In December 2007, my husband of just eighteen months was more than 6,000 miles away. I had a cozy life near the beach; he had a less-than-cushy life in Baghdad, Iraq. America was just a few years into Operation Iraqi Freedom, and my soldier was on what would become a fourteen-month deployment to a war torn area. I was twenty-three years old and 900 miles from home, away for the first time—a military wife who hadn't yet settled in to the deployment life.
Church was one of my favorite places. I sang the worship songs at the beginning of the service with all my heart, hoping God would hear my number one request: Please bring him home. Please bring him home alive and well. At the time, mortars, rocket propelled grenades (RPGs), and improvised explosive devices (IEDs) were everywhere, and my husband lived in the middle of the muck.
Our church prayed specifically for members of the military one weekend a month. That year, the weekend landed right before Christmas, and many families would be missing their service members. I was missing mine terribly. Christmas parties without him, decorating without him, going home without him… nothing felt right. During the pastor's prayer, I started crying—sobbing, really. I was so lonely and sad.
The woman behind me must have seen or sensed my tears during the all-heads-bowed part because she laid a hand on me. Afterward, she tapped me on the shoulder and asked if my husband was overseas. I nodded, and she hugged me tight, like a mama bear with her cub. She told me that my husband and I were both strong, and we would be prayed for. It meant the world to me, and even though I was still sad for Greg to be gone, I was encouraged by the stranger's hug.
Two weeks later, I was sitting in the airport. Christmas had come and gone, and I was heading back from vacation. I noticed a soldier with his parents enter the terminal. The mom was doting on her son all the way down the vestibule, wiping lint off his backpack, checking to see if she had more snacks she could give him, and clutching tissue in both her hands. Once they got to his gate, her tears flowed like mine had in church just a couple weeks prior. She barely let him go as her husband stood next to her, holding her hand. Her brand new soldier walked away, heading into a life of sacrifice and courage.
My heart went out to this mother. I know that when she gave birth to this child, there was no way she could have known what this world would face, and that her son would be one of the few to sign up to defend our freedoms. Her heart was aching for the memories she wouldn't make with him now that he was leaving home, just as my heart ached for the moments I was missing with my soldier.
I made a choice, one that would be best understood in the military community. I went up to this perfect stranger, who stood weeping as her soldier son walked away, and gave her a hug, passing on the strength, encouragement, and faith the stranger in church had offered me. I assured her that he'd be well taken care of, that if he was strong and brave enough to sign up, he was strong and brave enough to serve. I listened as she cried, and I offered a simple companionship of understanding.
I hope that mom paid it forward, as I did, when she saw a military mom or wife hurting. We are so proud to stand beside and behind our soldiers. No matter the torrent of tears when they walk away, we live this life proud to be linked with the men and women who defend the very ground we stand on. We love our service members and we stand together to make sure we care for each other as well as they care for us.
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