Veteran's Day Volition

My baby brother went to war today.

He was anxious to go. He had been preparing and training for a long time to serve his country. I could hear the excitement in his voice as I spoke to him for the last time on friendly soil, waiting in the airport in Baltimore. He felt honor in his mission and pride in fulfilling his duty. He's a grown man, a new father, a pilot in the Air Force but somehow to me he will always be that tiny, chubby boy I held in my arms as an eight year old girl. When I first met my new brother I remember looking into his big brown eyes and wanting to protect him from the world. Those feelings haven't changed even though almost thirty years have come and gone since that day.

I grew up with strong feelings of patriotism. I remember as a thirteen year old girl walking the wall of the Vietnam Memorial in DC choking back tears. I saw so many, many names and felt I owed them an unfathomable debt. They gave their lives so I could be free. I had ancestors who had served in previous wars, but I grew up with a cloudy vision of soldiers. They were mostly symbolic to me, a vision of a mission of freedom. I felt gratitude for their sacrifices, but I could not fully grasp what the sacrifice of a soldier meant.

Until I married one.

I spent seven years married to an active duty soldier before we joined civilian life. We lived in cities where uniforms were commonplace and deployments routine. Our hearts ached with our friends and neighbors when their loved ones were sent off. Our children ate lunch and rode bikes with their children. We saw the strain and worry of wives, husbands and families. We watched them brave family life without the constant support of spouse, colored by the constant worry of their safety. We saw them shelter each other, support each others' children, and cling to camaraderie through difficult circumstances.

We saw their faces. Suddenly the symbolic soldier became real. He was my neighbor overseas while his wife received a diagnosis of breast cancer. He was my friend who witnessed the birth of his baby on a phone call. He was my friend's husband, coming home weary and thin and shaken from months in the field. He was a brother from church, worrying simultaneously about his wife's pregnancy complications and his unit's safety in the next engagement. He was the father of my daughter's friend, missing from their orchestra recital. He was a five year old's Dad on a plane to Haiti with 24 hours notice, absent from preschool pickup. He had a family. A home. A dog. A truck. A daughter. A son. A wife.

Soldiers. Brave. Honorable. Heroic. Serving our country willingly. What country? We the people. You. Me. Your child. Your sister. Your mother. Your friend. They leave and fight and serve, some of them even giving their lives so you and I could go to the grocery store today. So we could drive to work and hug our kids and go to sleep in peace. Without fear of war.

So as the day folds down here, I see my brother's face. His dark hair and brown eyes tucked under his crisp dark blue hat as he climbs on a plane in the desert. As he scans the sky and catches a glimpse of light shining over the horizon I hope he sees me. I hope he sees you. Not just a grateful nation, but a grateful person.

A soldier sacrifices self for the safety of all.

Thank you, Mike. Thank you, Max. Thank you, Scott. Thank you, Doug. Thank you, Mark. Thank you, Erik. Thank you, Malone. Thank you, Glen. Thank you, Frank. Thank you, Farrell. Thank you, Herb. Thank you, Irene.

Thank you, soldier.

I see you.