Unsung Heroes

She watches as the boat pulls away from the docks. Pushed in by the crowd around her and obscured by them from her husband's view, she still waves and yells goodbye. He can just faintly make her image out among the crowd so far away. He cannot hear her above the noise of the crowd and the huge smoke stacks belching out their foghorn sound. She is not quite sure where he is going, somewhere in Europe, but she knows he could possibly never return. The baby in her arms will barely remember this day but he will hear about it all of his life. The story will be told time and time again at family gatherings and among friends until it is almost like he can remember it himself.

The morning was foggy and a misty rain hung over the harbor and the rest of the city. After the excitement of the departure had subsided among the crowd and most of them had gone about the rest of their busy day, the sun began to come out a bit, cutting through the fog and mist until she could watch the ocean liner as it grew smaller and smaller on the horizon, finally disappearing from view. Now it was real. It wasn't something to look towards with uncertainty any more. He was really gone. She would spend the next four years raising her little boy by herself, while working a full time job to support them.

His letters came few and far between but when they came she read them over and over again. She memorized the lines and, closing her eyes, she imagined his face and imagined him writing the words she read. She missed him unbearably at times but knew she had to stay strong for the sweet little baby sitting in her lap as she read the letters.

When he did return she cried and held him as tight as she could for the longest time. There were so many who didn't return or returned in body but not in soul, at least not completely. They suffered under the weight of the ravages of war until it was more than they or their marriages could bear. She knew they were blessed. Blessed that he had returned and blessed that they would make it through.

They raised the little boy and had two little girls as well. The time came when she had to walk to the bus stop and say goodby just like she had so many years earlier, but this time, it was goodby to her little boy. No longer so very little, he had been called to serve and was leaving for Vietnam. Oh how she cried as the bus drove away. The only thing keeping her from collapsing under the weight of grief was that she fell into her husband's arms. He too was beside himself but had to be strong for her. He realized for the first time, as he watched the bus getting smaller and smaller down the long highway out of town how she must have felt those years earlier when he stood by the rail on the huge boat that took him away from her. It would be the hardest thing he had ever done, harder even than going off to war himself, allowing his son to go off to war.

These letters too would come few and far between but they would cry as they read them together, thankful that he was alive to write and send them. He did finally return and though he had trouble adjusting to life after the return home, he finally began to embrace life and shed the guilt he felt for surviving when so many of his closest friends had died before his very eyes. All the while he was gone and ever since his return, she had prayed for him, held down the fort at home, and prepared a place he could return to for some peace, quite, and safety.

The same story was played out again as his son, her grandson went to Kuwait to fight in Desert Storm. He too wrote letters but was only gone for a short while and saw very little combat. For that, they were all thankful. When he returned one Thanksgiving, she was there to hold him tight in her arms and thank God for his safety. She had held it all together through thick and thin, through a husband, son, and grandson going off to war and all of them returning home. For that she knew she was blessed and was extremely grateful.

Now, as she sits with her husband of almost sixty years in a nursing home for veterans, his mind all but gone, she feeds him each bite of his midday meal and tells him detailed stories of their children, grandchildren, and the newest great-grandchild. He doesn't really understand nor does he know who she is talking about but he thinks she is sweet and kind to feed him and tell him such nice stories. She is blessed to be with him though she knows it won't be much longer. As she wipes his mouth and washes his hands with a a moist toilet, she loves him every bit as much as the day they married, maybe even more. She knows she has been blessed.

She is not alone. There are hundreds, no thousands of amazing women just like her. We praise the heroism of men who have fought for freedom here and abroad, ours and that of other nations, and rightly so, but, too often, we forget about the unsung heroes, the wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, and even some girlfriends and fiancées that keep the home fires burning until their heroes return. Heroes are only heroes if they have someone to protect. These have protected more than we really know, when their warriors can return home to peace...real peace.