To the Willing

By Sunny Fry

Today, there's a lot that will be said about our armed forces, words of honor and praise, with flags and bands and a gaggle of politicians using the occasion to get face recognition.  You deserve the honor, but rather than saying something about you, as I sat to write, I wanted to write something to you.

I know you.  You served with my son, who's safe home now and taking advantage of that marvelous GI bill.  You met me when we went to drop him off, a group of you barreling down the barracks steps in your lousy loose shower shoes, and told me confidently not to worry, that you had his back.  I was with you when you left on that hot, hot day in your full uniforms, sweating and miserable, and all of you still looking so competent and strong and confident, and I felt better when I realized that he wasn't going to have to handle the whole thing all by himself -- that you would be with him, and you were trained and prepared and tough.  And that you loved him, as he loved you.

We sent care packages to many of you, and understand that you all got so many toothbrushes that the chaplain put together a dental hygiene program for the surrounding area's children with all the donated supplies.  The cookies all the mothers sent were crumbs by the time you got them -- I hope some of the love that went into them lingered.  And I should have invested in Chef Boyardee stock, as popular as canned ravioli and spaghetti turned out to be.  And Marlboro, and Copenhagen.  And baby wipes and powdered drink mix and beef jerky and white cotton socks and Lotramin.  And Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

Your mothers and your wives commiserated, exchanged email addresses and cell numbers, because nobody understands what it's like to wake up praying and go to sleep praying except someone who's there, too.  They formed, much like you did, a strong bond which transcended race, politics, geography and education.  We called each other at all hours, gave advice, shared encouragement, assembled tributes for the families of those lost, and plotted what other ways we could help make your deployment just the smallest bit easier.  We loved each other in the same way you loved the people you were serving with.

We prayed for you.

And we were there when you came home, standing with the other families, some of whom came to welcome you even though their sons and husbands had come home earlier in flag-draped boxes.  It reminded, in the most gut wrenching way, that there's always a cost, and that somebody's got to be willing to pay it.

You are, all of you, imperfect human beings.  You are college graduates and high school dropouts, stringently honest and born creative requisitioners, loving faithful spouses and horn-dogs.  You're sometimes smart and sometimes not; sometimes friendly and sometimes angry.  You're the face of America in a microcosm, with this one specific, important exception.

You are willing.

No nation can long stand without strong, competent young men and women who agree to give over control of their lives for some period to an authority whose sole purpose is to most effectively move them into harm's way.  To let themselves be pushed and starved and shouted into cohesion, because the unit has to work together to survive.  To give up the familiar comforts of Burger King and a queen-sized bed to travel to hot, dusty places where the people are strangers who may want to hurt them.  The popularity of the war isn't the point.  The ignorance of the people giving opinions isn't the point.  What matters first of all is that you are willing.  And because you are willing, we owe you our attention to the news, consideration and help to your families, election of smart leaders who will not use your dedication carelessly, and a debt of gratitude we cannot repay. 

Thank you. 

            

We sent care packages to many of you, and understand that you all got so many toothbrushes that the chaplain put together a dental hygiene program for the surrounding area's children with all the donated supplies.  The cookies all the mothers sent were crumbs by the time you got them -- I hope some of the love that went into them lingered.  And I should have invested in Chef Boyardee stock, as popular as canned ravioli and spaghetti turned out to be.  And Marlboro, and Copenhagen.  And baby wipes and powdered drink mix and beef jerky and white cotton socks and Lotramin.  And Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

Your mothers and your wives commiserated, exchanged email addresses and cell numbers, because nobody understands what it's like to wake up praying and go to sleep praying except someone who's there, too.  They formed, much like you did, a strong bond which transcended race, politics, geography and education.  We called each other at all hours, gave advice, shared encouragement, assembled tributes for the families of those lost, and plotted what other ways we could help make your deployment just the smallest bit easier.  We loved each other in the same way you loved the people you were serving with.

We prayed for you.

And we were there when you came home, standing with the other families, some of whom came to welcome you even though their sons and husbands had come home earlier in flag-draped boxes.  It reminded, in the most gut wrenching way, that there's always a cost, and that somebody's got to be willing to pay it.

You are, all of you, imperfect human beings.  You are college graduates and high school dropouts, stringently honest and born creative requisitioners, loving faithful spouses and horn-dogs.  You're sometimes smart and sometimes not; sometimes friendly and sometimes angry.  You're the face of America in a microcosm, with this one specific, important exception.

You are willing.

No nation can long stand without strong, competent young men and women who agree to give over control of their lives for some period to an authority whose sole purpose is to most effectively move them into harm's way.  To let themselves be pushed and starved and shouted into cohesion, because the unit has to work together to survive.  To give up the familiar comforts of Burger King and a queen-sized bed to travel to hot, dusty places where the people are strangers who may want to hurt them.  The popularity of the war isn't the point.  The ignorance of the people giving opinions isn't the point.  What matters first of all is that you are willing.  And because you are willing, we owe you our attention to the news, consideration and help to your families, election of smart leaders who will not use your dedication carelessly, and a debt of gratitude we cannot repay. 

Thank you.