Will the sweatshirts and Under Armour with university logos really come in handy in the sweltering desert heat?! Just how much equipment from Callaway and TaylorMade have you gotten donated for that “office driving range,” and how do you know when you have enough? Do we keep shipping boxes of golf tees, packed within your boxes of goodies from home? Your unique resourcefulness continues to amaze me, and this will be another invaluable skill when you are living and working as a civilian. While it and your humor drove your teachers wild on a daily basis in school, I watch and wait for the time it will be invaluable in your working and family life.

So, this Veteran’s Day Week, I have thought about you more frequently, if that is possible. I rejoice at the young man you have become. I cry for the unbearable things you have to endure. I pray for your physical and psychological safety. I replay that day in November when I held my first-born in my arms and knew you were destined for important things. Thank you for stepping up. Thank you for your courage and bravery. I hold my breath until the day you bring the piece of my heart you carry with you, home. Most of all, as your mother, I love you more deeply than you may ever be able to comprehend–at least until you, yourself, become a parent. May God continue to watch over you and bless you as greatly as He always has.

Hugs and kisses,

Momma