MILITARY SPOUSES
Author Unknown
It was just another harried Wednesday afternoon trip to the commissary
(that's a military grocery store). My husband was off teaching other young
men how to fly. My daughters were going about their daily activities,
knowing I would return to them bearing, among other things, their favorite
fruit snacks, frozen pizza, and all the little extras you never write down
on a grocery list.
My list, by the way, was in my 16-month old daughter's mouth, and I was
lamenting the fact that the next four aisles of needed items would have to
wait while I extracted the list from her mouth. And in the middle of all
this, I nearly ran over an old man.
This man clearly had no appreciation for the fact that I had only 45
minutes left to finish the grocery shopping, pick up my four-year old from
tumbling class, then get to school where my 12-year old and her carpool
friends would be waiting.
I knew men didn't belong in a commissary, and this old guy was no
exception. He stood in front of the soap selections, staring blankly, as if
he'd never had to choose a bar of soap in his life. I was ready to bark an
order at him when I noticed a small tear on his face.
Instantly this grocery aisle roadblock transformed into a human. "Can I
help you find something?" I asked. He hesitated, then told me he was looking
for soap.
"Any one in particular?" I queried.
"Well, I'm trying to find my wife's brand of soap."
I reached for my cell phone so he could call his wife, and as I pulled it
out he said, "She died a year ago, and I just want to smell her again."
Chills ran down my spine. I don't think the 22,000-pound
mother-of-all-bombs could have had the same impact. As tears welled up in my
eyes, my half-eaten grocery list didn't seem so important. Neither did fruit
snacks or frozen pizza.
I spent the remainder of my time in the commissary that day, listening to a
man tell the story of how important his wife was to him; how she took care
of their children while he served our country. A retired, decorated World
War II pilot, who flew missions to protect Americans, still needed the
protection of a woman who served him at home.
My life was forever changed that day. Every time my husband works too late
or leaves before the crack of dawn, I try to remember the sense of
importance I felt that day in the commissary.
Sometimes the monotony of laundry, housecleaning, grocery shopping, and
family taxi driving leaves military wives feeling empty; the kind of
emptiness that is rarely fulfilled when our husbands come home, then don't
want to or can't talk about work.
We need to be reminded at times of the important role we fill for our
family and our country. Military wives aren't any better than other wives,
but we are different.
Other spouses get married and look forward to building equity and putting
down roots. Military spouses get married and know they'll spend years in
temporary housing, so the roots have to be short for frequent transplanting.
Other spouses say goodbye to their spouse for a business trip and know they
won't see them for a week. Military spouses say goodbye to their deploying
spouses and know they won't seem them for months, or a year, or even longer.
Other spouses get used to saying "hello" to friends they see all the time.
Military spouses get used to saying "goodbye" to friends they've made in the
past couple of years.
Other spouses worry about being late to Mom's house for Thanksgiving
dinner. Military spouses worry about getting back from Japan in time for
Dad's funeral.
I will say, without hesitation, that military spouses pay just as high a
price for freedom as do their active-duty husbands and wives
Author Unknown
It was just another harried Wednesday afternoon trip to the commissary
(that's a military grocery store). My husband was off teaching other young
men how to fly. My daughters were going about their daily activities,
knowing I would return to them bearing, among other things, their favorite
fruit snacks, frozen pizza, and all the little extras you never write down
on a grocery list.
My list, by the way, was in my 16-month old daughter's mouth, and I was
lamenting the fact that the next four aisles of needed items would have to
wait while I extracted the list from her mouth. And in the middle of all
this, I nearly ran over an old man.
This man clearly had no appreciation for the fact that I had only 45
minutes left to finish the grocery shopping, pick up my four-year old from
tumbling class, then get to school where my 12-year old and her carpool
friends would be waiting.
I knew men didn't belong in a commissary, and this old guy was no
exception. He stood in front of the soap selections, staring blankly, as if
he'd never had to choose a bar of soap in his life. I was ready to bark an
order at him when I noticed a small tear on his face.
Instantly this grocery aisle roadblock transformed into a human. "Can I
help you find something?" I asked. He hesitated, then told me he was looking
for soap.
"Any one in particular?" I queried.
"Well, I'm trying to find my wife's brand of soap."
I reached for my cell phone so he could call his wife, and as I pulled it
out he said, "She died a year ago, and I just want to smell her again."
Chills ran down my spine. I don't think the 22,000-pound
mother-of-all-bombs could have had the same impact. As tears welled up in my
eyes, my half-eaten grocery list didn't seem so important. Neither did fruit
snacks or frozen pizza.
I spent the remainder of my time in the commissary that day, listening to a
man tell the story of how important his wife was to him; how she took care
of their children while he served our country. A retired, decorated World
War II pilot, who flew missions to protect Americans, still needed the
protection of a woman who served him at home.
My life was forever changed that day. Every time my husband works too late
or leaves before the crack of dawn, I try to remember the sense of
importance I felt that day in the commissary.
Sometimes the monotony of laundry, housecleaning, grocery shopping, and
family taxi driving leaves military wives feeling empty; the kind of
emptiness that is rarely fulfilled when our husbands come home, then don't
want to or can't talk about work.
We need to be reminded at times of the important role we fill for our
family and our country. Military wives aren't any better than other wives,
but we are different.
Other spouses get married and look forward to building equity and putting
down roots. Military spouses get married and know they'll spend years in
temporary housing, so the roots have to be short for frequent transplanting.
Other spouses say goodbye to their spouse for a business trip and know they
won't see them for a week. Military spouses say goodbye to their deploying
spouses and know they won't seem them for months, or a year, or even longer.
Other spouses get used to saying "hello" to friends they see all the time.
Military spouses get used to saying "goodbye" to friends they've made in the
past couple of years.
Other spouses worry about being late to Mom's house for Thanksgiving
dinner. Military spouses worry about getting back from Japan in time for
Dad's funeral.
I will say, without hesitation, that military spouses pay just as high a
price for freedom as do their active-duty husbands and wives
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