I only had two dreams growing up. One was to attend the Naval Academy and to throw my hat in the air with the other 895 midshipmen of the class of 1995. The other was to be married under the classic dome of the United States Naval Academy Chapel with ten men waiting outside in their starched whites, swords drawn, waiting to welcome me into married life, navy style.
So I gave her my word that I would have an “extravagant” wedding, even in her absence, because, honestly, I never thought it would come to that. I remember her hugging me after I promised and whispering in my ear, “I will have the best seat in the house on May 6.” I hugged her tighter and said a little prayer right then and there. I had a great relationship with God; I didn’t see any reason that he wouldn’t help me with this one.
About six months later, my mother lost her fight with breast cancer. I had trouble accepting the fact that she was gone, and I kept imagining and dreaming that she would show up on my wedding day. My mom wasn’t just a mom; she was my friend, my confidante and my rock. No matter what was going on in my life, with her by my side, I could accomplish anything. I just couldn’t imagine life without her.
My wedding day drew nearer. The chapel, the reception and the rehearsal dinner were all set according to the plan. My fiancé and I were going to make this the perfect weekend getaway not only for us, but also for our family and friends.
I left the navy and was spending a few weeks with Paul in Hawaii before I found a job. We were at a ship function when his captain made the announcement that Paul had been dreading to share with me. The situation in the Gulf was heating up, and his ship’s deployment was moved from July to April. When the captain uttered those words, my body froze and my breath shortened. My first thought was May 6, the date my mom would be at the chapel to watch her baby walk down the aisle. I know the average and sane person would assume my mom would get the word and would be there whatever date we got married. But May 6 was the date she planned to be at the chapel.
Paul’s captain looked over at me, and I’ll remember that moment forever. He grabbed my hand and promised he’d try to do everything in his power to have Paul there.
We went ahead with the wedding planning, and Paul and I decided that we’d go ahead with the celebration, with or without his presence. He deployed to the Gulf as newly scheduled, on April 6. Every spare minute I had I was locked onto the headlines as I prayed for peace and for no events to stand in the way of his flight to Washington.
My dad, my sister, Katie, and I all met in Annapolis to do the last-minute planning. My mother’s absence was glaring. On our arrival, we went to visit the chapel, which was open and empty. We walked through the large doors and stood at the back, staring up at the breathtaking colors of the stained glass that fills the space with spirituality.
All of a sudden, “Taps” began playing. There was no one around, no one playing on the organ, no one checking out the acoustics of the dome, just “Taps” playing loudly, echoing through the chapel. We walked around and then stood once again at the back. The three of us looked at each other, comforted and moved by the music. As we left, the music stopped, but the solace it gave me that day has remained with me.
God came through on my wedding day. God knew I needed something to let me know my mother was still there for me, and he gave it to me that special day in the chapel where “Taps” provided me the most comfort of all. It was then that I understood that she was with me not only on that day, but always.
God gave me a mother who built my wedding dream with me, who touched my life and continues to touch my life in amazing ways. He gave Paul and me a courageous and understanding commanding officer who truly understood that, if at all possible, navy families come first. Paul’s captain is my hero.
Paul made the wedding.
Krystee Kott
Angel in the Air
I feel we are all islands in a common sea.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh
In February 2003 my husband was given leave to fly to Georgia and help me move cross-country to our new duty station in Texas. This was during the time of the War on Terror, when the threat of war with Iraq was beginning to look like a reality. Protestors were coming together all over the world. People were expressing their views in newspapers, proclaiming that they had no pity for the troops. My brother-in-law was already serving in Afghanistan, and we were uncertain whether or not my husband would be deployed to the Middle East. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like the sacrifices we were making for our country were worth it.
He had been sent to Texas with little warning and sent back to Georgia with not much more. He didn’t have any civilian clothes with him, so, when he boarded the plane, he was dressed in the daily “BDUs,” camouflage clothes. As he got off the plane, one of the flight attendants handed him a small piece of paper. It read:
When you stepped onto my airplane you brought tears to my eyes. My little brother is currently a U.S. Army soldier serving in Kuwait, and, just by chance, our last name is Johnson also. I appreciate your presence and wish you nothing but the best. You are a hero to me, and I thank you for all that you are.
God bless! From the bottom of my heart, know you are loved.
Your thankful flight attendant,
Shannon Johnson
I read this note over several times, each time fighting back tears a little more. I’ve never known how to express exactly what that letter did for me. But, after reading it, I knew that my husband was appreciated, that our struggle wasn’t going unnoticed. I knew that I shared that struggle with so many other military spouses and family members, and I no longer had to carry that burden alone.
Ramiah Johnson
It Took a War
We do not see things as they are, we see them as we are.
The Talmud
I was a helicopter pilot in the U.S. Army when I married my husband, an army armor officer. I did not want to be labeled “family dependent,” as they called us back then. I was a pilot, a strong woman, not just somebody’s dependent. For years, I refused to call myself an “army wife.”
Over the next decade, as my husband progressed through the ranks, I begrudgingly wore the required proverbial hats of “XO’s wife” and the “commander’s wife,” hating the titles for what I thought they implied: I was the subordinate sidekick to my husband’s career. I proudly maintained my identity based on my post-army career as a writer.
“Do you think you’re a good army wife?” a young wife asked me one day. I was shocked at her question. Did she think I thought I was? Did she think I wasn’t?
“Why do you ask?” I queried in reply.
“Because I think you are, and I want to be as good an army wife as you are.” I was shocked.
“I never . . . ,” I said haltingly. “I never really considered myself an army wife.”
A few years later, in 2003—now at a new duty station and yet another job position—my husband left for Kuwait and Operation Iraqi Freedom. Over the next few months, I cried, laughed, prayed, worked, played and spent hours on the phone with other “army wives” from my husband’s unit. We tied yellow ribbons, we shared information of our husbands’ whereabouts, and we consoled one another. We handled finances, crashing computers, stalling cars, worried children, midnight crying fests and overgrown lawns. We were the strongest we had ever been—we had no other choice. For the first time in my marriage, I knew what it truly meant to be an “army wife.” And I was proud to be one.
It took a war to make me realize how important the “army wife” is to the military—how important everything is that we, as military spouses, do to support our husbands, the army and our country. I saw that I could have other interests, other careers, and still be a great “army wife.” Everywhere I went, I wanted others to know my husband was off to war, fighting for our freedom as well as those of an oppressed country. Waiting to pick up friends at the airport, in line at the store, or wherever I was, civilians’ chatter always turned to the war in Iraq.
“I’m an army wife,�
� I’d say to them. “Let me tell you what it’s like. . . .”
Jan Hornung
10
LIVING
YOUR DREAM
What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Change of Perspective
You cannot make yourself feel something you do not feel, but you can make yourself do right in spite of your feelings.
Pearl S. Buck
I’d been preparing myself for this moment for weeks, and I still wasn’t ready for the feelings of anxiety and fear that overcame me on the day he left.
In the winter of 1997, my family was stationed at Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico. My husband, a helicopter pilot, was part of the 48th Search and Rescue squadron, and he was getting ready for his first deployment to the Middle East. All through the day, a dark cloud hung over me. I was starting to question his commitment to his country, and I was wondering if it was really worth the pain of this separation.
That evening, as my daughter Sabrina was setting the dinner table, she took four plates out of the cabinet: one for her, one for her brother Nick, one for me and one for her father. As she realized her error, and that her father would not be home for dinner that evening, we both gave in to tears.
In an effort to lighten the mood, I took my children to an evening performance of an air force group called Tops in Blue. Their performance promised an evening of patriotic songs and dance routines, and hundreds of us packed into the local community center in our red, white and blue sweaters.
All around me, I saw other military spouses and their children, as well as many members of our civilian community, smiling in anticipation of the evening’s show. Everyone appeared to be in good spirits, and I wondered what was wrong with me and why I was questioning my allegiance to the USA. I just wasn’t feeling patriotic.
It was at this low moment that the colors of the flag were presented, and we rose to sing the national anthem. As I stood there with my hand listlessly over my heart, I noticed an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair about fifteen feet from me.
The first strains of the anthem began, and the gentleman waved toward two of the ushers flanking the stadium sides. The uniformed airmen hurried to his side, and I wondered if he was feeling unwell. They leaned down so the gentleman could whisper his request into their ears, and then gently lifted him out of his wheelchair, supporting his body so he could stand and salute the flag. Our flag.
I looked at my children, and I saw the awe and reverence with which they watched this wonderful man. In that moment, I felt a flash of understanding and a deep sense of shame that I had doubted my husband’s choice to serve in the air force and my commitment as a military spouse. Tears began to stream down my face.
During future deployments, this gentleman became a reminder to me of what it is all about. His example gave me the dose of courage that I needed.
Sonja R. Ragaller
Identity: A Time of Transition
Life is change. Growth is optional. Choose wisely.
Karen Kaiser Clark
Sweat dripped from my forehead as I pulled the last items from the bottom of the dishpack in our new quarters. The coffee mugs strewn on the kitchen counter represented our travel, activities, interests and all nine assignments for the past twenty-three years. I smiled when I unwrapped the plastic Winnie the Pooh dish our three boys had used as toddlers.
No more plastic dishes now that all three boys attended college in northern California. My husband, Denny, and I had moved to our final assignment at Edwards Air Force Base in the southern part of that very long state. We worked at our own pace, with no need to cook huge meals or investigate the schools. We missed the laughter, the extra hands and the muscles, yet we intended to enjoy the novelty of an empty nest.
Coming from a house off base, the two of us could live in this smaller space. No problem—until we tried to fit in furniture for five. We still had their three dressers, three beds, a weight bench, out-of-season clothes, skis and tons of memorabilia. The pianist was at college playing water polo, living in a dorm room. Where could we put that piano? Frustrated, we shoved it against an inside wall in the dining room.
Slowly, I realized that this tiny house, overflowing with boxes and stuff, was vast, vacant and too quiet. Just the two of us.
We moved on to other tasks. “Twink, do you still want your toys kept in the hall closet?” Denny’s voice came from inside a large box.
My toys! Years ago, our sons collected the surviving preschool toys—wooden blocks, a few Fisher-Price faithfuls, books and small trucks—and dubbed them “Mom’s toys.” For the last fourteen years, these relics lived in hall closets, available when little ones happened into our home. “Yes, please. In the hall closet, down on the floor, just like always. Soon, neighbors will drop by, and their kids can play with my toys.”
But no young mothers came. For a year, the remnant of my identity lay in the hall closet with those toys. I met young mothers at church and base functions. They chatted about schools and teachers, disposable diapers and teething, about the soccer game and Boy Scouts. I listened; I understood. After all, I’d been there. But they didn’t know I knew. My gray hair seemed to say I didn’t care about children.
As the young moms talked, my heart remembered. Our boys had so many teachers at twelve different schools. Boy Scouts? I served as a den mother in two countries and raised two Eagle Scouts. Trips to the emergency room? Plenty. Sports? T-ball, baseball, basketball, football, swimming, tennis, water polo, track, cross-country, soccer. Late dinners and carpooling. Piano lessons and driving lessons. I’d witnessed the heartache of their friends moving away, or, worse yet, uprooting our boys away from friends. First dates, late dates and sweetheart separations. I know! Ask me! my heart cried.
At previous assignments, where people knew our boys, mothers asked me how to handle thorny situations. But these new friends didn’t know about our three sons; we were simply the old couple who moved in down the street.
The year dragged. One irksome problem harassed me: Who am I? I’d lost my identity and couldn’t pull it out of the past. While I hadn’t changed, my circumstances had. People didn’t understand or care who I had been.
We escaped our lonely situation by traveling up and down the state to watch our youngest son play water polo. After the games, we spent time with him, and, often, his devoted girlfriend joined us. One afternoon, I looked at this tall young man, full of excitement for the future, and realized his life was moving ahead much faster than ours. Yes, we would always be his parents, people whom he could count on for love and help. But he no longer needed me to watch over him.
Then, I understood. My role as mother had undergone a complete makeover. My past will always be a part of me and help me understand others. But I must concentrate on who I am, the woman people know today. I had to get to know this new me.
For twenty-some years, caring for family had taken precedence over other roles. But I had found time to work at the thrift shop and family services. I participated in Protestant Women of the Chapel and taught Sunday school. I could assimilate those experiences with new interests and long-forgotten hopes and dreams. Just as motherhood evolved as the boys grew, the new me would develop into a more complete woman.
It took time, perhaps six months, to discover living in the present far surpasses living in the past. Occasionally, when I pulled a jacket out of the hall closet, I’d see my old toys. I’d straighten my shoulders and smile. My identity no longer resided in those tattered toys.
Identity, I learned, is not who I was, but who I am.
Twink DeWitt
If I Return
The silence that accepts merit as the most natural thing in the world is the highest applause.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
If I return from battle, I do not know if I will stand alone or be helped by a comrade.
I do not know if my limbs will be there or if my eyes wil
l see.
But I will know deep within my soul that I have served my country and that I have set man free.
I would like to see the yellow ribbons, worn in your hair, on your lapels or on the “old oak tree.”
I would like to know that they are worn with pride and that you truly prayed for me.
To know that you supported me in everything that I did when I obeyed the high command.
I was doing what man has done to free the world of tyranny.
When I left I was in my youth, too young to vote or buy a beer.
When I returned, aged, worn and tired, seeing too much, being alone and truly knowing fear.
Yes, I was in harm’s way, I did not have the opportunity to ask why.
Was it because what I did would make man free or was it because freedom would pass me by?
Free to know that in my heart I have pride in my fellow man and myself.
Proud to know that I have served my country and my country is still a free land.
If you see me on the street, will you call me a baby killer?
Will you spit on my uniform when you see the battle ribbons on my chest?
If you cannot take my hand and say “well done,” pass me when we meet.
For I have served you and my country, and I have served my very best.
Sharon C. Stephens Trippe
Lollipops
My religion is loving-kindness.
The Dalai Lama
It was 1971, and I was a senior in college. About two months after I started dating George, the man I was going to marry, he came over to my parents’ home and asked if I minded if he joined the National Guard. The Vietnam War had been going on for several years. I didn’t approve of the war but I only took part in one antiwar protest, a silent walk to a local park to hear a few speakers, and I never really gave much thought of him being activated if he did join.
Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul Page 19
