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You see me every day going about life as
usual - or so it appears. I
rub shoulders with you
at work. I shop at Wal-Mart and the grocery store. I
fill my car at the corner gas station. You might see me
anywhere.
Don't be deceived: My life has not been
"normal" for months. I am the
mother of an American
soldier.
Although I continue the routines of
life, I do so with a burdened
heart and distracted
mind. There are some tell-tale signs of who I
am.
I'm the one with the frayed yellow ribbon pinned
on my clothing. It
was fresh and new when my son
first deployed months ago. Even though
the war is
supposedly over, my son is in a place where bullets and
grenades are still killing our soldiers. I am
determined to wear my
ribbon until he comes home,
because it reminds me to pray for him
every minute.
When you see me wearing that ribbon, please stop and
whisper a prayer for him and all the others still
there.
My house is the one with the faded yellow
ribbons the tree in the
yard and one on the mail
post. There is an American flag on a pole
attached
to the front porch, and a small red-and-white banner
with a
blue star in the middle in my window. When my
son gave this to me
before he left, I told him that
I never wanted to cover the blue star
with a gold
one. Gold Star Mothers are the ones whose sons come home
in body bags.
When you drive by a house of
this description, please pray for the
son or
daughter overseas and for the parents waiting inside for
their
child to come home.
To those of you
who have posted yellow ribbons at your house or in
the windows of your schools, thank you. It warms my
heart every time
I see your expressions of support
for our troops.
One of the hardest things about
being the mother of an American
soldier is living
1,500 miles (how bout 2600 miles!) away from the
post of my son's unit. Wives usually live on or near
the fort, where
they can glean support from others
in the same situation. But a
mother may live across
the nation, so she feels totally alone.
Letters
rarely make their way home, and if they do, it is weeks
after
they were written. We go more than a month
without hearing anything;
then we might get a short
phone call. E-mail is out of the question
most of
the time.
Every week is like a rollercoaster
ride that I want to get off. When
I read a soldier
has been killed and his name has not been released
pending notification of kin, restlessness,
depression and insomnia
rule my life until 24 hours
have passed and the men in dress uniforms
have not
appeared at my door. I pray constantly they will never
come.
When you hold your baby close, remember we
mothers of American
soldiers held our babies, too.
Now our "babies" are putting
themselves in harm's
way for your babies.
And if you see a woman at
the store buying tuna and crackers, beef
jerky,
powdered Gatorade, baby wipes and potted meat, check to
see if
she is wearing a yellow ribbon. If so, stop
and pray for her. She is
probably the mother of an
American soldier, getting ready to send her
child
another "care package." You may see tears in her eyes or
dark circles under them.
I am there among you,
trying to carry on some semblance of a normal
life.
Like so many others,
I am the mother of an American
soldier.
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