You said goodbye to your dad for your entire senior year of high school as he headed out to Afghanistan. You watched the news, heard about the attacks, and put on a brave face anyway. My faith informs me that God is never surprised by circumstances, and I believe he’s always had a plan for you, that he was working in your life even when things seemed dark.
But I remember worrying. I remember thinking you’d endured more stress by age 17 than many adults go through in a whole lifetime.
I remember when you told us you were considering joining the Air Force after a few years of college. We were shocked. Not because you’re not patriotic or capable. Just that we thought you wanted to live a normal civilian life and be settled. To put down roots. We had always told you we were fine with that. You were free to choose your own path.
You, my son, have already sacrificed much for your country.
I remember a young man about your age, meticulously clipping stray threads from his uniform, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulders, stepping back from the mirror, back straight as he checked to make sure his uniform was inspection-ready.
Your father. My husband.
He was always an Airman to me-it was part of his identity, woven into the very fabric of his soul by the time I met him. I did not witness his transition from boy to man…the transformation from civilian to active duty.
