In recent years the events of September 11, 2001 and the ensuing War on Terror touched only the outer parameter of my family’s life. That all changed last fall when my husband, a Cincinnati business owner and military reservist, received orders to spend 15 months in Iraq.
Since then 9/11 has meant the loss of 52 Saturdays with Dad’s famous crepes, our teenager learning to drive without Dad’s guidance, our youngest getting on the school bus for the first time with no reassuring father’s hug, and sadness soaking into each birthday and holiday.
Many times over the past year I have had to choose whether I would allow my circumstances to overcome me or I would overcome them.
We have lost a year as a family, but the sum total of our loss dims in comparison to those who forever lost their spouse, parent, child, or sibling at the hands of terrorist over the last six years.
Besides leaning on God, I have looked for people who’ve exemplified how to take what was intended for evil and redeem it for good. Take for example, Jay Winuk, who lost a brother in the Towers. Jay and a friend initiated MyGoodDeed.org, which encourages people to do at least one act of kindness on September 11th as a way of honoring those who lost their life that tragic day. Jay is not the only one. I ran across an article in USA Today that listed 132 charitable foundations established by those who lost loved ones on 9/11.
The redemption does not stop there. Military families who have suffered a loss in the days since September 11, 2001, continually choose to use their heartbreak to touch the lives of others. Keith and Carolyn Maupin established the Yellow Ribbon Center in Eastgate after their son, Matt, went missing in Iraq three years ago. The Maupins have dedicated their lives to raising the morale of servicemen and their families at a time when their own morale has got to be at its lowest point.
We, as a nation, must make the same choice. Either we can be swallowed up by despair or these events can motivate us to build a better, safer, more compassionate world.
I am not willing to let the acts of terrorist force me into a corner of self-pity and defeat. Are you? We must determine which course we choose to take. If single-minded in our efforts to overcome the enemy, we can be victorious both here and abroad.
Published in the Cincinnati Enquirer, September 11, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
Talking Pictures
I don’t spook easily. I believe God can and does perform supernatural wonders. But I also believe that UFO sightings, levitating objects, and bumps in the night have logical explanations. However, some things are just plain weird. Take for example the talking picture frames I purchased for our children.
Inside each frame I placed a photo of a child with their father. Hubby recorded a message on each of them. The night he left I placed the frames next to the children’s beds.
“Look, look,” I heard a child squeal when she discovered her frame. The others scattered to their own rooms in search of equal treasure.
“My very own picture frame,” said the 4-year old hugging it tight, “I love it.”
But these were no ordinary frames.
“Hello honey, this is Dad. I love you and miss you lots. I’m so very proud of you. Be good while I’m gone.” My daughter nearly dropped the frame as it spoke to her.
“They talk! They talk!” She ran to show the others how to listen to the personal message from their dad. For the next 15 minutes the children replayed their dad’s voice over and over again.
Time came for good night kisses and prayers. After tucking blankets snuggly around the youngest, I backed out of the room exchanging “Sweet Dreams” and “Love yous.” Then I flipped off the light.
“Hi Honey. This is Dad. I love you. I miss you. Be good for Mom.”
I switched the lights back on to see a child, mouth open and eyes wide, mirroring my surprised expression. We both examined the picture frame, finding the voice only activated as it was suppose to when we placed our hand over the sensor.
Tucking the child back into bed, I repeated the process. Again turning off the lights caused the frame to speak. The same thing happened in every room for every child.
I am sure electrostatic or some other rational, scientific cause can explain this phenomena. That does not change the fact that without planning or forethought on our part the last voice my children hear every night is their father’s.
Note of Caution:
A couple of things I should mention if you happen to purchase one of these frames.
1. One morning I heard Hubby’s voice coming from the four-year olds’ room. Walking passed his doorway I noticed the frame sitting on the floor next to him. Every once in awhile Baby Boy stopped playing and ran his finger across the top of the frame just to hear his dad’s voice. A few minutes later I heard, “Dad! Dad! Where did you go Dad?” Curious fingers erased the message with a push of a button, leaving Baby Boy in despair.
To avoid this catastrophe, after recording the message place the switch on the back in the lock position, then place duct tape over the switch. Also, save messages on audio files on your computer so that you can restore peace and happiness without delay.
2. If you leave town make sure to inform your house-sitter of the frames and their quirks, especially if said sitter is female. Nothing freaks a woman out more than locking up a strange house at night, turning off lights and out of pitch darkness hear a male voice say, “Hi Honey…”
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
The First 24
Leaving the airport I fell mechanically into mother-mode. Four hungry mouths insisted they were starving. My mother-in-law suggested we all go out for lunch. “That sounds good,” I said, anything to keep us from returning to a home without hubby.
Pulling into our driveway a few hours later I started making a mental list of all the household chores that had been ignored the last week as we prepared for hubby’s departure. Even before the garage door closed I had assigned each child a task. Take out the garbage. Clean the litter box. Straighten the family room. As for me, piles of laundry called my name.
“We can do this,” I convinced myself, “I can do this.” Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and entered an empty house.
Who was I kidding?
Leaning over to grab tennis shoes tossed on our bedroom floor I chuckled. “Well, at least I won’t be picking up after him for the next year.”
The next year.
I sat down beside the shoes and sobbed.
The same scenario played out over and over again every time I did something for the “last” time. Hung up a bathrobe. Folded his jeans. Cleared the pieces of paper from his dresser.
The instant I pulled out the last t-shirt from the dryer I regretted it. All his clothes were washed and now nothing smelled like him. I dashed up to our closet hoping to find an item I missed and damned myself for being so thorough.
I stayed up way too late that night, dreading crawling into bed. Sleep overcame my will about 1 a.m. Laying my head on my pillow, I snuggled up to a new box of Kleenex praying that tomorrow would be a little more tolerable.
It was. Just a little. Very little.
Tears often caught me off guard the next couple of months. I couldn’t trust myself to speak about much of anything fearing I would start to blubber.
Then about the three month point things start to even out. The “recovery and stabilization” phase of the emotional cycle of deployment kicked in and I started functioning better in my new normal.
That doesn’t mean I don’t cry anymore. The tears have become as predictable and measured as Sunday afternoons. They no longer flood my ability to do anything else.
But my throat tightens up and eyes start to water whenever I recall those first 24 hours without him.
Pulling into our driveway a few hours later I started making a mental list of all the household chores that had been ignored the last week as we prepared for hubby’s departure. Even before the garage door closed I had assigned each child a task. Take out the garbage. Clean the litter box. Straighten the family room. As for me, piles of laundry called my name.
“We can do this,” I convinced myself, “I can do this.” Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and entered an empty house.
Who was I kidding?
Leaning over to grab tennis shoes tossed on our bedroom floor I chuckled. “Well, at least I won’t be picking up after him for the next year.”
The next year.
I sat down beside the shoes and sobbed.
The same scenario played out over and over again every time I did something for the “last” time. Hung up a bathrobe. Folded his jeans. Cleared the pieces of paper from his dresser.
The instant I pulled out the last t-shirt from the dryer I regretted it. All his clothes were washed and now nothing smelled like him. I dashed up to our closet hoping to find an item I missed and damned myself for being so thorough.
I stayed up way too late that night, dreading crawling into bed. Sleep overcame my will about 1 a.m. Laying my head on my pillow, I snuggled up to a new box of Kleenex praying that tomorrow would be a little more tolerable.
It was. Just a little. Very little.
Tears often caught me off guard the next couple of months. I couldn’t trust myself to speak about much of anything fearing I would start to blubber.
Then about the three month point things start to even out. The “recovery and stabilization” phase of the emotional cycle of deployment kicked in and I started functioning better in my new normal.
That doesn’t mean I don’t cry anymore. The tears have become as predictable and measured as Sunday afternoons. They no longer flood my ability to do anything else.
But my throat tightens up and eyes start to water whenever I recall those first 24 hours without him.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
An Odd Sight
Traipsing through the airport the nine of us didn’t attract that much attention until only one of us got on the airplane.
The remaining eight, with noses touching the picture windows and tissues in hand, searched for the man leaving us for more than a year. Finding his face pressed against the tiny oval pane about mid-way down the aircraft, we waved frantically and blew a million kisses. People noticed and stopped to stare.
When was the last time they had seen a family bidding a loved one farewell at the departing gate of an airplane?
“How come they get to come all the way down here?” the curious murmured. “How did they get past security?” “What makes them so special?”
As of February 2005, the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) implemented a policy that allows military families to receive a special pass to accompany service members all the way to the departure gate. They can also get a pass to meet them at the gate when they arrive back home.
We received the privilege of going to an airport gate to say good-bye, because my husband was heading overseas to join the War on Terror. A war that started the day we all lost this very freedom, September 11, 2001.
Let us never forget.
The remaining eight, with noses touching the picture windows and tissues in hand, searched for the man leaving us for more than a year. Finding his face pressed against the tiny oval pane about mid-way down the aircraft, we waved frantically and blew a million kisses. People noticed and stopped to stare.
When was the last time they had seen a family bidding a loved one farewell at the departing gate of an airplane?
“How come they get to come all the way down here?” the curious murmured. “How did they get past security?” “What makes them so special?”
As of February 2005, the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) implemented a policy that allows military families to receive a special pass to accompany service members all the way to the departure gate. They can also get a pass to meet them at the gate when they arrive back home.
We received the privilege of going to an airport gate to say good-bye, because my husband was heading overseas to join the War on Terror. A war that started the day we all lost this very freedom, September 11, 2001.
Let us never forget.
Saturday, January 6, 2007
The Elephant in the Room
“What is your biggest fear?” I asked Hubby.
Lounging in front of a fireplace at a bed and breakfast (without children), we were finally able to talk about the more serious issues regarding his deployment.
He studied the flames for a couple of minutes, and then turned back to me. “My biggest fear is not coming back.”
There. It was said. Something we were both thinking, but never saying.
Now the fact is that more people have died in car accidents in our state alone over the last three years than the total number of US military fatalities in Iraq. Statistically it is more dangerous for Hubby to drive to work everyday then to serve his country in the Sandbox.
Still, there is something about being issued personal body armor that makes death seem far more possible.
We talked about the “what ifs.” Not a fun conversation, but a necessary one, and in a strange way comforting. Comforting to know Hubby’s desires for our family’s future, for my future, should anything happen.
The other comfort lies in the fact that he said, “not coming back” not “I will not see you again.”
For there is another truth we both hold dear:
I know that my Redeemer lives,
and that in the end he will stand upon the earth.
And after my skin has been destroyed,
yet in my flesh I will see God;
I myself will see him with my own eyes—I, and not another.
Job 19:25-27
Lounging in front of a fireplace at a bed and breakfast (without children), we were finally able to talk about the more serious issues regarding his deployment.
He studied the flames for a couple of minutes, and then turned back to me. “My biggest fear is not coming back.”
There. It was said. Something we were both thinking, but never saying.
Now the fact is that more people have died in car accidents in our state alone over the last three years than the total number of US military fatalities in Iraq. Statistically it is more dangerous for Hubby to drive to work everyday then to serve his country in the Sandbox.
Still, there is something about being issued personal body armor that makes death seem far more possible.
We talked about the “what ifs.” Not a fun conversation, but a necessary one, and in a strange way comforting. Comforting to know Hubby’s desires for our family’s future, for my future, should anything happen.
The other comfort lies in the fact that he said, “not coming back” not “I will not see you again.”
For there is another truth we both hold dear:
I know that my Redeemer lives,
and that in the end he will stand upon the earth.
And after my skin has been destroyed,
yet in my flesh I will see God;
I myself will see him with my own eyes—I, and not another.
Job 19:25-27
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
MATH
“What you need is M.A.T.H.,” Chip said.
Hubby and I looked at each other and then across our kitchen table at Chip and his wife, Barb.
“What?”
“M.A.T.H.,” Chip repeated, “Man Around the House”
We were a little slow that day, still in shock regarding Hubby’s impending deployment.
Chip sighed, scooted back in his chair, and explained, “You are going to need some guys to do the things that Hubby normally does around the house, change filters, odd repairs, yard work, and the like.”
Now Chip, of all people, would know what we needed. Besides serving in the Navy himself, Barb, a Navy reservist, deployed during the Gulf War leaving Chip to single parent two toddlers.
“And I am your MATH,” Chip announced, “Well, not just me. I will round up a group of guys to help out. I am good at delegating.”
Chip spent that morning with Hubby, going around the house and property talking about our furnace, gravel driveways, and tractors.
When they came back in talking about hydraulic fluid, I knew that God specially prepared Chip to bless us. Of all our friends, I can’t think of anyone who has the combined experiences of rural living, real estate, parenting, Navy life, and being a spouse of a military soldier during war time, all wrapped up in Christ’s affection.
A couple weeks after Hubby left Chip headed up a group of people who did some landscaping, fixed potholes in our driveway, put up our Christmas tree, and other home maintenance.
You know, for the first time in my life I like MATH.
Hubby and I looked at each other and then across our kitchen table at Chip and his wife, Barb.
“What?”
“M.A.T.H.,” Chip repeated, “Man Around the House”
We were a little slow that day, still in shock regarding Hubby’s impending deployment.
Chip sighed, scooted back in his chair, and explained, “You are going to need some guys to do the things that Hubby normally does around the house, change filters, odd repairs, yard work, and the like.”
Now Chip, of all people, would know what we needed. Besides serving in the Navy himself, Barb, a Navy reservist, deployed during the Gulf War leaving Chip to single parent two toddlers.
“And I am your MATH,” Chip announced, “Well, not just me. I will round up a group of guys to help out. I am good at delegating.”
Chip spent that morning with Hubby, going around the house and property talking about our furnace, gravel driveways, and tractors.
When they came back in talking about hydraulic fluid, I knew that God specially prepared Chip to bless us. Of all our friends, I can’t think of anyone who has the combined experiences of rural living, real estate, parenting, Navy life, and being a spouse of a military soldier during war time, all wrapped up in Christ’s affection.
A couple weeks after Hubby left Chip headed up a group of people who did some landscaping, fixed potholes in our driveway, put up our Christmas tree, and other home maintenance.
You know, for the first time in my life I like MATH.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Not Sorry
“Oh, I’m so sor…”
Krista, a high school English teacher, paused for a moment then restarted her sentence.
“Wow, this is big. I mean huge,” she said, speaking of the news of my husband’s deployment.
“Thanks,” I said.
“For what?”
“For not saying you’re sorry.”
“Well, I am not sorry. Are you?” she asked.
Sorry is for tragic events, like death, disease, or adultery.
I am not sorry I married a man who is willing to risk his livelihood, leave his family and put his life on the line for his country.
I am not sorry that we live in a country where the government not only concerns itself with the safety and well-being of its citizens, but desires the freedom and safety of those oppressed and terrorized.
It’s hard. I am sad. I struggle.
But I am not sorry.
Krista, a high school English teacher, paused for a moment then restarted her sentence.
“Wow, this is big. I mean huge,” she said, speaking of the news of my husband’s deployment.
“Thanks,” I said.
“For what?”
“For not saying you’re sorry.”
“Well, I am not sorry. Are you?” she asked.
Sorry is for tragic events, like death, disease, or adultery.
I am not sorry I married a man who is willing to risk his livelihood, leave his family and put his life on the line for his country.
I am not sorry that we live in a country where the government not only concerns itself with the safety and well-being of its citizens, but desires the freedom and safety of those oppressed and terrorized.
It’s hard. I am sad. I struggle.
But I am not sorry.
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