Sorry, folks

The toll of the last few months is seriously catching up to me, I think, and I'm finding myself just weary, weary, weary.

Last night, my dad called to let me know he's finally completed this tour, and is once again free to go on vacation, attend a conference, attend to his business, and all the rest of the stuff he hasn't done for months. Unfortunately, he called while I was out, so I got the message from voice mail, and just stood there, thinking that I should be happier, that this was the first time I'd heard him since he'd come back. But mostly I was thinking that I really wanted a shower, but should I do that first or get some sleep first?

I've used all my vacation for the last year, and the one day I have left is already committed for the coming home party. I don't get any more days off until the middle of July, and right now, that seems a very long time away indeed.

Luckily, my weekends are relatively free. I plan to do some sleeping in, visit the local meetinghouse's strawberry festival, and maybe catch a movie tomorrow. And Sunday is a picnic. And maybe I can get a couple hours of unpaid leave...

Vulnerability

Over at Peterson Toscano's blog, he has a a post on the power and vulnerability of sharing stories. His post specifically addresses the situation of people who have gone through ex-gay programs, but it spoke to the vulnerability I have sometimes felt as I posted some of the most difficult moments of the last year.

Recently, another regular reader wrote to me that my descriptions had taken her on an emotional journey as she followed my posts on the day-to-day waiting through my dad's deployment. And I found myself glad that I could share the deep tenderness and vulnerability of the wait, the fear, the fierce gladness of occasional contacts, the sadness and worry of hearing each time of another death, the heartsickness of not knowing, and the necessity of "sucking up and soldiering on."

I can remember wandering around a farm market in PA this February, clutching a cell phone, wondering whether I was really there or just some kind of wandering spirit, lost among the colorful quilts and hothoused produce... Dad's voice had a 5-second lag, as it was transmitted from him to a satellite to the phone in my hand, and I could hear that the concept of "home" didn't seem to mean much to him. He asked for descriptions of the market, and told me about the anguish of not being able to carry out a soldier's body, despite the requests of the rest of the troop, because it would have robbed precious seconds from his just barely living comrade, and possibly endangered the rescue mission.

But the one thing not in Iraq that did seem real to him was the blanket I'd made. He wanted to hear the names of every single person who had worked on it, the colors, the stitches. So, there I was, feeling like my spirit wasn't in the room, but was trying to be transmitted by sattelite, trying to give him the life, the calmness of the farm market, that seemed just out of reach for me, as well.

I want people to understand the costs of this war, not just intellectually, but with the wrench in the gut, the pure misery of that half hour, the sorrow of watching my dad flinch when a hummer drove past the restaurant we were eating in last summer, or hearing how he dropped to the floor, rolling under a desk when the heating system in his office kicked in, just before he was deployed again.

And I know that some of what I write can't be easy to read. Most Americans, it feels like, don't want to really understand what we're paying. As I was hearing my mom tell me that my dad had landed in Kuwait, I could also hear a couple of my coworkers discussing the latest "American Idol" and that also felt unreal. Is there really a world where my mom and I are sharing that heartfelt relief while someone else is discussing this total irrelevancy? Or is it that mine is the irrelevancy?

Over the weekend, Cindy Sheehan declared herself to be burnt out, and I really am not surprised. It's hard to even share my story, and hers... well, carrying on with only a small blog and a living soldier is hard enough for me. Dealing with the death of her son in the full glare of the spotlight must have been... oy.

But I do not agree with her analysis that this is it. I believe that her exhaustion and grief have led her to despair, but that only makes it more important for other stories to come forward, for people to understand that it's not just one story, it's all the stories. It's the story of thousands of families like mine, living with grinding fear. It's the story of every single soldier who has died in this conflict. It is the story of every single soldier who has returned wounded in body or soul. It is the story of every single Iraqi. Period. It is the story of what we could do, if we used the resources of this country properly rather than for personal enrichment at the cost of blood. It is the fact that every single military family, every Iraqi, every American has been sold for thirty pieces of silver, and it is a story that needs to be told.

Relief

The receptionist at my office came over to my desk...

"Your mom is on the phone." My mouth went dry, my heart was pounding. I knew what she said she'd do if it was bad news, and instead of a call, I'd be getting my husband showing up at the office, but I still practically ran for the phone.

He's out of Iraq.

But the war goes on without him. Unfortunately, he will still have the war within himself. While I have a deep, deep sense of relief, I also know what he was like when he came back last time, taut and jumpy, scanning every shadow, jumping at the sound of trucks, ready to react at any second, yet sometimes sitting and staring at nothing - watching the program listings on the television just to have something to look at, sometimes just staring at empty walls. This time, at least I know what to expect.

And this is what disgusts me when representatives of this administration claim to understand the sacrifices my family has made. Have they ever anxiously scanned the face of someone they knew and loved, looking for some trace of that person in the familiar face? Have they sat up nights, worried beyond belief, knowing that all they can do is send an email that may not be read for days? Waited hopefully for a phone call? Prayed that some trace of the person they know will survive in the body that returns?

When I went to send Dad off this time, I was literally sick to my stomach, my stomach refusing to accept the situation. Ms. Rice, Mr. Bush, until you've had to lay your hands right quick on a clean shirt because you're so sickened by what's going on but still have to carry on, don't you DARE to tell me you understand.

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.)

Still sick

So I've got some cranberry rose spice herbal tea in the pot, and my hands wrapped around a steaming mug when I'm not typing. And there are animal crackers, too.

Off and on, I've crocheted on the blanket, and now, it's even big enough to cover my lap as I work on edging more squares. It seems every day I hear from someone else who has finished a square. When my mother-in-law heard about the project, she offered to work one. I have some on their way from Colorado, and one being made in Kentucky.

And I think about the place that this project touches. We have the booklets from the world wars, and the civil war, and so on that tell us "Our Boys Need Socks!" along with a knitting pattern. We have the description at the start of Little Women of four sisters sitting together and talking about the simpler Christmas they will celebrate while their father is at war. We have civil defense pamphets on every subject under the sun. And now, we have a war, a terrible war that has left thousands of American families to mourn, and Iraq in tattered ruins. And still very few Americans have been asked to sacrifice. Buy War Bonds? Nope. Put this war on plastic, thanks all the same. Grow Victory Gardens? Nah, that'd interfere with Archer Daniels Midland's profit margins. If you drive alone, you drive with the Enemy? Nope. Pull your Hummer out of the driveway and drive alone wherever you want. We'll drill more. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle? Nope.

So when the opportunity to do something, anything comes along, people have jumped at it. And most of these people have objected strenuously and loudly to the war from the start.