To Those Who Serve

"This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it." --Psalm 118:24

Lately I’ve had some heavy things weighing on my heart, and it’s hard to write about more light-hearted subjects with more important things running through my head. Though I’ve tried to push such thoughts away when it comes to putting words on the page, my motivation for triviality has fallen flat. So I’ve realized that maybe it’s time to do just that—time to address the things that matter most.

On certain days my heart sinks as soon as I pull in to the parking lot at work. It has nothing to do with my workload that day or a busy schedule; it’s the flag in front of my Division Headquarters that gets me. Most days it flies high and mighty and proud above the building for all to see. But more often than it should, it flutters quietly at half-mast, the same level as the monument that stands across from it to honor the soldiers from Fort Drum who have died from combat. And when the flag is at half-mast, it usually means one thing: we will be adding another name to the plaque on that monument.

If only it were just a name.

Not a life. Not a son or daughter, father or mother, brother, sister, cousin, friend.

Maybe I was naïve when I signed up to be in the Army, devoting a what seemed like a huge chunk of my young life to military school and a mandatory five years of service after. It made perfect sense when I was still starry-eyed and didn’t really know, when I only thought of it as an honorable way to contribute to society like my own father did, and at the same time an opportunity for a great education and exciting job once I graduated.

My disillusionment didn’t last long, but I was already bound by contract. So I quickly learned in the “real” Army to still put every ounce of effort I had in to a job I disliked, a job with significantly less value than I’d anticipated when I first raised my right hand eight years ago. I learned to grit my teeth when hearing the same elusive phrases during meetings, the ones that meant we would be wasting more time and getting nowhere. I learned to choke down the guilt each time I walked out the door to a little voice saying “Mommy, I don’t want you to go to work!”…or worse yet, the shame and hurt when that little voice didn’t even care to acknowledge me when I arrived home because it was so customary for me to be gone. And when so many well-meaning people happened to see my uniform in public and thank me for my service, I've learned to smile graciously, trying to push aside the bitterness while thinking, “it's not me you should be thanking...if only you knew.”

But these things don't hold a candle to what so many others have been through.

And that’s what these last few years—specifically the past few months—have really taught me. What I do and how I serve is just a miniscule cog in the big green machine. My work pales in comparison to the work of others with whom I serve; my sacrifices are small. I can lament all day long about the things I didn’t consider when signing up, but in reality the sacrifices I continue to watch others make paint a pretty rosy picture for me.


Those sacrifices are many, too many. Out of respect for privacy I’ll not go in to detail, but I will say this: I did not sign up so I could helplessly wipe away the tears of a young and newly widowed mother, or to watch friends’ lives turned upside down and inside out as they face a completely altered future and navigate the twisted annals of the army medical system. I did not sign up so I could name the names of classmates or those from my unit now memorialized. I didn’t sign up to face that flag on the days it floats at half-mast, knowing that I will soon be verifying the information to put on this year’s plaque—knowing that for each name on the plaque there are three or four times as many injured Soldiers at a hospital somewhere figuring out how to redefine their lives. And these are just the Soldiers; beyond each one, there is another family rallying around a hospital bed or left at a gravesite, begging to wake up from their nightmare. Though each of these Soldiers may have signed on the dotted line, none truly signed up for this.

The weeks leading up to the 10th Anniversary of September 11th only stoked the fire for me. Our nation was suddenly roused to incredible patriotism, patriotism that’s seemed sadly latent for much of the past ten years. Yes, as a nation it was important to reflect on the monumental events of 9/11 that changed the course of our history forever, but I can’t help but feel that it was all been a bit sensationalized. As I digested the mounting number of news stories and radio shows on the subject, all analyzing the events and trying to somehow reinvent their meaning (as the news must do), my frustration also mounted. Were the other anniversaries not so important? Those really touched by the tragedies certainly grieved just as much in previous years. On most days there was no buzzing media trying to make headlines out of their tragedy or support them through their grief. The families and friends of victims as well as a growing group of affected soldiers and their families have had to live with the true reality of those events every day for the past ten years.

It’s easy in these instances to ask, “why?”

It’s easier yet for me to ask a more pointed question: “why them, and why have we been so lucky?”

I posed this question to my husband one night a few weeks ago, wondering aloud why so many good people have to suffer through such unjust sacrifice, and wondering why we haven’t (yet?) been tested as such. Not that I’m inviting tragedy, by any means. But none of the wonderful people I love were asking to go through their trials, either. “I almost wonder if that’ll be us soon,” I said to Peter.

“Well, we can’t just live every day in fear,” he said. And of course he’s right. But it didn’t ease my mind much until I heard some very timely words of wisdom during our priest’s sermon at church the next morning—it was like he could read my mind.

To paraphrase, (since I wasn’t exactly taking notes) he said this:

Watch TV or listen to the radio long enough and you’ll see that the world does a good job of writing off weekdays. You’ll hear complaints for every Monday, comments about living for the weekend. But we need to realize that EVERY day—Monday or not—is a gift from God. I can continue to plan for the future, but at any moment my plans for tomorrow could be completely altered. I don’t know if I’m going to wake up tomorrow or not. I may not see another Saturday again. Or my life might change drastically in some other way. But regardless of what day it is or what my life circumstances may be, every single day that we are on this earth is a gift from God, another chance to make our lives count.

Such a perfect (and perfectly simple) concept, yet so difficult in application. But the the light bulb went on for me, and it immediately challenged me to see the flip side of my previous question: instead of  asking,“why,” I should ask “what.” What have I done to make today count? And instead of seeing only the pain in others’ tragedies, I can understand that each new day they are given is also a gift. It doesn’t mean that their pain will disappear, or that their days won’t be incredibly difficult. But their days still matter, and God in His wisdom (that we so easily fail to understand) has a purpose for each new day He grants.

So instead of living in fear of the future or sorrow for others, I can let go of my woeful attitude in favor of something more meaningful. Instead of wallowing in despair or frustration when I see another headline or flag at half-mast, I can try to find a tangible way to help to carry a burden or at least send my honest, sincere gratitude to those who deserve it most. And I can always work harder on turning each heavy thought into a prayer for someone that really holds weight. In my own little bubble, I can continue to plan for a future with hope and confidence while thanking my husband more, hugging my kids tighter, turning off social media distractions and spending more time tuning in to the amazing blessings in my life right now, the ones I so easily take for granted. Even as I continue my countdown to “better” things—like getting out of the Army—I will try my best to remember that there is no guarantee for tomorrow. That I should face each day—even Mondays, even the work I wouldn't choose again—with a sense of joy, embracing them with everything in me.

Only then can I truly honor those who have sacrificed—and will sacrifice—so much more than I have. The friends who carry on with undeniable courage, the families who grieve, the names on a plaque with so much more life and meaning behind them. Maybe, just maybe I can make make this gift of today that I’ve been given truly count--not just for me, but for them.

*And thank you--you know who you are*