ManBoy is Home from the War in Afghanistan

We tried.  I woke up at four am.  We drove as fast as possible.  Silly posters in hand, I ran from the car through baggage claim, up the stairs to Delta Special Services where, breathless, my lungs hurting overmuch, I explained that my son was arriving home after being stationed in Afghanistan.  Verge of tears.  I could barely talk.  I’ve never known that kind of excitement.  Weird really.

On the drive I kept telling myself to relax.  If we meet him at the gate, great.  If we wait for him in baggage claim, just fine.  There are things I cannot control.  BoyWonder.  Traffic.  My puppy-like bladder. His flight.

Turns out they landed early, a half hour early and long enough before we were standing in line to get processed through security, gate passes secured.

We met him in baggage claim, silly signs in hand.  I jumped up and down, holding the sign that said “Tango, Alpha, Charlie- we have incoming!” and  “Welcome Home SPC Dewes, our favorite soldier.”  I wrote, “That’s my son!” in the corner, so people would know. Why not?

There was no crowd in baggage.  Garret.  My brother, also known here as First Uncle.

Heath later asked if “Tango Alpha Charlie” meant something.  I told him we tried to think up a meaningful acronym, but failed.  He suggested, “Alpha, Mike, Foxtrot.”  Figure it out.  Starts with “Adios.”

On the other poster we said “Welcome Home” and listed “Happy….” fill-in-the-blank with every holiday he missed over the past year.  “Won’t it make him sad to realize how long he’s been gone?”  BoyWonder asked.

“I think he knows,” I said.   “I think he was sad on the day, believe me.  Now he’s just happy to be home.”  I added to the poster “We missed you every day!”

ManBoy’s dad and his wife, their other lovely children and her parents met Heath walking on the concourse and came downstairs with him. We all went to breakfast where my sister, her husband and one of Heath’s girl-cousins joined us at Perkins where we ate eggs, toast, and potatoes, listening to the war stories he would tell barely loudly enough for our table to hear, not so loudly the restaurant would hear.

I drank scads of coffee.  Sucked Diet Coke with my potatoes and Kielbasa sausage dipped in ketchup and yellow mustard.  I finally exhaled.

And surprised myself.

I’m so big on not worrying.  I listen to my gut, my intuition, the small voice of the Holy Spirit speaking to me.  It’s all in there.  I pray when directed and act when needed and listen, sometimes not as hard or well as I should.  But I try to make paying attention a priority.  I’ve tried to do this for a long, long time.  I’d say I’ve gotten better at it in the past twelve months.

In July, at our 25-year high school reunion, a classmate who has seen lots of duty, Afghanistan twice, assured me Heath was fine… as long as he’s not on a FOB.  I didn’t tell him at the time.  But he was on a FOB.  In a region I had researched.  Lots of action.  Research didn’t help me with the not worrying part.  I decided I would engage the listening part and the trusting God part.  That’s simple enough.  I stopped researching.

Once- just once-I felt a sense to pray especially intensely.  Heath was out on a mission… about 14 days they’d be out.  He wouldn’t have contact.  It seemed to me the longest stretch of time he’d been out of contact since his deployment.  It wasn’t.  He was just on my mind all the time during that mission.  I prayed.  I reminded God to please pay attention to ManBoy’s safety.  To please especially protect him and his entire unit.  The time ticked slowly waiting for him to get back in range where he could send a Facebook message.

That mission-where, as usual, they engaged in vertical construction- also earned him a medal for engaging the enemy or being engaged by the enemy.  I don’t know what that pin is called.  I just know what it looks like.  It goes on his chest above the US Army patch.  And I know what it feels like being here at home while your oldest son is earning it.  That’s what I know.

I also know my radar works.  And prayer works.  And love matters.  I know that for certain.

I’m a little surprised how tired I am today.  But I shouldn’t really be so surprised when I consider that even when the rest of life has been happening, while I’ve grown close to friends Heath hasn’t even been here to meet, while I’ve changed careers and happily divorced, and lived all by myself for the very first time in my life, I’ve also been holding my breath every day.  Just a little.  Just a tiny little bit every single day.

Even when I wasn’t consciously thinking about the fact my beautiful, sweet, strong 23-year old son was living across the world on a Forward Operations Base on the rim of the desert in the most dangerous part of Afghanistan in the middle of a war.  Even then.

You bet I nearly bawled talking to the gate agent.  And talking to the man in the line at security who told me his nephew has been there just four months, eight to go.  Of course I teared up and could hardly answer when First Uncle said, “excited?”

But it makes sense now.

Of course it hurt my lungs to run from the car to the ticket agent.  Of course my chest was tight like it hasn’t been in years.  Of course I could feel my pulse in my ears, a rush of blood whirling circles around my jugular.

Of course.

It hurts to let it out when you’ve been holding your breath that long.  Especially when you don’t know you’ve been doing it.