We interrupt this life...

Mom just contacted me to assure me my dad is okay. Apparantly, something happened today that hit the news and she wanted to be certain I wasn't quietly upset, waiting for more information. Neither of us follows the news much anymore, but she'd had the radio on because of a snow emergency.

And I find myself conflicted- happy that my dad is one of the living still, and sad for yet another family who find their hope turned to dust. Worried at the reminder. Angry that people still have the gall to insist that our all-volunteer army is "working". Well, yes, they are working and have been working very hard. You want this war, think it's a good thing? Then go. And take as many as you can convince that it's a good thing with you. You work with them.

And when you get there, tell the folks who are there how much we love them and want them to come home safe. I'm not in the mood to concede that an economic contribution is enough. It's not. We're paying for this war in heart's blood. I hate this war, and I've given more to it than many who claim that it is the only hope for this country's future.

If you're right, then give.

Folks, go check out Seeking Chivalry. Today, she has a post on the meaning of a surcoat - the garment that went over a knight's armor, and the significance that this can have for us today. There's a lot there about comfort, and about reaching beyond our comfort levels to do what is right. It's well worth reading.

Yesterday, as I walked from work to the train station, it was cold. My poor legs were stiff from it by the time I got to the station, and my hands were cold, cold cold by the time I got to the restaurant for dinner after walking from the station close to my neighborhood. Brrrr. And yet... As I walked, I enjoyed the return of the sunshine. Even a couple weeks ago, I'd have been walking in darkness, but yesterday, the sun was clear, if not enough to melt the little dots of snow that occasionally dropped from the scattered clouds in the sky. And since I was alone on the sidewalk, I sang. It was good, a moment of brightness and joy in what has come to feel like a time of darkness and tears.

To anyone who wants to say that those of us who oppose the war are giving in too easily, I want to know what *you've* actually faced, what you've actually done. Will you sit with a returning soldier, searching for the remnants of the person you once knew? Will you call up a spouse and invite them to just talk? Will you stay up at night, praying with your whole being for the wellbeing of the soldiers? Will you cry? I have.

My granny recently wrote me a note about how we at home are doing our best to carry on, worrying and feeling the pain of this deployment, yet trying to help each other as best we can. When I read that note, I cried. Not little tears that slip down the face silently, but sobs, wracking my whole body as I fought for breath, until there was nothing left in me to cry. And that's something that won't go into my letter to Dad. I'll tell him about the snow, and the singing, and the hoping he's okay, but not the crying. He's got a heavy enough burden on his shoulders.

At no point have I believed our soldiers lacked courage or the willingness to make sacrifices. They do that every day. Nor do I believe the American people as a whole lack courage. I happen to think we also have that famous Yankee levelheadedness coming back, which is causing us to ask why we've bought a pig in a poke, and what we intend to do about it now that it's turned out to be a mess of skunks in that bag. And boy, are they spraying.

It's time and more than time to turn our ingenuity, courage, and hearts to the task of cleaning up. And this one will take more than a bath in tomato juice. (For those who don't know, tomato juice is a traditional remedy to skunk spray.)