A Letter Home

“Dear Mother,” It began. Neatly printed on MCRD letterhead, it began in ink and ended in pencil. I know not whether the pen went dry or it was written in two sittings. I do know that I read it three times and I wept.

My firstborn son has been gone for four weeks. It is the longest period of time I have ever been separated from him and it is not what I expected. I suppose neither of us anticipated the gravity of this separation, but who can prepare for the babe-in-arms turned young man taking leave from his family? The one who taught me how to be a mother by enduring colic for the first three months of his life. The one who clung to me in the night as the squeaks from a house invading bat terrified us. The first one to speak and call me Mom.

He is so much like me. Stubborn. Opinionated. Steely-eyed. Brave. I have rarely been able to say no to him though I’m sure he sees it much differently. Perhaps I was too hard on him. Perhaps I wasn’t hard enough. Regardless, my 18-year-old son is now living life on his own terms having gleaned what kernels of knowledge he could from my not-always-capable hands.

“I’m having fun here. I miss home but I’ll be back soon enough.”

These are probably the last words I expected my recruit to write. When I think of words to describe boot camp, “fun” is probably the last word I would use. I wonder what he means by fun? Is waking up to lights blaring while he scrambles and scurries to prepare for morning inspection by his DI(drill instructor) fun? My son, who refused to climb out of bed before 9:00am, and never with a smile, is scurrying around like a bedraggled mouse while the DI hollers and grunts. I have worried….does he whimper? Is he sick? Nope. He’s having fun. Go figure.

Ready for Duty

When my little one was five he insisted that he wanted to be a soldier for Halloween. I plucked down $50 for an authentic camouflage outfit from Uncle Sams, much to my boy’s delight. I bought the helmet, canteen, belt and rifle, and there was nary a day he didn’t prance around in that get-up. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, shouting orders at his little brother, throwing the heavy metal grenade, getting lectured by his Kindergarten teacher for bringing a dummy bullet to school. I guess I thought he outgrew it. I supposed all of those hours spent playing were only that, play. And now he is there, living out his imaginings, drilling with other soldiers-to-be, and taking the orders he once gave. I have never been so simultaneously proud and terrified at the same time.

“We pray every night…”

Teenagers!

There isn’t a moment in the past four weeks that I haven’t prayed for my son, except maybe while I was asleep. How I have hoped that he was okay and not laying on the floor with a DI boot to his cheek. But there could not be any better report than this; that he is praying to God for help. It reminds me of one of my favorite verses, Psalm 46:1 “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” My son is in the hands of Almighty God and he is safe there. Where I cannot hold him, God will. Where I cannot console him, God will. I have, by some miracle–regardless of my foolishness and brokenness–given him the only tool he really needs in life, the knowledge that God is there with him and all he need do is call out.

It seems like just a few moments ago we were pal-ing around; laughing at the stinky gorillas at the zoo, hiking through the woods searching for morels, reading stories and singing ourselves to sleep. My sweet little guy isn’t so little anymore and it’s truly hard to believe.

“I miss home. Tell everyone I love them. I’ll write when I can but in the meantime, I love you.”

I miss and love you too, Son.