My former Marine and my future Marine are working out in our garage. Doing the “Murph” on Memorial Day. Some Marine chant/song just finished, situated between a lot of other death metal songs, which supplied all of the motivation I needed to relocate from our front porch to my spot in the living room.
In a string of events related to enlisting our son in the Marines this past month, I am more aware than ever that there is something in these boys and men that I do not possess and will never understand.
I wore a red shirt, nice jeans, heels and pearl earrings so I could channel strength and red, white, and blue while not feeling the least bit patriotic, entering the recruiting office that Monday morning. I've seen it coming for a dozen years, but this meeting was only scheduled after a 5-minute conversation with the recruiter the previous Thursday (after a 5-minute heads up with a house full of people).
I thought we were giving permission for our 17-year-old son to train with the Marines a couple of days a week and to undergo medical testing as a safety and liability measure. I learned the following week that “that” was called “enlisting”. Even though he is still free to change his mind for the next year. Even though he “swore in” during his medical exam. All which I learned after the fact, in casual conversation with my husband and son, in two separate coversations in the span of a week.
Annnd, I found a threshhold.
I called the recruiter and told them there is no WAY it should be possible for a mother to go through this process and be able to miss these very important details. I’m not dumb, I was paying close attention, and THIS IS HARD ENOUGH WITH GOOD INFORMATION!
He listened, said he saw me reading the papers we signed, so thought I understood, and put me on the phone with his boss. I unsuccessfully try not to call him names in my head.
Still at the recruiting office, I thought I was holding it together pretty well until the recruiter said to my son, “In the event you pass away, your beneficiary will receive $500,000, who would you like that to be?” My husband looked at me, with my wet face growing wetter, turned back around and said, “You should probably just make it me.” Or something like that.
That very question is the reason this whole thing can turn my blood to ice and my dry eyes into wet ones. I can’t seem to separate Marines, war, and death in my mind. But, I’m trying.
I am haunted by unopened letters written by my grandmother to her son during the Vietnam war. My Uncle was drafted and later killed at age 20. My brother is named after him. My Dad, also in the war and privy to the situation surrounding his death in real time, escorted his body home.
Yesterday, my stepmom and I placed our hand on my Dad’s shoulder as we listened to Taps in church. She and I were tearful. He was stoic, standing as straight and strong as ever.
And this is what I am talking about. I don’t get what these men are made of.
While I was still enjoying the front porch, I heard the familiar clank of the extension ladder being placed against our tree. My husband, hanging a full-sized American flag in the Oak tree in our front yard, just like he does every year. Strong. Faithful. Proud. Free.
I remain proud and in awe of the Marine I married. He knows what is important, does what needs doing before anyone else notices, asks, or does it themselves. I am proud, yet angsty about the Marine we’ve raised. I remind myself that my husband is the product of the institution he is entering, which helps. A little. He is still the one I’m trying to let go of, while supporting him in his lifelong dream and tickling his back at night, like his little 4-year-old self.
I am grateful to those who are serving, will serve, have served, and to those who lost their lives in service of our country, as well as people like my Dad who brought them home. God bless you all who continue to honor their sacrifice by living your best life and never forgetting.
