I jumped when the phone rang at my desk at Fort Lee. That February, 2007, my son, Pat, was in Iraq, a second lieutenant in the Army. My first instinct was to fear the worst. I couldn\u2019t help it. It\u2019s a fear that haunts most military families.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m calling from the Pentagon,\u201d a woman said. My hand gripped the receiver. I knew this wasn\u2019t how the military would notify me if Pat was dead or wounded. Still, I was scared. Nine months earlier a bomb had killed my husband, John, in Iraq. I was supposed to be moving on with my life but it didn\u2019t feel like I was. Not since the morning two Army officers knocked on my door.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d sold that house in West Virginia a month after John was killed, and moved here to Fort Lee, Virginia. I started an internship on the base, training to be a logistics specialist\u2014the same kind of work that John had done in the Army. That was the plan we\u2019d worked out together. He was going to retire when he got home and cheer me on in my new career. I\u2019d just graduated from college. It seemed perfect, as if God was giving us the green light. If only.<\/p>\n
There were so many days now that I just sat at this desk and sobbed. I could sense my coworkers turning away, not knowing what to say. I didn\u2019t belong here. I didn\u2019t care about logistics anymore, how to get parts to repair a Humvee or a Stryker. That had been John\u2019s passion. It used to be mine too. We\u2019d been a team for 23 years. I felt lost without him, coming home every night to an empty apartment.<\/p>\n
All I could think about was that awful day. Those two soldiers standing at attention at my door at six-fifteen on a Monday morning. I sat across from them in the living room. \u201cThe secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deep regret\u2026\u201d one of the soldiers, the notification officer, began. I couldn\u2019t focus on what he was saying. My mind was racing. How had John died? Had he suffered? Who was with him? Were there any survivors? When would I be able to see him? What should I do first? John\u2019s paycheck was our only income. How would I pay that month\u2019s mortgage?<\/p>\n
But they couldn\u2019t tell me any of that. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, ma\u2019am. I\u2019m not able to give you that information,\u201d the officer repeated over and over again, as he was trained to do. They waited while I woke Nikki, my 20-year-old daughter. \u201cSomeone will be in touch with you within twenty-four hours,\u201d the officer told us. Then they left. They seemed nervous, as if they\u2019d been told not to stay any longer than needed.<\/p>\n
That afternoon I got an e-mail telling me that John and another soldier had been killed by a roadside bomb that exploded near their Humvee. That was all the information I was given until my casualty-assistance officer, or CAO, showed up, a day late.<\/p>\n
He couldn\u2019t answer my questions either. His job was to help me plan John\u2019s funeral. I chose to have it at Arlington National Cemetery, but I didn\u2019t care about picking out John\u2019s coffin or the order of the service. All I wanted to know was when I would be able to see John, to say goodbye.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d the CAO said. \u201cThat won\u2019t be possible. His wounds\u2014We just don\u2019t think it\u2019s something you\u2019d want to see.\u201d<\/p>\n
Who was the Army to decide what was best for me? But there was nothing I could do. The day before the service, at a funeral home near the cemetery, the CAO ushered me to a softly lit room, to a chair beside a flag-draped coffin.<\/p>\n
\u201cStay as long as you\u2019d like,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I reached out and touched the coffin, hoping somehow I could feel my husband again. All I felt was its cool surface, indifferent to my touch. Indifferent, like the Army itself.<\/p>\n
There had never been a time when the Army wasn\u2019t part of our lives. That\u2019s how I\u2019d met John. We were both soldiers, stationed in Germany, working as mechanics. He stood out, a big bear of a man with red hair and a booming voice. So smart. Always patient, always kind. We hit it off right away. A year and a half later we were married.<\/p>\n
I left the Army when I got pregnant with Pat, but there was never a question that John would stay on. He loved the military. He excelled at planning. Logistics. No matter the obstacle, everyone knew they could count on John.<\/p>\n
He rose through the ranks to become a chief warrant officer. I was proud of him. I made it my mission to help him succeed. Encouraging him. Listening to his ideas, his frustrations. Helping him pack when he was deployed.<\/p>\n
The way I saw it, I too was a logistics expert\u2014for our family. Paying the bills, managing expenses, seeing to home repairs, helping the kids with their homework and getting them to school and church activities. That was my responsibility.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re going to be great,\u201d John told me the day I got my degree. He was in Iraq, but he watched me receive my diploma via an internet feed. That was the last time I heard his voice. The next day, he was killed.<\/p>\n
I was numb at the service. Days later the CAO came to the house with stacks of forms to sign. He seemed frustrated by my questions. Things that were important to me\u2014like whether I needed a new military ID\u2014weren\u2019t even on his radar. \u201cYou don\u2019t need to worry about that right now,\u201d he\u2019d say.<\/p>\n
Finally, determined to get some answers, I went to John\u2019s base, Fort Bragg, in North Carolina. I spent three days there. I got information, but I had to ask all the questions. No one ever asked me what I was worried about or suggested that I go to counseling. There was no one to reassure me that I\u2019d be able to get through this. No one, it seemed, had been given that assignment.<\/p>\n
A month later I had come here, to Fort Lee, to this desk. There was no reason for me to stay in West Virginia. Nikki was leaving for college. We\u2019d only moved to the state because John had been assigned to work as a liaison with a National Guard unit there.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d been so busy finishing my degree I had barely even met the neighbors. Maybe a change of scenery was what I needed. But my grief hadn\u2019t left me. For the first time since John\u2019s death, I went to church. God felt unreachable, remote, like the Army. I didn\u2019t know what God wanted of me. To stop grieving? To move forward? How?<\/p>\n
I tried going to counseling at Fort Lee. But it took weeks to get an appointment and I never seemed to be able to see the same therapist. Every time I went I had to tell my story all over again.<\/p>\n
Now, on the phone, the woman from the Pentagon said, \u201cWe work with a group that presents medals to the children of soldiers who have been killed. Is there a day your family could come?\u201d<\/p>\n
I really wasn\u2019t interested in a medal. But for Nikki and Pat\u2014and John\u2014I\u2019d go. \u201cI\u2019d be honored,\u201d I said. A few weeks later, Nikki and I went to the Pentagon. We got there early and I paced outside the conference room where Gen. George Casey, Jr., the Army chief of staff, would be making the presentation.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Pat would be given his medal in Iraq at the same time. I turned and\u2026 there was General Casey, his four stars staring out at me. \u201cOh, hi,\u201d I said. \u201cI mean sir. I mean\u2014\u201d I felt like a private again. I began nervously edging away from him.<\/p>\n
\u201cDonna,\u201d he said, as though he\u2019d known me forever. \u201cHow are you doing?\u201d His voice held genuine concern, as if at that moment my welfare was the only thing that mattered to him. Was he for real?<\/p>\n
I took a deep breath. I was never going to get another chance to talk to someone like this. And if he did care, and I told him the truth, then maybe things would change. \u201cSir, I\u2019m okay,\u201d I said. \u201cBut there are things about this process that have disappointed me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I told him everything, how no one seemed able to answer basic questions, how no one had ever talked to me about getting counseling, the difficulties I\u2019d had getting an appointment. How I wasn\u2019t sure what I even wanted out of life anymore. He listened intently, nodding, his eyes never leaving mine.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re not the first family member to tell me this,\u201d he said when I finished. \u201cI\u2019m forming an advisory panel to make recommendations we can act on.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, good luck with that,\u201d I said, hoping I didn\u2019t sound too disappointed. When in doubt, form a committee. <\/em>I turned to step away.<\/p>\n \u201cI want you <\/em>to be on the panel,\u201d General Casey said.<\/p>\n I stopped. I wasn\u2019t about to say no to a general, even as a civilian. In the months that followed, our committee talked with hundreds of people whose loved ones were killed in service to our nation. Hearing their stories I couldn\u2019t help but feel angry all over again. Their frustrations and sorrow were burdens I knew all too well.<\/p>\n But more than that I felt a sense of purpose, a calling, even. This was an enormous challenge, one it felt as if my whole life had prepared me for. In part, it was about getting the right resources where they should be. This knowledge\u2014the experience\u2014that God had given me. He knew where I was needed all along.<\/p>\n Among the many changes our committee achieved was the creation of a new department within the Army called Survivor Outreach Services. SOS coordinators nationwide now work with surviving family members for as long as they\u2019re needed, referring them to doctors and therapists, financial planners and life coaches who can help them begin to find a way forward.<\/p>\n I\u2019m one of the program\u2019s administrators. Our challenges are enormous. But in the end it comes down to logistics, doesn\u2019t it? The logistics of the heart and of the soul.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I jumped when the phone rang at my desk at Fort Lee. That February, 2007, my son, Pat, was in Iraq, a second lieutenant in the Army. My first instinct was to fear the worst. I couldn\u2019t help it. It\u2019s a fear that haunts most military families. \u201cI\u2019m calling from the Pentagon,\u201d a woman said. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":29988,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"ep_exclude_from_search":false,"footnotes":"","_wpscppro_dont_share_socialmedia":false,"_wpscppro_custom_social_share_image":0,"_facebook_share_type":"","_twitter_share_type":"","_linkedin_share_type":"","_pinterest_share_type":"","_linkedin_share_type_page":"","_instagram_share_type":"","_medium_share_type":"","_threads_share_type":"","_google_business_share_type":"","_bluesky_share_type":"","_mastodon_share_type":"","_selected_social_profile":[],"_wpsp_enable_custom_social_template":false,"_wpsp_social_scheduling":{"enabled":false,"datetime":null,"platforms":[],"status":"template_only","dateOption":"today","timeOption":"now","customDays":"","customHours":"","customDate":"","customTime":"","schedulingType":"absolute"},"_wpsp_active_default_template":true},"categories":[376],"tags":[189,156,58,51,162,80],"ppma_author":[829],"class_list":["post-22691","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-managing-life-changes","tag-church","tag-death","tag-guideposts","tag-inspirational-stories","tag-soldier","tag-stories-of-hope"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n