Whispers - Guest Post by Erika @ Chambanachik

It is rare that I find the time to sit and write these days. Life is ... well ... life.

I asked one of my favorite bloggers to share a post with all of you. I had no idea what she was going to write about I just asked her to write. When she messaged me that she had sent her article and when she said what the topic was I took a long, deep breath.

I had no idea how she was going to talk about it and I was nervous about what may be waiting.

When I opened the file and read her words, she left me with chills. Because none of us are talking ... we don't talk about such things ... none of us are talking - we whisper. 

Whispers

Late at night, we whisper.

Because the president spoke today. He stood at a podium with a lot of people scribbling notes and holding recorders. And we listened with a different kind of intensity. We've long forgotten how to listen like the rest of the country. We don't know how to be apathetic about politics anymore. We don't hear that the government is planning a strike or going to war. Instead, it's so personal that it takes our breath away. Instead, we hear the people with suits and microphones saying, "Your husband is going. Your wife is going. Your brother, your aunt, your cousin...I'm sending them."

We whisper. We worry. We wonder.

We know their job. We can rattle off acronyms a mile long, name obscure villages they've deployed to in war torn countries, and explain OPSEC and PERSEC. We're the ones that wash their uniforms, soiled with dirt and sand from the places we're scared to ask about. Some of us waited in the recruiter's office with them. Many of us sat around the kitchen table with them long after dinner was cleared away, debating pros and cons of reenlistments. They go, but we're in this with them. They go, but we grapple with the fallout at home.

And so, we whisper those questions, softly, hesitantly, late at night when the dark room disguises the fright that lines our faces. When? How long? Why? They're questions that don't have answers, but we ask them anyway. We know we aren't alone in the asking; all of our friends are asking the same ones.

Our minds flash to our babies, our houses, and all the things we would have to take charge of singlehandedly for a while. Timetables are drafted in our minds. Scenarios are imagined down to every last detail. We build up plans on words that can crumble or shift in an instant. A hand on their chest or brushed against their cheek, we say a silent prayer that we don't even know the words to but hope is heard anyway.

We know they'll go whether they agree with the fight or not. We know they'll go so the rest of us can stay safe at home. We often think about how brave they are.

But tonight, if only for a little while, we remember how brave we are, too. We're brave even if we can't speak it above a whisper sometimes.

About the Writer: 

My name is Erika.
I live in Chambana, a flat Midwestern college town-

hence the name of this blog.

I'm a mama to (almost) two, a soldier's wife, a college student,

and I love to write in between it all.
I'm an INFJ, which means I talk a lot more in this space
than I do in 'real life'.

Visit Erika at Chambanachik and enjoy her awesome blog!! 

Thank you, Erika!