When Your Husband Travels

My daughter in law's sister wrote a blog recently about how things go wrong whenever her husband leaves on a business trip. It seems that every time he takes off, her children get sick. Normally I detest anything that reeks of one-upmanship, but it reminded me of a story from my younger married days, and I couldn't resist. Marrianne, this one's for you.

Working in telemetry on the missile program for the Department of Defense, you could loosely call my husband a rocket scientist. He flew all over the place, leaving me at home with the three boys frequently. Since there were nearly four years between each of our sons, it was normally chaotic, with each of them needing something different from the only parent available. During their school years, they were usually at three separate schools, three separate ball fields. I used to joke that I needed to have either an out of body experience or an out of mind experience. 

The most devastating of John's business trips for me, emotionally, came on one of his flights to a missile base in Hawaii. John woke up early and took the bus to Los Angeles International Airport. From there he was to catch his flight to Hawaii. John is not a really talkative man. Back then he was downright silent. He'd be gone for a couple of weeks, and during that time, we'd never hear from him. This was before cell phones. 

As it happened, John arrived at LAX early and managed to catch an early flight.  He didn't bother to inform the base that he wasn't on his scheduled flight, nor did he let me know. He just saw an opportunity to leave early and took it. Upon landing, he took an inter-island flight to Kauai, where he rented a car and checked in at his hotel, pleased to discover he had enough time to take a couple hours nap before reporting for duty at the missile test site. Consequently, he wasn't aware that the plane he was scheduled to arrive on had crashed while landing and not everyone survived. People were looking for him.

I heard about the crash on television. Knowing it was his plane, I called the base. They couldn't tell me anything. His name was not on the list of survivors. We all sat by the phones for about three hours. I was hysterical, crying and praying. John finally woke up, shaved and got into his rental car. Upon arriving at the test site, he caused quite a stir. They had him call the base, and then me. What did I do? Well, I yelled at him, of course!

That was the last trip John ever took without calling to let me know he had arrived safely. 

Flying the Flag

I've received about five emails now, reminding us to fly our flag on September 11th. Most people probably think we're strange—John raises our flag daily, weather permitting, and lowers it at the end of the day. As a veteran, he's proud of that flag.

We arrived home on 9.10.2001, from an anniversary cruise to Alaska with my sister and her husband. Jeremy, our middle son, called me from Portland shortly after the plane hit the first tower. He was up early, typical for him as part of his work as a member of the Culinary Arts school he was attending.

Our youngest son, Benjamin, was in NYC at the time, on a mission. I'll admit to having a personal struggle with him going. Our beliefs had diverged incomprehensively to me. I wasn't even supposed to have his home phone number, but we had caller ID, and it registered when he called home for his permitted Father's Day call. I had written it down, but had never used it. I just wanted to feel that I had it if there were ever an emergency. When the second plane hit, I dialed the number. When he answered, I burst into tears.

"Mom? You're not allowed to call me. Hang up! Mom? What's wrong?"

I was finally able to calm down enough to make him understand what was going on. They didn't even know. They were listening to inspirational music while doing their morning scripture readings. After we hung up from a much too brief conversation (he promised to call later, and it was much later when he finally did) he and his roommate(s) went to their roof and stayed to watch the towers collapse. Then their neighbors insisted they return back into the apartment building.

One strange thing happened that afternoon, and I want to make it clear that I don't believe in coincidences. I'll backtrack and give a bit of history. Ben and I had seen Forrest Gump together when it was in the theatre seven years before. That day he gave me one of the best compliments a parent can receive. Walking out of the movie, he asked me if I remembered when Forrest tells Jenny that she was always there for him. Of course I remembered that scene. It was beautiful and amazing.

"That's the way it is with you and me," he said. "Even when you're not right there with me, I know you're there to help if I need it."

I was speechless. Sometimes people say things that you never forget—never want to forget. He was only thirteen at the time, but had managed to touch me so deeply that the echoes of his words would always remain in my heart.

On September 11, 2001, as a country sat staring at the devastation transmitted nationwide through our small screens, the mail was delivered. Among the stack of catalogues and bills was a postcard from Ben. It contained a short note, dated four or so days earlier, telling of his visit to the twin towers. The picture on the front was a proud image of the Twin Towers, standing tall over Manhattan. From the antenna on the roof of Tower One, Ben had pasted a cartoon-like bubble with the simple message: HELP!

No. I don't believe in coincidences. I was meant to receive that postcard the day it arrived. There was tragedy, but my son was alive. I had heard his voice. He had been in The Towers days earlier, but not when they went down.

We don't get a road map through life, and few answers we don't discover on our own—and even those aren't definitive. We do, however, get our share of miracles.

Nightmare

The bus was crowded. All of the characters from my novel were crammed in the tiny seats, most of them still trying to change into their fighting costumes. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air. I was chain smoking. Where was my ash tray? Oh, yeah. I don't have one anymore. I think there are still a couple back on our deck at home. Crap. I pulled out an old metal band aid box from my borrowed leather back pack, emptying the contents back into the pack. This will be war, after all. We might need band aids. The box should work for me.

Inhaling, I realize how much I needed this. Flicking the ashes into the band aid box, I have the sudden feeling that eyes are burning a hole in the back of my neck. "This can't be happening," I yell. "It's trite. It's happened too many times before!" Still, the feeling persists. I look around cautiously. Sure enough, my mother is seated behind me, glaring at my cigarette. Too late now, I realize with a sigh, and use the band aid box again, turning my back on her. I don't know how that feels to her, but I can guess. It doesn't feel good to me.

I still need to change my costume. Looking out the window I realize we're almost to the old meadow. The fight is going to start at dawn, and I'm too tired for this. What if I fall asleep? Something tells me I'm just not good enough for the task ahead. My head bows down. I haven't decided yet if I'm going to pray or cry.

The bus hits a rock and starts careening down a sharp incline. I'm the only one screaming when I suddenly wake up.

###

I guess I might as well start writing for the day. Fixation can be fascinating.

Afterlife

I've had so many proofs of an afterlife. Some of them are simple. Some are not.

My first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains came at daybreak, peering over the back seat of the station wagon. My dad liked to drive at night. The suitcases would be piled on the rack on top of the car, and the back seat would be folded down so the four of us kids could be sandwiched onto sleeping bags together. When going from one military post to another, it made for faster travel time with less traffic. I remember waking up and sticking my head up above the seat just as the sun, coming up behind us, lit the Rockies in the distance ahead of us. They were blue and purple, crowned with snow, and glowing in the first light of morning. The car was quiet. Into the stillness I said to Mom and Dad, "Now I know for sure there's a God." Nobody felt they had to respond. It was an awesome sight.

Rainbows and hidden meadows, the giant Redwoods and shaky fawns, new babies in their surprised innocence, all have given me a glimpse of the many faces of God. Once instance from my chaotic high school years drove home to me the specific point of afterlife.

After Daddy died, my English and Journalism teacher, Mr. Holmes, kept me busier than ever. His new idea was to enter some of his students in the State Writing Championship that the Journalism Educator's Association (JEA) sponsored each year. Four of his students were accepted. We all spent considerable amounts of time at his home preparing for the competition. His wife was a wonderful woman, and his little son and daughter were sweethearts. We all became really close, and it eased the ache and emptiness in my life considerably. Keeping me busy was a tremendous gift.

His son Donny was about five or six years old, a solemn boy who adored his father. He would sit quietly in the room with us. With his big dark eyes and shaggy hair, he was something of a mascot to us all. These sessions went on for several months, culminating in a long drive together to the championship. Our sports editor came home with a trophy, and I came home with two, so we were really happy with all the help the Holmes' had given us.

The next week at school, Mr. Holmes came in to say goodbye. He informed us that he had cancer and would not be returning. Two weeks later, he was gone. He and his wife had known all during our sessions, but had kept it from us. He wanted to teach as long as possible, and the diagnosis had given him no hope.

Here's the part that makes me so sure of an afterlife. I don't remember how long it was after he died, but Mrs. Holmes called me at home. She didn't want me to hear it from someone else.

Donny had been playing outside with friends while she got lunch ready. He came running in the house, really excited, and told her that he couldn't have lunch with her, and wanted to say goodbye. The conversation, as she related it to me, went something like this...

"Where are you going, Donny?"
"I'm going to have lunch with Daddy."
"Honey, Daddy's gone. You know that."
"I know, Mommy. But he told me to say go goodbye to you, 'cause I'm having lunch with him today!"

Then Donny gave her a big hug and ran back out into the yard to continue playing with his friends. Donny was such a solemn little boy, not prone to flights of imagination. She said she was still standing at the window, crying, when it happened. Two yards away a man was mowing his lawn with a power lawnmower. The blade hit a big rock and broke off, sailing across the empty yard between, over a hedge, and hit Donny in the chest. He was killed instantly, just before noon.

So yes, I believe in an afterlife. What's more, I believe in those rare and wonderful teachers whose gifts continue to give through a lifetime.

Sunrise from the Cruise Ship

Always a night owl, as the boys got older and I began to work full time, I was lucky to have a job where management believed in flex time. I could start my hours very early and be home around the time the boys returned from school. This gave me the advantage of still being the kind of mother I needed to be. I always felt that the only part of motherhood that was optional was the fun stuff. It was also the only part I was sure they'd remember. I didn't think that in years to come they'd stand as adults in front of their bathroom mirrors saying, "Wow. I remember when my mom taught me to brush my teeth, and here I am doing it all these years later." They'd remember that I was at their baseball and basketball games, though, or that I brought my guitar or accordion to their classrooms for music. Besides, the fun stuff was more fun.

Working full time gave me a new group of friends, though, and it taught me the joy of being up early in the morning, something I had never in my entire life learned to do. I'd be on the road by five, but I'd be home by about three o'clock. Getting up early is a habit that persists to this day. I'll never regret it, even when I'm still awake and reading at midnight. I'll admit that I now add in an afternoon nap when I want to.

Not too many months after I had started working, about twenty of the women at the company put together a trip to the Mexican Riviera aboard one of the cruise ships traveling out of San Diego. It was really affordable, and with my family's blessing I signed up to go along. The cabins were tiny, deep below the water line, with little bunks; never having been on a cruise ship before, I didn't realize that there were better rooms available. This is why our passage was so reasonable, I now know, but the trip couldn't have been more wonderful for me. The food was great, and the women all got along extremely well. (Shocked about that, are you?)

By now, however, my body clock refused to let me sleep in. Even though we had been up on deck laughing and watching the ship's lights on the water until quite late, by four thirty in the morning, I was wide awake. Rather than squirm around and run the risk of disturbing my roommate, I quietly slipped from my bunk and dressed. Grabbing my key, I snuck from the room.

For some reason, I was amazed that although the hall lights were ablaze, nobody else was around. It took me quite awhile to find a cup of coffee, but once I did, I made my way to a deck rail. We had docked at Santa Catalina Island at some point during the night, and there was silence around me as dawn began to gray the sky. I sipped my coffee and watched the silhouettes of fishing boats and yachts become more visible. The air was crisp and clear, just barely on the cool side, and the light breeze off the ocean felt wonderfully refreshing. I remember that there was only one other person, a crew member, in sight. He was on a lower deck, and was doing something with the anchor.

I'm not great with distances, but I'd estimate about 75 yards away, close enough for me to see clearly in the pre-dawn light, there was a really big yacht. From out of the hatch came a man carrying what appeared to be a bag. It was a bag, but not just any bag. He carried his bag to the bow of his craft, facing the rising sun, and stood there waiting. He was facing the sunrise. I was facing him and Avalon Bay beyond, where the sun's first rays, I had heard, would turn the buildings pink. That was what I had come to see. I never saw it.

My eyes were filled with tears. As the first rays of the sun crested the ocean, the gentleman on the yacht lifted his bagpipe and began to play Amazing Grace. The world stood still. The ship slept. The night owl cried in the sunrise. I had been blessed.

The Hidden Box Under the Christmas Tree

There's that little kid in all of us, sitting under the Christmas tree. Everybody has opened up all their presents, and the one thing you wanted the most wasn't there. You really expected it. You were led to believe that it would be there. You look and look, but nothing seems to be left under the tree. You keep looking. Nobody else is watching anymore. The living room is quiet except for the TV, telling about everyone else getting what they wanted.

This morning was like that. The weatherman promised snow. I left the outside deck lights on all night long, and periodically I'd get up and look to see if it had started yet. No snow. I'd go out on the deck and peek. No snow under the trees. I'd glance up into the branches. Nope. Nothing. First thing this morning I checked the digital readout on the temperature gauge:  32°.  I turned the news on and started watching all the happy people in Colorado out playing in the snow. Newscasters were doing their man in the street interviews, and people were smiling, big fat snow flakes swirling around. I felt that inner child sitting under my emotional tree, struggling to be happy with what I'd gotten, and not grieve for what I had wanted.

Dressing in my snow coat and hat, but sockless and in my sandals, since there was, after all, no snow, I wandered out to enjoy the view from my deck. That was, after all, what I do have every day. I was just really starting to cheer up, breathing deeply and feeling that inner peace that always seems to find me in my woods, when the first flakes started drifting down. I went from peaceful to joyful faster than a child finding that one last present with their name on it, lost behind the far branches of the Christmas tree, and discovering the much desired gift inside. Thank you, Lord.