Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  We have seen them over the years, visited their homes, met their families. The men have swapped war stories while the women shared “left at home to do it all by ourselves” stories. Our children played together.

  When we first met again, I was surprised to learn that every one of the men had kept their cars in their pockets when they were in ’Nam. When times got tough, and everything would get still, the men would quietly take out those little cars. They would give each other a grin, as if to promise that there would be another race and that they would see another day.

  And they showed me how, high on a mantel, or proudly displayed in a shadow box, safely tucked away from harm, they still have their tiny Matchbox cars!

  Alice Smith

  “When I said we needed a more

  durable vehicle, I meant . . .”

  © 2004. Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins.

  Spouse of a Soldier

  He has not learned the lesson of life who does not every day surmount a fear.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  It was 1990. The winds of war were swirling fiercely. My husband was an F-16 pilot, and I knew he would be leaving soon. I had received many words of support and comfort from friends and family, for which I was very grateful. Still, terror gripped me.

  I knelt in church on Thanksgiving Day and felt the warm stream of tears flow. A small age-worn hand grasped mine. The tiny, frail woman next to me understood: she had sent her husband to World War II, her son to Vietnam and now her grandson, my husband, to Desert Shield. From this diminutive form, I drew great strength. For the sake of my husband, my children and my country, I could now hold back the tears.

  Not long after the New Year dawned, my husband and his comrades strapped into their jets and headed over the ocean. We wives banded together. We laughed together and cried together. We commiserated over all the household catastrophes that only happen when husbands are away. We didn’t speak too much about our fears; those were understood.

  Inside I quaked with every Scud launch. Every report of a downed plane wrenched my soul. Yet, before anyone else could see the strain on my face, one of the wives would see it. She understood. She would speak no words, but would grasp my hands. I would do the same for her.

  The day came when our husbands returned. I had heard that they were coming but was afraid to get my hopes up. Part of me was steeled for my husband to be missing. When I saw him step into the hangar, tired and worn, I felt like a new bride.

  After the band stopped playing, the parade was over, the hugs and kisses were given and he was home, I could only cry and tremble the way you do after a near-miss, head-on collision. I thanked God for my husband’s safe return. I thanked God for the loving support of family and friends. I thanked God for the strength of the wives. He understood.

  Ten years later, we are called spouses, not wives. The last decade has wrought many changes. Some things, however, remain constant. Whether husband or wife, we are still married to soldiers. When duty calls, the soldier will answer. In fact, he may seem eager to leave those he loves and fight the good fight. It is hard to be married to a hero.

  A soldier is called to fight, and the spouse of a soldier is called to understand. Understanding makes you a hero, too.

  Denise J. Hunnell

  Angels Shop at Wal-Mart

  No one has ever become poor by giving.

  Anne Frank

  It was November in San Diego, and with Christmas on the way, many people were out doing their normal holiday shopping. My two daughters and I were shopping for something very different. My husband, an officer in the U.S. Navy, was due to return home from a six-month deployment in the Middle East. This had been my first deployment as his wife, and it had been a tremendous experience. From a broken-down van, to crazy neighbors, to family drama and even a major illness . . . we had overcome it all!

  The ship would be pulling in soon, and I had so many wonderful things planned for his homecoming. I had redone the house, let my hair grow and prepared various other “major” surprises. I hadn’t seen my husband in almost six months, and I had to look my best. So off we went to Wal-Mart, where I told everyone within earshot that my husband was coming home from deployment and I had to look perfect. See, being a proud navy wife, you tend to get overly excited when it comes to homecomings.

  We looked through the clothes racks and found outfits for the girls. They looked like models! I was another story. I tried on piles of clothing, asking strangers and salespeople for their opinions. No matter how positive the verdicts, I still wasn’t sure.

  As my daughters delivered their usual “you never buy yourself anything” routine, I looked down at the tags and gasped. There was no way I could afford this, so I led my daughters out of the store, explaining our financial limitations as we left. I decided that I would find something in my own closet rather than paying sixty dollars for something new. After all, he wasn’t coming home to see my new clothes—he wanted to see me!

  As we wandered out, a woman walked up to me and handed me a piece of paper. I was dumbfounded and, I will admit, a bit nervous. She practically ran away from us. I looked down and opened the yellow paper. It was a note thanking my husband and me, and blessing us both. Included were three twenty-dollar bills. I was terribly confused, and although we searched for the lady all over the store, she was nowhere to be found.

  My oldest daughter turned to me and said, “Mom, you know what this means, don’t you?”

  I was puzzled.

  “Now you have to turn it around and bless someone else.” How many eleven-year-olds can think so passionately? I couldn’t have been more proud of her at that moment.

  The woman was nowhere to be found, but I couldn’t leave without trying, so I asked an employee if I could use the PA system to deliver a message. He asked his supervisor, and they agreed to let me. My message was this: “To the angel shopping in Wal-Mart, this navy wife would like to thank you and say God bless you.”

  Jilleen Kesler

  A Military Family

  Love bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

  1 Corinthians 13:7

  Today marks six months that my son’s daddy has been deployed to Southwest Asia. He’s fighting to free the people of Iraq. He telephoned last night to tell his five-year-old son, “Happy Easter.” He was sorry that he couldn’t send some special holiday goodies but knew we’d understand. After all, he’d missed Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. My father passed away, and my husband was able to come home for a few days to attend the funeral. He left again on Valentine’s Day. Easter was just another day for me without the man I love. But this was easier for me: I’ve spent most of my life in a uniform that matches his.

  We met during Desert Shield, and have been through several deployments and many “TDY” trips apart from each other. I am used to separation. It is part of being a soldier. We joined to serve our country and have given a combined fifty years of service to a land in which the passing flag still brings a tear to our eyes.

  Our little boy was brought into the world at Fort Bragg, the land of “Hooah,” airborne soldiers. His first memories are of Daddy jumping out of airplanes. At five, he has already lived in three different duty stations and spent countless hours in daycare facilities. He has become an intelligent youngster with a keen sense of current affairs, and he can point out most countries on the map of the world and tell you about the people who live there. He understands what soldiers do because most of the adults he knows either wear a uniform or are married to someone who does. It is because of him that I watch the news again! We have open discussions about what we hear, and he challenges my opinions. We learn about the world together.

  My husband told me last night that we would soon have to make the important decision of whether to stay in and try for general officer, or retire from the military for good. He implied that it would be a family decision, so I asked our son for his input. I tried to explain our options to this small version of his fa
ther. I was sure he would say how much he missed his daddy and how much he wants him to come home. After all, he tells me that every day.

  He said, “My daddy is a great leader. He’d look good with a star.”

  As I dropped him off at preschool, I thought to myself how grown up he was, this little soldier of ours. He is the bravest, most dedicated one of all. It is he who has made the greatest sacrifice so his daddy can protect others.

  Terry Hurley

  A Simple Act of Kindness

  Love and do as you please.

  St. Augustine

  Valentine’s Day, 2003. I went out to dinner with my mother and my two daughters, three-year-old Hannah and Baby Hope. Kevin, my husband, was working in Charleston, and my dad was out of town. We chose one of our favorite Chinese restaurants, an interesting sight for the other diners: four girls out for a Valentine’s dinner!

  We had a nice evening. My daughters and I had just arrived in Waterloo the night before, so my mom and I spent the meal catching up on my life. She asked me about Kevin’s deployment and how he liked his new squadron. I answered her questions and told her about a friend of ours who was going to be deployed for quite a length of time. Then we moved on to other topics.

  When it came time to pay the bill, our waitress came to the table and told us that it had already been taken care of. A man sitting near us had paid for our meal! We looked at him, confused. Our benefactor was embarrassed that the waitress told us who had paid for the meal, as he had intended for it to be anonymous. He looked at me and said, “I overheard you say that your husband was in the military.” I was touched by his statement as well as a bit flustered. It is not often that someone stops to say thank you for all the work my husband does to defend this nation, and for the sacrifices we make as a military family.

  Before we left, I went up to his table to thank him once more. It was so nice to feel special, especially on Valentine’s Day when our family members were miles away. He explained that he comes to that restaurant often, and occasionally looks for someone to treat to dinner. His simple speech brought tears to my eyes.

  “Thank you for all that you do,” he said, “and please thank your husband for defending our country.”

  Jennifer Minor

  An Extra Chair

  Faced with a crisis, the man of character falls back on himself.

  Charles de Gaulle

  Everyone in the military knows about missing family at holiday times. It’s just too far to travel, we explain to the folks back home. With no time for a pass or too little leave time left, we find ourselves celebrating surrounded by neighbors instead of cousins. In fact, I’ve been away from family during holidays in my married life more than I’ve been with them.

  The first time it happened, it left me feeling quite sad. But it wasn’t long before my sadness was replaced with . . . panic. “Wait a minute,” I cried. “If we’re not going home, then who is going to cook the turkey dinner?”

  “You can do it,” my dear husband replied. “You’ll do a great job. And, by the way, I invited that nice lieutenant with the wife and baby to join us.”

  At this point, I got on the phone and begged my mom and grandmother for as much advice as they could give. “Plan on a half-pound of meat per person,” they said. “Don’t forget the hard-boiled eggs in the gravy. Never, ever used canned sweet potatoes. And make sure you have a lovely centerpiece.”

  Twenty-four hours and three cookbooks later, I had Thanksgiving dinner on the table. There was a small disaster involving a mixing bowl dropped in the middle of an uncooked pumpkin pie. (Friendly advice: Remove pumpkin from the ceiling before it dries.) But Grandmother’s candied yams made the house smell just like home, and my first turkey wasn’t too bad. It seemed like I had just gotten the kitchen clean, though, when it was time to do it all over again for Christmas.

  The next several holidays found us far from home, and the crowd around our table continued to grow. We quickly discovered the only thing worse than being a married couple far from home is being a single soldier. So we invested in some more folding chairs and invited as many as we could.

  Once I figured out how long it actually takes to thaw a turkey and how to get the cranberry sauce out of the can, I began to enjoy preparing big meals for crowds. Soon, we began to invite the new members of the unit over for a welcome meal when they arrived. Though I forsook the turkey dinner for something easier, like chicken enchiladas, it became a sort of family tradition for us.

  Over the years, we have fed old friends, brand-new acquaintances, foreign visitors and surprise guests. I’ve learned the wisdom of having a big bag of frozen pasta always available, just in case a crowd gathers. And I have not ended a single one of those dinner parties with regret.

  Recently, we’ve been stationed much closer to home, and I haven’t cooked a turkey in a couple of years. I am delighted to step down and let the experts do the preparing, and thrilled to be sitting next to my cousins again. But I wonder about those left behind at the post. I hope someone there has thawed an extra-big turkey, and remembered to get more folding chairs.

  Susanna H. Bartee

  Christmas— Military-Family Style

  We are not what we know but what we are willing to learn.

  Mary Catherine Bateson

  I was a child of the Great Depression and all its deprivation. World War II soon followed, which brought rationing.

  Food was rationed, especially sweets and sugars, fats and oils. Red meat was nonexistent, although fish and fowl were occasionally available. Shoes were rationed (two pairs per year), as was gasoline. Many “luxury” items were scarce. Car manufacturing had ceased.

  In 1944, my husband was stationed at Peterson Field, Colorado, as a four-engine plane instructor. Each day, he walked through the commissary and PX, looking for Chux (the first disposable diapers), baby furniture or anything that we might use for our crawling ten-month-old. On one of these forays, just before Christmas, he bought a twenty-three-pound frozen turkey and a white enamel combinet (diaper pail) with a lid, to be used later when the baby outgrew the disposables.

  Just as my husband hunted for bargains, I economized with food, and everything else, by following the admonition of the ladies’ society at church: Use it up, wear it out; make it do, or do without. I knew that everyone was experiencing similar circumstances, but that didn’t calm my panic. My mother-in-law was coming for Christmas dinner, and to see her first and only grandchild. I had only seen my husband’s immediate family three times since our wedding. Now, twenty months and seven moves into our marriage, his mother, father and younger brother were coming for Christmas—and would be sampling my cooking!

  The only winterized summer cabin at Green Mountain Falls served as our living quarters. From our front picture window, we could see the twin-engine mail plane flying against the incredibly beautiful winter snow and icescape each morning and night. But I had to forget the beauty for the moment and focus on Christmas dinner!

  Our cabin had a coal furnace in the basement, a huge six-burner coal stove in the kitchen and a two-burner kerosene burner, which is what I used to heat water and for the small amount of cooking I did. There were several small saucepans and a teakettle—no large pots or kettles. No roasting pan. No dishes.

  My husband found several things at the post stores. He bought sturdy paper plates and cups. We had eight place settings of sterling flatware, plus a few serving spoons. There were a few pieces of my early American crystal still intact after all the moves that could possibly be used for service vehicles—a punch bowl, a smaller bowl, a few salad plates.

  The family arrived on Christmas Eve. We drove down to the Antlers Hotel and ate lunch there. We went sightseeing at the Garden of the Gods. We visited the new Broadmoor Hotel ice-skating arena, and treated our guests to an evening meal there.

  Back at the cabin, I went to sleep still nervous and wondering how on earth I would feed them the next day. I would learn quickly.

  The next morning, while I
was still bathing and dressing the baby, my mother-in-law spied the as-yet-unused combinet and latched on to it, hauling it off to the kitchen, where she ordered Dad to fire up the monstrous coal range. Mom scalded the pail and its lid at least six times. She disjointed the turkey and managed to fit it all in, along with salt, pepper, onion, basil, sage, poultry seasoning and goodness knows what else—anything she could find. Soon our cabin had the most delightful aroma of Christmas dinner. She made use of the cabin’s percolator by adding cinnamon and other spices to mull some apple cider. Grinning, Dad kept reminding us frequently to “Keep close check on that slop jar; that slop smells good and I would hate for it to scorch.” We sat down to what seemed like the most delicious of feasts.

  What a great lesson in improvising and making do I learned from my mother-in-law, not only on Christmas day but throughout that wonderful weeklong visit. Dad taught me the value of pleasantness and humor throughout a testy situation. That will always be my most memorable Christmas, when far from home, we turned war and rationing into a holiday of food, fun and family unity.

  Marjorie H. Lewis

  The 25 Days of Christmas

  She was an artist of the ordinary. . . . She painted with the colors of her heart.

  Kent Nerburn

  Christmas. A treasured family holiday, a time full of joy and love—and my husband Shawn was six thousand miles from home in Iraq. I felt no joy, and my heart ached for him. How could Christmas feel like Christmas this year? This would be the first Christmas we would spend apart in our six years of marriage. And something greater pulled at my heart. Our daughter Faith, six months old and born while Daddy was in Iraq, would have her first Christmas with Mommy . . . but no Daddy. My heart hurt, and my mood was gloomy.