UNDERSTANDING

by Elizabeth Sinclair

 

When I was a kid, all three of my brothers served in the US Navy, two during WWII and one in the Korean War.  I can recall my mother being worried and anxiously checking the mail box for letters from them.  But, at my youthful age of about five, I don’t think I ever really understood her fear and how very deep it went.

A few years ago, I discovered an organization called Adopt a US Soldier.  I decided it was something I’d like to do to support the guys and gals putting their lives on the line for my freedom.  A few days after I signed up, I got the name and email address of “my” soldier.

Rich was a member of the National Guard from Michigan and was stationed at a detainee prison in Afghanistan outside Kabul.  He wasn’t married (divorced, I think, although he never said), but he had a granddaughter.  He talked about getting home to see her in almost all his emails.  We corresponded daily for several months and then Christmas rolled around.  I took great joy in gathering things to send him—flea collars to combat the constant annoyance of the sand fleas, dry drink mix, wet wipes, books that might interest him, a couple of phone cards, disposable cameras, socks, cookies, hard candy, suntan lotion– all of which was packed in a big box and padded with popped popcorn.

Needless to say, he was thrilled with my gift and made sure to share it among his fellow soldiers. He said the two biggest hits were the flea collars and, oddly enough, the popcorn.

A few months later, I got an email from him, and he told me he was coming home. The emails I got from him after that were filled with the joy at the prospect of seeing his granddaughter, holding her and playing with her.

Then, suddenly, there was silence, and I got a vivid taste of what my mother suffered through every time she found the mail box empty.  To make matters worse, the TV news began talking about a prison break in Afghanistan. Since there are many prisons and I had no idea which of them Rich had been stationed at, I didn’t know if he’d been involved in what was described as an explosion followed by intense gunfire.  Rich may have not been my blood son, but I’d begun to think of him as such, and the worry that something had happened to him was unbelievable.

I watched the news every day, waiting for something that would give me a clue about his whereabouts.  I emailed asking him if he was okay.  But I got no replies.  I didn’t know who his family was, so I couldn’t contact them for news. The worry intensified.

Then, on Mother’s Day, I opened my email to find a bunch of virtual violets from him and profuse apology for not letting me know that he’d been sent home early.  The relief was indescribable.  He was safe and finally able to hold his precious granddaughter.

Now, I understand my mother’s anxiety and fear.  Rich still emails me, as does his fiancé Amy. I still think of him as my second son.

If you’d like to adopt a soldier, go to www.adoptaussoldier.org  and while you’re on the Internet, sign up to donate to the Wounded Warriors Project at www.woundedwarriorsproject.org  and help those who have come home, but not as whole as they left.

God bless every man and woman fighting in foreign lands, keep them safe and bring them home very soon Barcara, Afghanistan to their families.