Influencers, media personalities, and social media users on every side are seizing upon this Iran conflict ( call it what you like, but it looks like war to me ) to profess opinions as facts, insist they know the "true reasons," Trump attacked, and vilify or ridicule anyone who disagrees. While they bicker, a different kind of conflict is quietly unfolding for military families.
The dread hit when we realized someone we love is now in an active combat zone. Fear followed. It’s only a matter of time, we all knew, before casualties would be announced. None of the other noise mattered.
We did our best to go about our days - to call our clients, attend our meetings, negotiate deals- whatever our careers may entail. Parents of young children mustered extra resolve as they worked to shield their children from their fear.
And then it came.
First it was four confirmed casualties. Then six.
Every military family held its breath.
We scoured news reports. We texted our person. We prayed for a reply. We saw the bases get hit. We learned the base our person is on was hit. We stared at our silent phones, or we texted one another; “Have you heard anything?”
And in those moments, we all faced a nauseating realization:
If we pray that it wasn’t our person, that means we are praying it was someone else’s.
In order for our person to be ok, someone else’s family must be devastated.
It seems like a normal prayer to pray until it’s framed like that.
Before the names were announced, before those six doorbells even rang, people were pronouncing those losses to be in vain, or to have served no purpose in protecting America.
In my world, I recalled what I knew of the protocol from 21 years ago, when my doorbell rang. When my husband was killed.
It took about 12 hours from the time of death to the time my doorbell rang. Maybe 13. I believe they had a policy about not arriving before 6 am.
Business hours.
So I figured, if our doorbell didn’t ring in 12 hours, even if we hadn’t heard from our person, our family would be spared.
This time.
We heard from our person several hours later.
We exhaled.
We prayed for forgiveness; our relief felt wrong. We prayed that the families of those six fallen would be wrapped in grace.
And then started the next round of waiting in dread, as the base was hit again, and no word was received.
Whether a military family supports this war or not, we will all cycle through this process perhaps dozens of times before our person returns home.
Maybe that’s my message here: The people we pass every day may be carrying burdens we cannot see: grief, sacrifice, memories that haunt them. Military and first responder families live with those realities more than most. So if there is one small thing we can do, it’s this:
Loathe the war- we all do.
But love the warrior.
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