I often see those military reunion videos on my Facebook
feed, particularly around Veteran’s Day or Memorial Day. The ones where a kiddo is surprised by their
military dad at a school pep rally or a wife on the evening shift at work, a
surprise reunion after time apart from one another. They always leave me needing a towel to dry
all of my happy tears and a rush of joy intermingling with those of the happily
reunited families on the recordings.
What I have never seen, however, is a video of the goodbye 6
or 9 or 12 months before these happy reunions.
They don’t document stress filled weeks leading up to the
departure day with one hundred trips to the military supply store to get all of
the gear that is needed for the venture.
The packing lists that keep changing as the day gets closer and the
random gear spread throughout the house, ready to be put on the airplane to
some far away place you’ve only imagined of in your head.
They don’t show all the opportunities for friends and family
to say goodbye to the soldier, too. The going away parties filled with American
flag balloons, the dinners with friends and good bottles of wine, or the
prayers at church for the safety of your soldier. No one wants to miss an opportunity to give
your soldier a hug and wish him well.
They don’t display the fear that builds up as the day to say
goodbye draws near. The desperate need
to spend every minute together, to make every second count, because you know there
will be many days before your family is reunited again. You pray these aren’t the last memories you
have of him.
They don’t show the conversations that no one wants to have
about what he wants you to do if he doesn’t come home. Or what happens if he
comes home, but it isn’t him anymore. Because
he isn’t going on a business trip, he’s going to a war zone.
They don’t show your little one toddling around the front
room asking for dada and you know they’re too little to explain that dada isn’t
going to be home for a very long time. How you crumble every time you look into
his closet and see every uniform gone….how you long for a pair of boots to be
taking up space next to the door to the garage.
They don’t capture those last few hours, just the two of you
in his office, not wanting to break down but knowing it is only with God that
you will have the strength to hold it together until you see him walk away from
you. Wanting to say every word you’ve
never said but unable to speak without emotion clouding your voice and tearing
apart any words that try to come out.
You don’t want to stop holding his hand or memorizing the wrinkles
around his eyes or reminding him how absolutely adored and loved he is and that
you will be waiting when he comes home. No one's there to capture your good-bye, where neither one of you has the strength to take the first step away, but you know that it is inevitable and you shut the car door behind you and drive away.
There’s no Facebook videos of the sobs as your heart breaks
on your drive home and he’s not in the front seat next to you. You
pray that that isn’t the last time he holds you that tightly.
No one wants to watch those videos…they’re too hard on the
heart. I now know from personal experience.
Someone handed me a baby, and for the next nine months, it’s
just the two of us.
