It’s Memorial Day– a holiday that for me primarily indicated an extra day off of work, some fireworks and a possible picnic. With my husband Michael on his second deployment in two years, the holiday takes on a whole new experience.
Michael has served the U.S. Army National Guard since he was 17 years old. That’s just shy of 23 years total.
When I met Michael in 1996, he had recently moved to Arkansas to teach sniper school. (I admit I found that incredibly intriguing, not to mention downright sexy.) Mike is an amazing shot with an extreme understanding and love for guns and ballistics. Beyond that, though, he simply is one of these solidiers with “Hooah” in his blood.
Those “grunts” who are truly called to infantry, like Michael, are an unusual breed, and it’s a mindset I honestly don’t get. There’s something in these men that makes them salivate at the idea of battle. During training, it’s what makes them laugh at things like “getting smoked” (a.k.a. “Drop and give me 20”), sleeping in freezing rain or bug-infested heat, eating nasty chow with a spoon (that’s all they get – a spoon) and so on. It’s also what allows Mike to now laugh and eat peanut butter crackers when his vehicle is dodging IEDs and under fire by the Taliban.
Mike left the infantry about 10 years ago, something that was honestly very painful for him to do. But he had a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity to work full-time for the Guard in their Marksmanship Training Unit, building guns for the national shooting teams. And he also had a wife to think of, and later children. So while in many ways he got his dream job, he had to give up on other dreams, like going Special Forces.
Since February, Mike has been on his second deployment. The first was in Iraq and it was a horrible experience. Not because of the war, but because of the boredom. An infantryman swept away from his wife and two young children then stuck overseas behind a desk. Downright miserable.
So when we decided to take his current deployment to Afghanistan – and yes, it was an optional deployment – many thought we were crazy. We had our reasons, and while they were all legitimate, perhaps the biggest reason was that he was actually needed for this one.
Mike grew up in a small town in Iowa where farming is second nature. The community’s primary job source, however, is the meat packing industry, and Mike served his time both working in a plant as well as helping build one of the facilities. He’s also an amazing machinist and fabricator. Beyond all of that, however, he’s just plain smart.
So he’s in Afghanistan where he and his fellow troops will hopefully be teaching the locals better farming techniques so they can break free from growing poppies for opium and begin to feed their families.
It’s a noble cause. A pretty concept. And while I’m proud to have him serve, the truth is, it’s nowhere near fairytale land.
When Mike’s unit arrived in Afghanistan, it was as if no one remembered they were coming. The troops had no place to stay. They sat around for weeks while Mike traveled to location after location just to find room for them to stay. Then they were put in tents with no electricity. (Mike thought that was funny, fyi.)
After finally setting up shop, the troops slowly began with their mission.
Many of the Afghan locals live in mud huts. They have no food or water. They have no sewage systems. Their babies are starving because their mommies cannot produce enough milk. They need the Americans’ help. If they accept that help, however, they risk getting their heads chopped off by the Taliban. And the Taliban are rampant where Mike is serving.
For awhile, I only heard from Mike about every other day. I’ve learned to recognize that when I don't get an email from Mike, it usually means there is a blackout, ie., somewhere closeby a soldier has been killed. (He's late writing me tonight, so I'm just wondering and trying not to worry.)
Perhaps this hit home most closely to Mike a few weeks ago. At lunch, he teased one of the independent contractors about eating so much ice cream. “What can I say,” the guy chuckled. “It’s my one vice.” Later that day, the guy was blown to bits by an IED.
But Mike is infantry. He misses us, yet he’s pretty happy over there truth be told. And for that, I’m pretty happy too.
I’m proud of him for all he’s doing, More than that, though, I’m proud of him for all he’s being. Things that are completely opposite of who I am and often beyond my understanding. These are the things I fell in love with almost 13 years ago.
Little things, like eating goat liver and heart with the locals and actually enjoying it. Taking cookies and tea to the Afghan truck drivers stuck on the base and unable to contact their families. Making fun of the guys whining about the lack of electricity or limited showers. Wishing he’d been on the truck that flipped and almost went off a cliff after being fired upon by the Taliban. (And yes, he was supposed to be on that truck.)
These are the things that make my husband my soldier. For these things, and so many more, I am proud to be his Army wife.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
The Not-So-Happy Meal
Ethan is about all things golf. Golf courses. Golf Channel. Mini Golf. Computer golf.
One of his favorite places to go is what we've named "computer McDonald's." This particular restaurant has a separate indoor play area with air hockey, foosball and Ethan's favorite, the touch-screen computers that include a variety of golf games. The restaurant is located within walking distance of Ethan's school, so we meander over there more often than I'd like to admit.
Yesterday was such a day. As is our ritual, Ethan rushed into the playroom while I got his cheeseburger Happy Meal -- meat and cheese only with chocolate milk and a cup of water. He was already on the computer well into his golf game by the time I brought him his food.
This day, however, there was another little boy around Ethan's age sitting at the computer next to him. Playing alongside this boy was a lady I'm guessing was his grandma. I'm going to call her Grandma Grumpy.
The little boy was playing the same golf game that Ethan was, and the grandma was playing too. The young boy, trying to help his grandma, was explaining how to make the ball go farther. The grandma was not appreciative. "Why don't you just leave me alone and let me play my own way?" she snapped.
Ethan is the biggest cheerleader I have ever seen, and when he realized these two were playing golf...well, he couldn't just mind his own business. He tried to keep his focus on his own game, but the temptatin was too strong. He just HAD to watch.
So he peered over their shoulders. Yes, invading their personal bubble a bit too much. He would comment on the game in his mumbly manner that often only Ethan and I understand. He would jump up and down when a good shot was made. He would shout "oh, that was soooo close" when they didn't quite make it in the hole.
Abby and I observed all of this while cuddling in our normal spot alongside the windowsill across the room. (The sun shines through that particular window, making it the only semi-warm spot in the otherwise frigid gameroom.)
Finally, Grandma Grumpy turned and snapped at Ethan: "Why don't you just let us play it our own way and leave us alone?!?!"
Whoa. Now surely, you didn't just snap at MY son. Every ounce of my being wanted to go over there and let her have it. Nothing ignites a fire in a mommy like having someone be hateful to her child. I debated for a moment. I wanted to tell her that Ethan has autism. That he loves golf. That he struggles with social norms and he is only six years old, so get over it lady. I wanted to. But I decided she probably didn't care and that was her loss.
Fortunately, I don't think the Grandma Grumpy phased Ethan. She snatched up her grandson, fussing at him over something, then angrily stomped out the door.
The whole thing just made me feel sad. I felt bad for the little boy, but even more, I felt bad for Grandma Grumpy. Hopefully she was just having an off day. Otherwise, to get so angry over a stupid computer golf game -- I can only imagine what it's like when the big bad stuff hits.
So as I'm reading back throught this blog, I'm saying a special prayer for Grandma Grumpy that she can have a happier meal tomorrow.
One of his favorite places to go is what we've named "computer McDonald's." This particular restaurant has a separate indoor play area with air hockey, foosball and Ethan's favorite, the touch-screen computers that include a variety of golf games. The restaurant is located within walking distance of Ethan's school, so we meander over there more often than I'd like to admit.
Yesterday was such a day. As is our ritual, Ethan rushed into the playroom while I got his cheeseburger Happy Meal -- meat and cheese only with chocolate milk and a cup of water. He was already on the computer well into his golf game by the time I brought him his food.
This day, however, there was another little boy around Ethan's age sitting at the computer next to him. Playing alongside this boy was a lady I'm guessing was his grandma. I'm going to call her Grandma Grumpy.
The little boy was playing the same golf game that Ethan was, and the grandma was playing too. The young boy, trying to help his grandma, was explaining how to make the ball go farther. The grandma was not appreciative. "Why don't you just leave me alone and let me play my own way?" she snapped.
Ethan is the biggest cheerleader I have ever seen, and when he realized these two were playing golf...well, he couldn't just mind his own business. He tried to keep his focus on his own game, but the temptatin was too strong. He just HAD to watch.
So he peered over their shoulders. Yes, invading their personal bubble a bit too much. He would comment on the game in his mumbly manner that often only Ethan and I understand. He would jump up and down when a good shot was made. He would shout "oh, that was soooo close" when they didn't quite make it in the hole.
Abby and I observed all of this while cuddling in our normal spot alongside the windowsill across the room. (The sun shines through that particular window, making it the only semi-warm spot in the otherwise frigid gameroom.)
Finally, Grandma Grumpy turned and snapped at Ethan: "Why don't you just let us play it our own way and leave us alone?!?!"
Whoa. Now surely, you didn't just snap at MY son. Every ounce of my being wanted to go over there and let her have it. Nothing ignites a fire in a mommy like having someone be hateful to her child. I debated for a moment. I wanted to tell her that Ethan has autism. That he loves golf. That he struggles with social norms and he is only six years old, so get over it lady. I wanted to. But I decided she probably didn't care and that was her loss.
Fortunately, I don't think the Grandma Grumpy phased Ethan. She snatched up her grandson, fussing at him over something, then angrily stomped out the door.
The whole thing just made me feel sad. I felt bad for the little boy, but even more, I felt bad for Grandma Grumpy. Hopefully she was just having an off day. Otherwise, to get so angry over a stupid computer golf game -- I can only imagine what it's like when the big bad stuff hits.
So as I'm reading back throught this blog, I'm saying a special prayer for Grandma Grumpy that she can have a happier meal tomorrow.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Baptism Sunday
Yesterday at church was a baptism service. If I'd only known I would have brought Kleenex.
You see, witnessing people proclaim life change is emotional enough as it is. But the second person baptized -- a boy, who I'd guess was probably about 12 years old -- hit me square in the heart.
Before each baptism a short video clip was shown with the person talking about accepting Christ. When I saw this boy, I knew something was different. Others were taken aback when he eventually said he had autism; I recognized it right away.
What a huge step for this young man. Speaking to a film crew. Standing in a baptismal in front of a large audience. Being in an unusual place, out of his routine. Taking this massive step in front of God and our church body. I found myself cringing and praying at the same time as I imagined Ethan up there someday. And then I wept.
The boy was baptized by a man who had served as his mentor for years. The man told the story of how when he was younger, this boy would sometimes lose control at church in violent fits of rage, at no fault of his own. We who are familiar with autism recognize this as the "meltdown" and it is an extremely traumatic experience. This boy would get out of his mind until his system finally regulated itself. Then he would exhaustedly crawl up into his mentor's lap and just sob over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And the mentor would hold him tightly, rock him gently and whisper, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Guess what? To God, we often probably resemble this young boy in his out-of-control state. Yet He patiently waits by us as we work our way through the meltdown, until we eventually "snap out of it" and return to our senses. Then He longs for us to crawl into His lap and let our Daddy comfort us, gently reminding us "it's ok. Nothing you can do will ever make me stop loving you."
What a beautiful image of our heavenly Father.
You see, witnessing people proclaim life change is emotional enough as it is. But the second person baptized -- a boy, who I'd guess was probably about 12 years old -- hit me square in the heart.
Before each baptism a short video clip was shown with the person talking about accepting Christ. When I saw this boy, I knew something was different. Others were taken aback when he eventually said he had autism; I recognized it right away.
What a huge step for this young man. Speaking to a film crew. Standing in a baptismal in front of a large audience. Being in an unusual place, out of his routine. Taking this massive step in front of God and our church body. I found myself cringing and praying at the same time as I imagined Ethan up there someday. And then I wept.
The boy was baptized by a man who had served as his mentor for years. The man told the story of how when he was younger, this boy would sometimes lose control at church in violent fits of rage, at no fault of his own. We who are familiar with autism recognize this as the "meltdown" and it is an extremely traumatic experience. This boy would get out of his mind until his system finally regulated itself. Then he would exhaustedly crawl up into his mentor's lap and just sob over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And the mentor would hold him tightly, rock him gently and whisper, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Guess what? To God, we often probably resemble this young boy in his out-of-control state. Yet He patiently waits by us as we work our way through the meltdown, until we eventually "snap out of it" and return to our senses. Then He longs for us to crawl into His lap and let our Daddy comfort us, gently reminding us "it's ok. Nothing you can do will ever make me stop loving you."
What a beautiful image of our heavenly Father.
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