Once upon a
time a woman kissed her husband goodbye.
The tension
created by the anticipation of his departure dissolved as she committed him to
memory: the baby softness at the nape of
his neck, the scar from a stick wielded by his brother, the hands that could
caress their baby’s head or build a stone wall.
And his voice. Especially his
voice.
He promised
to stay safe and to return home. They
pretended the promises were guarantees, as if the words made their own reality.
Finally it
was time for him to go. One more kiss,
one more hug, one more exchange of I-love-you’s and then he walked away. She watched him until he disappeared into the
crowd, adding his walk to her collection of memories.
His absence
was a sharp pain at first, but after a while the routine of living dulled it to
an ache. Busy-ness became her business; only
activity kept her mind quiet. Thinking always
grew into worry and then dread. She
prayed, but she knew that God doesn’t always give the answer the petitioner
hopes for, and she wasn't sure which course He’d choose this time.
She heard from
her husband occasionally, and the communication was a two-edged sword. It was good to know that he was well, but
contact reopened the wound of his departure.
Days passed,
and each dawn brought her closer to his return.
She started to think again, to allow herself to make plans for their
future together.
One day she
awoke to a morning filled with primary colors, as if the world were feeling
hopeful too. She was putting on the
baby’s coat and preparing to run errands when she saw the uniformed men walking
to her door.
She could
never recall the words that were spoken, only their meaning. Her husband, her best friend, the father of
her child was gone. Their last kiss was
the last kiss. The world as she had
known it ended.
Later she
would tell her daughter about her father, about how he gave his life so she
could live without fear, free to follow her dreams. Sometimes, when the night stretched out
before her like a desert, she wished he hadn’t been willing to serve, that he
hadn’t felt compelled to answer his nation’s call, that he hadn’t been a man of
honor. But then he wouldn’t have been
the man she loved, and this conclusion always gave her a kind of peace.
On Memorial Day
Americans remember those who gave their lives in the defense of our
nation. Today I give thanks for the men and women who paid the ultimate price for my freedom. I also pray for all the loved ones left behind. May they find daily grace and peace and the courage to rebuild their lives.
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