I wrote down most of these lines one evening early last winter after spending the morning at the Army hospital with my son. It was too hard to finish at the time.  I want to stress that what follows is not a political commentary, nor meant to invite same. As Plato said,

Everyone is fighting a great battle.

And that is every bit as true for our beloved children. They all leave the downy nest in time and make their way in a dangerous world.  I wonder if all mama birds cover their eyes with their wings as they launch as I do….

*****

"It won't be long and we will get you out of here," the camouflaged young man promises the soldier. Nearby in the crowded waiting room a tiny boy wails, distraught, tired, sick.  We are all waiting. 

"Man, I can't stand kids screaming.  I think mortar is more tolerable than that!" he laughs.  There is no response. 

"You have kids?" 

Nothing.

Then there is a slow, barely perceptible nod. Yes.

"How old?" 

There is a pause, the soldier looking as though he was trying to remember a very far off dream.

"Three years old and nine months." 

"Boys or girls?" the young man persists cheerfully. 

Another painful pause.

"The older one is the boy," the soldier replies in a whisper.  

"Ha!  That's good!  Then he can watch out for her when she's a teenager!"  the young man chuckles.  

All around the waiting room is filling with crutches and wheelchairs and soldiers walking, carrying their charts.  I search their faces, wondering.  They filtered past me  a few moments before, in the snow, outside the door as I tried to make a cell phone call, their bus bringing them from the airport.  A few hours earlier they stood in a battlezone waiting for med-evac.   I worked my way back inside to my new recruit.  Before the doorway I wait as a soldier sits up on his gurney and transfers to a wheelchair.  

"Don't forget your bible now," they remind him and a quick scan of the gurney finds the worn volume that has accompanied him to the desert and back.  

Back in the lobby we wait for the last bus.  A series of department representatives make their way in to brief the new arrivals. They will be admitted. They will all undergo TBI – traumatic brain injury – screening.  And they are instructed to call their mothers. In no uncertain terms.  Call home first they are told.  There will be congressional inquiries and desperate searches for them from stateside family if they are remiss.  No mistake – their mothers need to hear they have arrived and know when they will be home. 

It is different now.  I used to look at soldiers through the eyes of a wife.  In many ways I still do.  I think of that three year old boy waiting for his Daddy.  I think of his wife who is doubtless counting down til her husband is home and they can get "back to normal".  

But today I sit next to my own son who will join their ranks soon. I look at their backpacks.  Did I ever notice before that their blood types are written on them?  I think of my once baby boy, and my friend Lisa's marine son, our old friends back home whose son is a Reservist, countless other stories we have heard. Looking around me it seems all I can see are mama's, there in spirit, holding vigil at home.  

This is a different sort of feeling. I became used to letting go of my husband, though it never got easier.  I am just beginning to learn to let my babies go. It seems this will be even harder. All these years of protective instincts on high alert. Then one day you are supposed to turn those off as they venture off without you.  How do we do this? 

I think we never really do this.  That is why along with instructions for administrative paperwork there is the directive – Call home. Whether it is a literal battlefield or a spiritual battlefield, at some point they all go out to fight their battles without you. And you suffer, you cry, you want more than anything to turn back time and enjoy the absolute certainty of looking at a living room strewn with Legos and goldfish crackers knowing that, at that moment, all is well. It is a small window of time in their lives where we believe we have the ability to completely protect and control. And it doesn't last long.

"You ok?" asks the young Marine with the wheelchair who has come to retrieve the soldier by my side. 

"Hmmph," is all he musters. 

"It's ok," says the Marine in reply,"you're here now and we'll take care of you." 

"I don't need a wheelchair."  The soldier has found his voice. 

"Uh, you sure?" 

"I don't need a wheelchair," he insists.

We all watch as he works himself to his feet, gets his weight balanced between his crutches, and makes his way to the hallway.  I pray for his healing, in all the ways he will need to heal.  For his wife, his babies.  And for his mother.  

I look over at my son, assuring me with confidence and courage.  "It's ok, Mom."  

I search his eyes and try to interpret his response.  Is it denial? Naivete? Then I understand.  It is simply faith.  The one realization I have had watching and talking to this boy-turned-man is that my children have tended to believe what I say.  Reality is, this makes me pause and consider the extent to which *I* have believed what I was saying all these years. In the night I have done battle with crazy fears and nagging doubts.  Was he really meant to do this?  This one?  What if…?  Should I have said more?  Less? 

That torrent of panic is stopped in its tracks when I remember his face and my children's words.  It either all makes sense and is falling into place exactly as it should or nothing makes sense and is all just a random series of meaningless disasters.  I remember the words of a friend many years ago, when I was first carrying these babies, telling me that my children's stories have already been written upon the heart of God.  He knows what lies on every page. He is good.  Whatever He allows will be for our ultimate good.  Now I must choose to believe and rest in that peace or be overcome with torment.  

I choose Him.

I choose peace.