Stronger than Hate

While we were on block leave, a military wife from Fort Campbell posted a flyer from the Westboro Baptist "Church" announcing a protest to be held at the funeral of a soldier. I wish I could find it. The language was repulsing. Their argument for why they hold the protests made me ill. I wanted to share it here and if I can come across it again I will.

There are no kind words - or calm words, rather - that I could possibly share about that organization (no part of me can consider it a "church"). The flyer fired me up and it may be a good thing I couldn't write about it at the time that I saw it. Hate breeds hate. I know my anger would be what they would want. I know any strong language would empower them, make them feel even more right in their "mission".

The language of the flyer said that to not allow their protests would be to disgrace the "sacrifice" the fallen soldier has made to defend the rights of the citizens of this country. 

Good play, WBC.

I am sure that that was their intention. To "one up" military families. To take the rights and sacrifice and throw it back in our faces. To make a mockery of it. To say, "Ha, we got you."

Fine. 

You're right. You have a right to be there. Entirely correct. The man or woman you and you wretchedly tie-dyed signs are protesting against ensured your right to file the paperwork and express you intent to be present at curb side and face the motorcade. Yes, he or she was blown to almost nothing by an IED, or shot through the chest with a rocket-propelled grenade like C's friend, or shot, and shot again, and again to to allow that. 

That child who can't possibly understand what your signs say lost his daddy for you to stand there and look like a fool. 

But that child can understand hate. He can look at you and recognize the evil existing within your heart. But most likely, he will never see you. His eyes will never meet yours. His mind will never process the words that you so disgustingly spit out.

Because love is stronger than hate. 

For the dozen of you who "practice your freedom of speech," hundreds - hundreds - will show love to that family by standing in front of you and your signs. Quietly, respectfully, they will honor that family. The Patriot Guard Riders will hold the flags to block your hate-filled faces if a family asks for them. The will come from miles and miles because they love a nation, they honor a sacrifice, and they know that reacting with hate to yours will only breed more anger.

For a long time I thought there should be a law against what you do. And then I understood the goodness in people. It is very much my belief that people are fundamentally good - not fundamentally bad. Since your "protests" have started, America has seen strangers line up along road ways, who never knew the fallen - just as you have never known the fallen - who will bring their flags out of their homes that may not have flown in years and hold it to block you. I have no doubt that flag finds its home on the front of their house after that. Love comes out in numbers to practice their first amendment right just as you come out in hate and love comes out stronger.

I feel sorry for your children. The little ones you bring with you who hold signs they can't possibly understand. 

I pray for them. I pray for you.

The reaction of the multitudes that come out to where you are to shield children of the fallen, their widows or widowers, parents, grandparents, sisters, brothers ... they don't come for you, they come for them. 

They do not stand out of hate; they stand out of love.

Where there is evil, Good will rise to meet it and overcome it and defeat it. Where there is hate, people can and so often will choose love.

I do not know a god who tells us to hate people for their choices. I do not know a god who tells us to raise children in hatred and judgment. I do not know a god who gives us the authority to condemn. Your god is not my God. 

Your hate will never create hate in me, it won't create hate in those who stand in front of you in rows and rows and rows. They come out of love, they come out of respect, they come to quietly and peacefully honor and protect the families of the fallen.

Good will always rise above evil. Love always wins.

Your hate will always lose. 

Old Glory

Yesterday I was taking some time that I do not have to waste my life on Pinterest. I actually really love pinterest. Most of the things I pin I get to trying at some point. Well, I used to. Before life got crazy busy.

One of my favorite things to find and pin are patriotic ideas. There was a time in my life where if you told me that I would have a soft spot for old Glory somewhere down the road I'd look at you like you were a fool. But now give me a pin with a faded red, white, and blue and I am suckered in. 

I have gotten into the (very good, I think) habit of going to the source of a pin before pinning it myself. When I saw two of my favorite things - a reclaimed window and an American Flag - I nearly just hit "repin" which I almost never, never do anymore. I caught myself and went to the site and then clicked the link featuring the project to go to the source of the project. 

It was adorable and shanty-chic and I could imagine every part of it in our home. I scrolled through the pictures, the supplies, and then I got to the step-by-step. Very simply it said, "Cut the flag into pieces that fit your window pane." 

I crouched forward as I sucked in air. 

I can't tell you how long I sat on that page trying to decide how I felt about it. I read through the comments. It seemed based on some of the comments left that someone else had left a comment that had been deleted that must have explained why you do not cut a flag. I don't know what the deleted comment said but whatever it was the author felt the need to discard it. 

I cannot tell you what all I felt about it. There was anger, and confusion, and questioning, and disgust, and so many other things. Mainly I was angered that someone must have said something and the page owner deleted it because she didn't agree - or didn't like being called out. 

Because, yes, it was a beautiful project, yes it was something I wanted to do right up until I saw the words "cut the flag". 

I thought about it through the night. Thought about it while volunteering today. I questioned if I was over-reacting. If it was because I held it dearer than some. If I was wrong to react the way I did even just with myself. I was incredibly confused over if what I did feel was the same as what I should feel. Was it really that big a deal? 

While driving home from the baseball practice that Logan didn't have but this momma forgot he didn't have, I took a turn down a road that I didn't mean to turn down. I saw the MP SUV blocking the roadway and one car stopped behind him. I looked at the clock on the dash and realized it was five o'clock on the dot (1700 hr) and I, too, stopped my car and stood outside my door. I watched as car after car after car after car stopped and watched the drivers and passengers get out. Civilians and soldiers. Every one exited their car and faced the flag just yards from us. In silence, the formation behind the flag waited. In silence, dozens of Americans stood at attention as the slow and careful hands pulled the thick cord, one hand over the other. In the Colorado wind, just as it was at it's lowest, another soldier's hands moved quickly to tame the whipping of the flag so close to the ground, not allowing a thread of it to touch. 

This was my reminder.

I almost dropped our flag in our garage many many months ago. The bottom corner came so close to the dirty ground of our garage. I have never seen C move so quickly. I have never seen his hand as forceful and as graceful as they were in the moment he caught that corner, stopping it an instant before it touched the cold concrete.

No one would have known that flag had fallen. 

How great a respect, how urgent the sense to sustain it.

No oath is administered without it present. No fallen soldier returns home without being draped by it. No widow goes without soaking its folds in her tears. 

Maybe to the many, cutting the thread is meaningless. Maybe to some, it can be justified. If the fact that the thought of it makes me cringe makes me "out-of-touch" so be it. If the fact that we stop our cars and face the symbol of our nation when it is raised and lowered makes us submerged in this life, I am okay with that.

The flag is not something that should divide a nation. It is not something that we should battle over what respect it is due or what it stands for. It isn't something that should be so disregarded that to snip it into pieces like any other piece of fabric or paper doesn't matter. 

It does matter. 

It is a symbol of unity, of strength, a constant beacon for those who defend it. 

It does matter.

It matters.

And it deserves the respect of a nation.

Valued

A while back I made the decision to moderate comments. I know that those of you who have been following for a while know that I have always allowed all comments to stay up - as long as they didn't degrade the American soldier or those they love. As long as they were not ill-willed they remained published. Even when they personally attacked my character and brought more into question than I could stomach, I kept them up.

I think all sides are important. I think all views carry weight. I knew that I was taking more on in my life and that I would not always be able to react quickly if someone posted something that didn't belong - that was hateful - and for that reason I added the moderation. 

About a month back on the post "Missed Understanding" someone - and it was Anonymous - left a comment to the effect of: If I believed in following rules and loved the Army so much why didn't I man up and serve. (And that is all paraphrased. I can't remember the exact wording but that's the gist).

I almost published it just to see what would happen. 

I went back and forth for several days about whether I would address it. Whether I cared. What it really made me feel.

I tried to think of who would have left it. A soldier? A spouse? A civilian? Who knows. It could have been anyone and hiding behind an "anonymous" always makes people feel powerful and brave.

I don't know how they found the post. I know it couldn't have been any of you. I actually laughed at one point reading it and debating.

The main issue is that I know there are service members and spouses who hold that view. That army wives like me hide behind their husbands. That we hold no value in the military community. That military spouses do nothing worthy of respect. That because our sacrifice is not the same it is not a sacrifice. 

I get that people think that. I have heard a young soldier say it. I have heard a wife criticize me for being involved and active and engulfed. I have heard multiple spouses say it actually and I can see it in the faces of soldiers from time to time. 

I hope that one day they have a change of heart. I hope that one day they see the value and importance of building a strong marriage, a strong foundation.

C's sacrifice is not the same as mine. What he gives and has given and will give are not the same as what I do and have and will. What he carries is beyond what I can know. What he has seen is beyond what I ever will.

There is never a question in that.

But those who stand beside their soldier - beside not "behind" - give. They give their joy and their sorrow, their strength and their pain. We give our patience and our understanding and our hope. We give our lives to men and women who give theirs. That is part of the sacrifice. That is of value. That is worthy. That matters. That serves the whole. 

We sacrifice. We give. We love. We persevere. We hold on when the world reminds us again and again that we shouldn't make it. That we don't have to live this way. That our life isn't "normal". 

I wear no uniform. I hold no rank. I put my hand over my heart when the flag is raised and lowered. I will never be asked to step foot onto a battlefield, or cling to a rifle, or carry a third of my weight on my back. I don't pretend to know what that can be like. I don't pretend to know what it is to see your friend dying beside you. I don't for a moment intend to equate my sacrifice and understanding with those who serve.

I will never say our sacrifice is the same. 

But do not say that the arms that carry those who serve lack value. Do not say that what we give is not enough to hold a claim to loving and serving a nation.

We love a nation strong enough to endure the heart break of giving the one we love most to it. We believe in service and sacrifice so heart-fully that we will endure the heart-wrenching pain of holding a child back who is screaming and reaching out for his father. Do not belittle what that takes. Do not question what I give. Do not question what the thousands of family members around me give without ever wearing the uniform. 

We matter. We know what it is to live for something greater. We give and give and give.

Ask any strong soldier who he fights for, who keeps him going, why he serves, why he stays focused, what carries him through. 

Ask him if his family sacrifices for this nation. 

Ask him. 

We do. 

Beautifully Different

In four minutes, while the three "men" (well one man and two little boys) in my life are all sleep, I know that I will hear TAPS played over the speakers on post. The haunting and calming music will softly echo through the mountain post. 

It slows my breathing every time. Stops me from whatever I am doing or watching or thinking. Sends chills down my back. Scares me and comforts me. Soothes me and haunts me.

Every night, at ten in the evening, TAPS will play and my world will pause.

Every morning, I hear the boom of the cannon accompany reveille. Every morning that trumpet sounds. Every evening I hear the boom again as the flag is lowered for the day. 

Day in and day out I can hear the echo of gunfire as soldiers train on ranges. 

Pop. Pop. Pop. 

While walking along the trails, waiting with Logan for the bus, taking Eli into the hourly care, I can hear the popping. 

Nearly every time I take the road leading off post closer to the ranges, traffic is stopped by two soldiers as large tan vehicles pass across the main road. Tanks and trucks with large guns on top, the benches in the trucks filled with rows of soldiers sitting with guns in hand as they travel in from the field or out to the ranges.

To get to my home after frequenting Target or HL, I have to stop at a gate and hand an armed guard my military I.D. Every time I want to return to my home from outside the gates I have to prove that I am supposed to be there. 

How interesting this life must seem to those on the outside.

Every time a civilian friend visits or a family member I laugh as their eyes widen when an armored vehicle pulls up beside us, or a soldier is on the ground doing pushups, or a trumpet blares the signal for lunch. I smile as the foolish grin covers their faces as we pass soldiers in formation, or when they see an obstacle course and they say, "Do they really climb that?" 

How strange it must be that it isn't strange that we see multiple black hawks and apaches flying overhead daily. How much I would have loved to watch one of my best friend's faces while I watched three black hawks land at the exact same time while I was sitting at the stop light nearest C's office. 

I wonder what my mom will think if she goes into C's office this week and sees the triangular sign on the entrance door that says "explosives". 

It is incredible when we think about what is our normal. What is our everyday, our "taking for granted," our "just the way it is." I wonder how much I don't notice anymore. How much would amaze the average American.

I will never forget the day I visited C while we were dating and he told me I couldn't pump gas on post. Do you remember the first time you heard that?  

I love that I can drive to the commissary and see Cav Scouts on horseback in the area just in front of headquarters. I love that I pass soldiers rucking along the path near the golf course. I love that I can pass down a road and I know if my husband is in his office or not by whether or not there is a guidon outside. I love that Logan watches the sky when he hears the sound of those helicopter blades. 

I love that I am learning what the different boots mean on different soldiers when I never noticed those things before. I love that I have neighbors who knock on my door with a plate of food and a glass of wine because they notice when C's jeep has been missing for a while. I love that when I see a certain uniform at a certain time, I need to say an extra prayer for that soldier because he just came home or he is just about to leave. 

I love that the little things that go unnoticed by everyone else, are the things that we find the most meaning in. I love that while to everyone else the trumpet in the morning may seem a nuisance, it means for one spouse another day closer to reunion. I love that while to many TAPS playing throughout the foothills is simply beautiful, to those who hear it night in and night out it means far more.

I love this life. With my whole heart, I love this life.

Sometimes - just sometimes - I forget just how beautifully different it is. 

A Military Child

There is something very special about a Military Child.

Something that comforts and carries through this life of trial.

There is a strength found within them born from the love of a Father who serves.

A quiet patience breathed inside them born of a Mother who loves through hurt.

There is a goodness prior given, an innocence meant to protect.

There is a pride, a joy, a longing for a Freedom one must ne’er reject.

There is something very special about a Military Child’s hands

That wait outstretched and empty while Daddy fights in foreign lands.

There is something very precious in the touch of these daughters and sons

Who unknowingly bring comfort to others who wait til’ mission’s done.

There is something much too deep in the eyes of the children they must leave

There is a needing and a sadness, a cry for understanding as they grieve.

There is something too unnoticed in the children of those who give

They hold keys to bringing joy, to making the hardest moments, thriving moments we can live.

There is something beyond special about these children’s tiny arms

Who hug heroes into battles and know little of guns and bombs.

There is something far too sweet in the little voices of the children

Who heartfully sing the anthems, cover their hearts, and pledge their allegiance.

There is something left unspoken when they see that he’s come home

A beauty far too precious, far too deep to feel alone.

There is something that moves the heart about these smallest tears

The ones that roll down their cheeks when they finally see that he is here.

There is something very special about a Military Child

A world of strength and joy and pride held within their tear-filled smiles. 

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Written By: Megan Kratochvil Williams 

© 2012, all rights reserved
Do not use without permission.

To Root for America

C doesn't vote.

The first time I heard that (years ago) I think my jaw dropped. I couldn't believe it. He enlisted at 17. Months before he could legally vote for those who represent us, he - and his parents - signed his first contract with this nation. I don't think C has ever voted - in any election. For those of you who are freaking out like I did when I found out: take a deep breath and listen.

Many service members choose not to vote. (Yes, I was shocked by this as well). I am sure they all have their own personal reasons but I can explain it the way that it was explained to me with my jaw hanging open and eyes bugging out of my head in disbelief. I cannot speak for all those who serve but I would think that for many of them this is their reason too.

When a soldier makes a vow to this nation - and that is what it is, a solemn vow - they become a servant of the citizens of these United States. They stand up and do whatever is asked of them despite the party in power or ideology of those elected because these people in place were elected by the people. They go where they are sent, they do what they are told, they act always with those they serve in mind. There is no room for their personal opinions, their personal ideology, their personal feelings on what does or does not take place in government. Such things can cloud their minds, take them from the task at hand. Many of them step away from this sacred right so that they can best ensure that we keep it for ourselves.

I cannot tell you how much I struggled with idea when C first told me. I have voted since I was eighteen. I watch political debates (for either party), I read articles, I have opinions - strong ones. I have always believed that to not vote is irresponsible, if you don't vote you have no right to voice an opinion on the outcome. But this is not the same.

Because whether they vote or not those who defend us always, always root for America. They root for her people. They root for her children. They root for her future. They do everything in their power to ensure we are safe, that our rights stay in place, that nothing threatens our liberty. And they do it, very often, without saying a word, without giving a political opinion, without casting a vote. They put their faith in us to do that. They put their hope in us to make the decisions for this nation - to decide what things they will defend and how they will defend them, we decide what orders will be giving by deciding to whom we will give that power.

These are selfless men, selfless women, who will do whatever is asked by those we elect, with no contest. No matter what faith we do - or do not - put in them, they keep their faith in us. They have to. Their jobs would mean nothing if they did not believe in the people they defend. They never stop rooting for us, for this nation. Never.

They only ask that we do the same.

Not Over

I was driving down Bonnabel with my mom after a doctor's appointment when the first plane hit. I was turning onto Veterans when the second plane hit. I remember walking down the halls. I remember the eerie quiet in the school. I remember just hearing the light murmur from the TV's in the classrooms I passed. I remember not speaking. I remember falling to the ground when someone asked if I had heard from my brother who lived in New York. I remember every little moment of that day. I remember staring at the green tile on the walls not hearing much of anything else around me. I remember when I heard my brother's voice for the first time. I remember hearing him cry. 


I remember.


I will remember this day for a long time. I will remember telling my husband who didn't know yet. I will forever remember watching his face while he listened to the President speak through the speakers of Skype. I will remember him saying, "This is a good day for justice." I will remember my tears, the goosebumps, how much my body shook. I will remember. And I will hold onto this day.

But as my husband said tonight, "This is not over." This does not mean my husband will come home sooner. This does not mean his next deployment won't happen. This does not mean we are safe. This war is not over. Understand that.

The mission is not completed. Everything has changed. Everything just became a little bit trickier.

Please do not think today means the prayers can stop. Please do not think our men and women can now come home. Please do not think that their mission is done.

They need your prayers more than ever.

Always, always, always pray for our troops.

God Bless them. God keep them safe.


‎"The fight against terror goes on, but tonight America has sent an unmistakable message: No matter how long it takes, justice will be done." -George W. Bush 5/1/11

The Pledge

Bathtime for Logan is play time. Very often my Dad takes this chore on for me so that I can put Eli down to bed. It is just another little thing that provides much needed support. But when Logan's hair needs to be washed I usually bathe him. That boy has a LOT of hair.

"What should we sing?" I asked - like I always do when I wash his hair. "Wheels on the bus?" He shakes his head. "ABC's?" (always a favorite). 


 "No," he responds plainly. 


 "Umm.... Itsy Bitsy Spider?" 


 "Nope" he responds - a sly smile creeping across his face. 


 "Then what should we sing?" I asked, running out of options. 


 "Pwedge," he responded his smile becoming wider. 


 "Pwedge? What is 'pwedge'?" I thought to myself. And before I could figure it out, he began ... 


 "I pwedge a'legins to the flag of the 'nited nates of 'merica.
  And to repubwic, for ich it stands, one nation, ununer God, 
  inninisible, wit litity and hustice for all!" 


 Soap in his hair, beaming smile on his face, my hands were frozen. He saw my tear. 

"You 'kay?" he asked suddenly concerned. This wasn't the reaction he expected. 


"Yes, buh-ga," I smiled back. "Very, very good, Logan," still processing everything that I was feeling.


"'gain?" he asked. I nodded and he began, " I pwedge a'legins..."

My two-year-old can say the pledge. Of course he says it how I would expect most two-year-olds to say it - but, my two-year-old can say the pledge. Logan has a speech problem - he struggles with so many words, with so many phrases, but he proudly and meaningfully says the pledge of allegiance.

Beautiful.

How incredible that his daddy will hold that little boy and hear him say it for himself so very, very soon. How amazing will that moment be?

How incredible.

How absolutely incredible.
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"I pledge allegiance to the flag, my heart to the soldier that defends it, and my never ending support to all who serve with him." - unknown

Heartache

Tears flow just as I expected. I knew this was coming, I knew exactly what it would be like, and the tears came anyway. It was just a photo - uploaded from a phone to a website like any other day. A daddy and a daughter. Anyone who didn't know any better wouldn't think anything more. A daddy held his little girl - a daddy held his little girl for the first time in nearly seven months. The same little girl he heard cry through the speaker of a phone as she entered into this world. He listened from the battlefield 7000 miles away - two years earlier. The same little girl who had just had a birthday. And he was holding her, in the Nashville airport, surrounded by so many people who have become indifferent to moments as beautiful of these - he held his little girl. And the tears continued to fall.

This wasn't my soldier. This wasn't my child. And that didn't matter. We never become numb to these moments.
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I asked for it. I did. I wanted to add pictures to the page - beautiful pictures that would express what my words couldn't. And goodness did they come. A few homecomings - the joy is always incredible. I believe that everyone should see - in person - a welcome home. There is nothing more infectiously joyous than those days. The reunions truly are like nothing else in this world - but that isn't when the tears started.

It was the last link - the one that said "Farewell" - that opened the door for that. And it was not simply sadness. I don't think anyone can understand this difference if they haven't felt it. If you just saw me you may interpret it as only sadness - maybe even agony with how much the tears flowed. No - it was not sadness. There was such incredible beauty in these images - of the gear so perfectly stacked in the straightest of rows. The images of the backs of families having last pictures taken. Of the soldiers - making me want to know so badly what was going through each of their minds. And you think how many fathers do those piles of gear belong to, and mothers, and daughters, and sons, and wives and husbands. How many do they each leave behind. And you see the weapons strapped to their bodies that become their lifelines, the heavy plates that they strap across their chests, the solid helmet that makes them all look the same. And while this is common place for those who wear these items and to those who watch them march away - it isn't "common". Something common couldn't evoke such emotion - and it does for those who love a soldier - it will every single time a video is shared of a child running to hug his daddy, or when a photo shows a mother kissing her baby girl for the last time in a long time. Every single time it will bring tears to my eyes.

But please do not take this for just sadness. I am so very proud and so very grateful to those who have the strength to kiss us goodbye and put on that helmet and strap on that vest and pick up their arms. Every tear that falls is indeed heartache - but it isn't a heartache you understand unless you live this. There is blood-curdling fear. Heart-wrenching dread. Overbearing stress. Of course we hold these things. But there is a beauty in the heartache when you realize how much love we must hold - love for a man or woman who will leave us (repeatedly). Love that must and will strengthen us for the journey. Pride that will give us chills, goosebumps, put a lump in our throat in the most challenging of moments. And it isn't just our love that must fit here. We carry their love for their families while they take with them their love for this country. Our hearts hurt because they hold so much. Of course we ache. Of course I will cry - not just for my soldier but for yours too.

There is so much love. There is so much beauty. There is so much pride.

Amazing what the heart can hold.

And our hearts will hold it all.

Promises

Today I was thinking about what a soldier would look like on paper and this is where it brought me.

A Soldier's Promise ...

I cannot promise you every night of my life. I cannot promise to be beside you for every difficult moment, every trial, every hardship. In truth, I can promise you that I will not be with you for most. I will leave you at inconvenient times. I may miss the births of our children. Any special date to us may be tainted with the anniversary of the death of one of my friends. I will ask you to take over whatever life we have built together for months and years at a time. And will then crash back into that life that you have used your sweat and your tears and your heartache to keep together and try to take it back as I knew it before. I will shut you out at times because it will be the best way for me to hold it together at that moment. I will lie to you. I will tell you I don't know things when I do. I will not always tell you where I am going, when I will be back, or who I am with. I may not call you for weeks and months and you will not be able to call me. You will ask questions that I won't answer. You will know answers to questions that you will hope you never need. I will share things with my brothers that you will never understand. They will know things about me that you never will. They will be a support to me in some things that you cannot be. I will miss birthdays. I will miss anniversaries. I will have to get to know our children over and over again. I may need time to process things that seem natural to everyone else. It will seem that someone - or something - will always take precedence over you. You may lose me long before you ever thought possible. I will uproot you and ask you to re-establish our family anywhere in the world, in any season, at any time - over and over again. Sand and mud will be tracked through your halls from the boots I am too tired to take off. I will leave you when you beg me not to. I will stand at attention while you cry beside me. I will not turn my head and I will walk away. I will knowingly break your heart. And I will do it again - and again.

I cannot promise you all of me. I cannot promise that to our children. I cannot promise you much of anything.

But if you will have me, I can promise that as I march away from you it is not without sharing your heartache. I promise you that every time I break your heart I will be breaking mine. Every time that I cannot answer you I will be protecting you. Whenever you want to call and you have no number to dial I will be wanting to do the same. I will protect everything that we have created together with every fiber of my being while you do the same back at home. I will honor you in everything - every moment that we are apart and every moment that I am with you. I will fight harder and push further knowing that I do so for you. I will see the faces of our children in every life that I protect. And I will carry you with me in everything until my sandy boots once again sit just inside our door.

An Army Wife's promise ...

I cannot promise that I will not become frustrated when you leave me and the world seems to fall apart around me. I cannot promise that I will not curse those who sent you when the dryer breaks, and the transmission needs to be replaced, and the dog eats the couch all in the same week - most likely the week after you deploy. I cannot promise that the sand and mud that cakes my floor will not cause me to give you harsh looks and rude thoughts. I cannot promise that my heart will not be torn in twelve different ways when you march away from me. I cannot promise that I will not let my anger show when you refuse to answer questions. I cannot promise to understand why you share things with your comrades that you will not share with me. I cannot promise that there won't be times when my heartache makes its presence known before my pride can mask it. I cannot promise that I will not show my worry and my concern when it is best for you not to see it. I cannot promise to understand why you do so many of the things you do.

But I can promise that for as many tears of sadness and frustration and anger that are shed there will be double that of tears of pride. I can promise you that for every time you are away from me, I will learn to cherish the times that you are with me. In everything I will honor you and honor your sacrifice. I can promise to teach our children to do the same. I will use every moment that you are not with them to show them the amazing man that you are through my actions and my pride. I can promise that there will never be a night where you are not the subject of my final prayer and the keeper of my dreams. I promise to try to be understanding that there are many things I will never understand. I promise to keep you with me in everything and to do my best to keep grace in this life. I will be strong for you as you are strong for me and I will carry you with me in every moment until your sandy boots again sit just inside our door.

Written by: Megan Williams
© 2011, all rights reserved
Do not use without permission.


(These have also been circulating as "A Military Man's Promise" and "A Military Wife's Promise")

Keeping Grace

Very rarely do people give the right response when they find out my husband is deployed. And there are really only a handful of responses that I feel are appropriate - or really just one. Very rarely do I get it - and when I do I truly thank them for their words.

"Thank them for their service," "I will be praying for their safety," or quite simply a "Thank you" they want relayed. And when these kind, understanding people say these things you can see it in their eyes. Sometimes almost tear-filled because they understand that completely what our soldiers are knowingly sacrificing for them. It is rare, it is beautiful, it almost makes up for the far too common inappropriate ones.

"Oh, that's terrible!" She sighed when she realized where the hand and foot print covered package was going. "That is just awful that he has to be there." I knew it was coming and I gripped the counter slightly, mentally preparing myself for what was about to follow.

"Isn't it just awful that they have to do something so pointless? It's just stupid," she continued placing the labels on the packages that had been put together and donated by a youth organization. They had come up with over 30 boxes packed to the max for C's soldiers. So many we asked for addresses from others we knew were deployed. "And for WHAT?" she continued.

It didn't phase her a bit. She didn't seem to catch onto that fact that she just insulted me and my husband. "It is just insane that these men and women have to leave their families for nothing. He must hate it. It is so dumb." She still continued with checking customs labels and re-taping. I was just glad she wasn't really looking up.

I wanted to say something but I couldn't. I DO believe that people's opinions can be changed given accurate information but the effort to explain is time consuming and they have to want to hear it. They need to be open. This was not the time, this was not the place, this was not the person. The conversation moved on - eventually.

I try to be as graceful in this life as possible. And so many things in it are far from graceful. But to those who are not in it, to those who don't understand, I try to keep grace. There is never a time when it is more of a challenge to do so.

So many people are incredibly misinformed, or aren't informed at all, and simply decide that what our soldiers are doing is "pointless" and "dumb." And people are entitled to their opinions but to express that to an Army wife, or heaven-forbid, a soldier befuddles me. Who does that and thinks its appropriate? TONS of people. They apologize for him having to do something so "terrible". Well, I am sorry he is defending that person's idiocy.

I fully understand that so many people just do not understand what they are doing there - because they aren't in it - and that is the only thing that prevents me from saying everything I think of what they just said. But please understand this:

Many of these soldiers joined during wartime and those who joined before have reenlisted or re-signed since then. My husband joined three years before September 11th but has re-signed his contract twice since we invaded Afghanistan and Iraq. No one forced that upon him. Do not diminish the service of our military men and women by acting like this has been forced on them. They chose this, knowingly, understanding what they were about to face. They choose it everyday, as well as their families. No soldier joins, especially now, not understanding that there is a war going on. If they weren't willing to fight - they wouldn't volunteer to do so.

Do not forget September 11th. Our soldiers remember. Those who joined the day after remember. And don't think for a moment that that doesn't still matter. We have not had an attack on our soil since then. Thank a soldier for that.

I miss my soldier every moment. My children miss their father. It breaks me every night when my son repeatedly presses the button in the teddy bear that holds my husband's voice. But I do not resent him or this country for taking him from me. This is my reality. A reality I also chose when I chose him. I am proud of my soldier. I am proud of his sacrifice. I am proud of his choice. Do not apologize for our separation. This is our reality. I recognize it. I live it as greatly as I can. I will thrive in it despite the challenges it presents.


There is good being done in those countries by our soldiers. Every job they provide to an Afghan civilian, gives one less penniless man for Al Qaeda to recruit. One less recruit to fly a plane into our buildings. One less tragedy that pauses our lives. There is so much more that our troops do than what people hear on the news or read in the paper. They are not just killing Taliban and hunting down members of Al Qaeda - there will always be more. They are weakening their hold on these poverty-stricken people. They are giving other options to survive in an area that has depended on these extremist to survive for decades and decades. They are giving options in a land that never provided another choice. Do not be misinformed as to their mission. There are many - they are all vital to our safety and our survival.

"And for what?" she had said. "What is the point?"

THAT is the point. For us to never feel what we felt on that day again. For us to never feel the absolute terror. For our children to survive. For our children to live in the country that we knew before September 11th.

This war will end. It will end when all that can be done, has been done. And if another comes - these men and women will stand up again ready to defend. Our freedom is never guaranteed. Our freedom is always at risk. Do not allow that promise of freedom to cloud your understanding of what it requires to sustain it.

My husband is a soldier. He does not demand your apology. He does not demand anything from you.

Do not look to me with sad eyes. Do not offer me words of regret. They are not welcome here.

Offer your gratitude. Offer your support. Offer your prayers. All of these will be taken. All of these will be appreciated. All of these will be relayed to the men and women who deserve them.

Please keep all other opinions to yourself - and if you can't, pray that I can continue keeping grace.

The Toughest Job

I have been putting off writing this post ... mainly because I know that not everyone will agree with me. Don't get me wrong - I don't expect everyone to agree with what I say - but to word this in a way that can be really understood will be difficult. When I write, while everything I write is very much my opinion and the experiences of my family, I like to hope that many of my emotions and feelings are universal among military families. This hope is why I write, it is what gives me comfort, it is what pushes me to continue. But what I will write about today is a divided issue. It is also an issue that I find some wives get fired up about (including myself) no matter which side they are on. Both sides have valid points and I do not intend to demean those who do not agree with me or to make light of the intense hardships Army Wives undergo while our husbands are away. But today I took our first son to meet his first preschool teacher in his first school ever and his daddy did not get to be there.

I knew that tomorrow would be more difficult - I would have to leave him then. It would be a monumental moment of becoming one step closer to him being a big boy. Today we were just going to meet his teacher, let him get comfortable in the classroom, let him meet the other kids he would see everyday. I checked to be sure his name was on all of the supplies, quickly remembered to copy his shot records, and made sure his face didn't have any syrup left on it from his waffle this morning.

I, unlike most parents, do not have a child who cries when I leave. As soon as he sees the other kids and toys, he waves and yells "BYE!" like I can't get away quick enough. He is fiercely independent and has been, basically, since the day he was born. After 23 hours of induced labor, my son decided to make his appearance in a horrifying, dramatic way (which I briefly spoke about a little while back). He has never been afraid of people - a blessing and a curse. So, for me, today the only fear I had was trying to pry him away when it was time to leave. Let's just say, it was not a fun experience.

"NO!!" He shouted as I said it was time to go back home. My mind quietly began to panic.

"Please, don't let it happen! Please, God, if you want me to remain a sane mother, PLEASE don't let this happen!" I prayed fiercely, and repeatedly, in my head.

It seemed like we might be okay. He took my hand and we were heading out. I couldn't believe it! "There is a God!" I joked to myself (again in my head - I hope).

Well, this God has a sense of humor, and just to let me know how funny he is, he placed it right in front of our path. There it was - my mortal enemy. The one thing that would stop him from acting like a tamed toddler. I had never seen one so big - with working buttons and a "real" laser. I could hear laughter coming from somewhere up in the sky. "Seriously? Seriously?!" I thought.

"BUZZ!!" Logan shouted. The battle began to get him out of there. It was embarrassing. It was mortifying. It almost didn't happen. But it did and by the time we got out, I could feel my blood pressure rising and the sweat beginning to seep from my pores as I dragged my toddler kicking and screaming into the deep south's humid, hot air all the way to our car around the block.

And for just a second I thought it. As I replayed the other faces in the room, mostly replaying the faces of the many fathers who were there with their wives, I thought it. Just for that split second, when I couldn't take the thought back. "He is SO lucky he isn't here."

There is a bumper sticker that seems to be pretty popular among Army Wives. I would bet, while I do not know, that the other branches have one similar that tattoos the many SUV's and soccer mom vehicles that patrol the bases and posts. I do not have one. I do not want one.

"Army Wife - toughest job in the Army"

A dainty script pens the words and a red rose curls around them. The image and the font itself makes me chuckle every time I see it. But I do not agree with it.

Today was tough. Yes, my husband could have lifted Logan up over one shoulder and gotten him out of there much faster than myself with a stuffed, heavy purse and a stack of papers and that stupid fundraiser book. And he would have loved to have been able to do it.

Yes, I have to juggle being both parents while still, very much, trying to keep "daddy" present and active in their lives. Is this difficult? Incredibly. Having two children 22 months apart is hard enough by itself. But to do it without daddy while trying to keep daddy a part of it is difficult and exhausting. It is trying, it is tiring, it is overwhelmingly stressful. We have to deal with the hardships of raising children while our spouses - for a time - do not have to. We have to deal with the meltdowns and the hair-pulling-out moments while our spouses - for a time - do not have to. But we also get the hugs, and actually hearing "I love you's" while our spouses - for a time - do not get to. We proudly get to watch them as they grow and as they laugh and as they learn, gradually, while our spouses - for too much time - do not get to. They do not get to stroke their child's hair as he/she sleeps or wipe tears or kiss bo-bo's. And it isn't just that they miss it. They carry the knowledge that they are missing these moments with them everyday. I would never be tough enough for that.

We have to deal with the absolutely ignorant things that people say about the military, about the wars, about what is going on. We get to respond. They have to hear these things and defend the people who say them while saying nothing. There is no way I am tough enough for that.

He knows, everyday, that there is so much that he is missing. He carries the guilt of not being here for his children, for his wife. Knowing that the vow that he made to his country conflicts with the vows that he made to me. I would not be tough enough to carry that. Everyday, he carries the reality that while each day our toddler runs into my legs to hug me, he may be scared of him when he comes back home. I would not be tough enough for that. Everyday he struggles with the reality that our infant smiles when he sees my face, and reaches out for my arms wanting me to hold him and love him but that when he comes home, Eli will probably not walk to him. That this child will cling to my leg as his oldest son use to cling to his. He knows this, he carries this, he lives this, all while continuing his mission at hand. I am not tough enough.

Soldiers have seen horrible things - a way of life that to most, would be impossible to handle - and they keep going. They keep doing what they have promised to do. They lose friends in war and back at home and continue on. They miss the funerals of family members who pass on while they are away. They miss the time to mourn because they simply do not have it. They miss first days of school. They miss births. They miss first years. They miss graduations. They miss bringing their children to college. They miss first dances, first dates, "meeting the parents" talks. They miss father's days. They miss little kisses. They miss little smiles. They miss days. They miss months. They miss years.

We don't.

It is hard to go through this "alone." And hard doesn't explain it correctly. It truly may take superpowers. There is something that must exist within us that must not exist in those who do not do what we do. Yes, it is a "tough"ness. But what I do here, I will not believe, is tough"er" than what my husband does there. What I have to handle everyday is not nearly as heavy as what he carries with him on every mission, in every e-mail, with every wink of sleep, in every moment he is alone. He is alone.

I am not tougher than him. What the Army asks me to do is not the "toughest" job. I support him. I try my best to keep him focused. I do my best to keep him here while he is there. It is not a job. It is not my "job" to be his wife. It is my commitment. It is my honor. It is my joy.

It is his job.

He is a soldier.

Toughest job in the Army.

ONLY job in the Army.