I recently "celebrated" an auspicious personal anniversary. It has now been over a year since my heart--along with my views on God, faith, obedience, love, loyalty, family, eternity, and especially my own infallibility--quite suddenly shattered, leaving not even fragments, but mere dust behind.
I recently mentioned this to my mom, who tried to distract me. I don't blame her. She was the one who carefully swept up the still-pulsing dust, sure it would become useful once again, and endured the staring shell who ruined parties, sputtered unanswerable questions repeatedly through sobs, and finally decided that life could only resume thousands of miles away from the painful epicenter.
I don't know if I was able to convince her how vital it was for me to remember that devastating time--not just to wallow, which was inevitable--but also to marvel at how drastically that experience has altered and continues to alter me. I have always believed that true change is indistinguishably gradual, that the soul must be gently prepared for it to take root, and that instantaneous transformation is rare. I have since learned that just one experience can cause a myriad of instantaneous changes--across vast stretches of time--it simply depends on the instant.
A year ago I couldn't see my way out of the carpet, in which I thought, and hoped, I would smother and drown in the salty expressions of my grief.
Today, I sit at a desk thousands of miles away. I am a new woman with the same face. There are gaping holes in my patched-up heart that ache often, but it no longer pulses so violently, and it is no longer dust. Changes are less cataclysmic, and have become barely noticeable again.
I'm grateful for the strength I've been given. It was not my own. My understanding of mistakes and forgiveness has grown and deepened. Miraculously, my view of myself is better, and also worse, than it has ever been. I am the sadder, but wiser girl. I see now why even heroes have flaws that utterly destroy them, if they refuse to change. I know now that what doesn't kill us, does, in fact, make us stronger.
But I don't know if I will ever agree that it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
I'd rather you were alive than a Hero
We have yet another fallen hero landing on base tomorrow.
We received the first service member's remains in February--on what was supposed to be the day of her engagement party, just a few days after she would have returned home from her third and last tour, had she lived. She was exactly my age and, like me, was an only child. Her body was escorted from Iraq by her fiance, also a service member; her parents stood at the flight line on the coldest day of the year and watched the honor guard load their only child's flag-draped casket into a hearse. I have since lost count of those who have begun their final journey home here. Tomorrow I will stand -- either at the flight line with members of my office, or on the sidewalk along the procession route with other base personnel -- in the driving rain, if the forecast can finally be trusted, with my hand pressed to my heart.
I can't shake the feelings of horror and wrongness about all of this. I am learning that I don’t care enough about some people, because I desperately want others to live—I guess that’s what my opposition means. I want this to be over—whatever happens over there when we leave. In increasing moments, I really don't care what happens over there anymore. I want young people with bright futures to stop coming to this base in caskets. I don’t know how earlier generations stood this—I look at those grieving families and can't help thinking the price is much too high.
When I was a teenager, I used to marvel at this Jewish proverb that said every time a life ended prematurely, a whole universe was utterly extinguished. I believed this because I hoped it meant that even I had immortal value. As an adult, I know it to be true. In the past three months, I have seen the end of too many universes, and it’s really getting to me.
I'll always remember Capt. Jennifer J. Harris
Food for thought: an article by Andrew J. Bacevich, a retired Army colonel and professor at Boston University.
We received the first service member's remains in February--on what was supposed to be the day of her engagement party, just a few days after she would have returned home from her third and last tour, had she lived. She was exactly my age and, like me, was an only child. Her body was escorted from Iraq by her fiance, also a service member; her parents stood at the flight line on the coldest day of the year and watched the honor guard load their only child's flag-draped casket into a hearse. I have since lost count of those who have begun their final journey home here. Tomorrow I will stand -- either at the flight line with members of my office, or on the sidewalk along the procession route with other base personnel -- in the driving rain, if the forecast can finally be trusted, with my hand pressed to my heart.
I can't shake the feelings of horror and wrongness about all of this. I am learning that I don’t care enough about some people, because I desperately want others to live—I guess that’s what my opposition means. I want this to be over—whatever happens over there when we leave. In increasing moments, I really don't care what happens over there anymore. I want young people with bright futures to stop coming to this base in caskets. I don’t know how earlier generations stood this—I look at those grieving families and can't help thinking the price is much too high.
When I was a teenager, I used to marvel at this Jewish proverb that said every time a life ended prematurely, a whole universe was utterly extinguished. I believed this because I hoped it meant that even I had immortal value. As an adult, I know it to be true. In the past three months, I have seen the end of too many universes, and it’s really getting to me.
I'll always remember Capt. Jennifer J. Harris
Food for thought: an article by Andrew J. Bacevich, a retired Army colonel and professor at Boston University.
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