A Moment.

Driving up the long driveway to home last night, I had a moment. My husband and two of my sons were in the soybean field below the house, unfolding the booms of a herbicide sprayer. My oldest son has been unofficially out of the military for nearly two weeks, using up leave until his official separation date of June 11. My youngest son is enjoying the summer that precedes his senior year of high school - that is, when his father isn't working him like a slave, and meanwhile, my middle son was working at his job ten miles away.

For one brief moment, my good fortune shone on me like a beam of light: my sons were all at home and safe...including the one who served two tours in Iraq.

Everything Old is New Again

Yesterday, while getting lunch at Subway, there was a cute girl, about 20, in line in front of me. She wore a North Face jacket and blue jeans, and cowboy boots - with spurs attached. She reminded me of me.

I used to be her in the early 1980's, and though I never actually owned spurs, I wanted them. I wanted to go on a pack trip in the wilds of Wyoming. I took care of five horses - three of my own, and two which belonged to my sisters-in-law. I went to rodeos, spent all of my spare money on tack and horse feed, and listened to Country Music almost exclusively.

My favorite singing artist at the time was, of course, George Strait. There were songs of his (especially if they had a rather plaintive violin solo) that made my heart almost burst with a longing to Go West, to lasso some cowboy out there and saddle him with a bunch of kids.

Instead, I married a farmer, and together we sprouted three boys. When I found out I was pregnant the third time, I said a prayer: if this can't be a girl, at least let him be able to sing.

He was a boy. It wasn't until he was five or six years old that I recognized his singing ability, when he would do this impression of an opera singer. The vibrato and tone at such a young age was amazing. But I couldn't get him to really sing until much later. And now that he is 17, the only time I get to hear it is either when he is in the shower, or when he's riding with me in the truck. His artist of choice is George Strait, and when he sings along, I am silently enthralled. It takes me back to who I used to be. I drive slower just to soak up as much of it as I can. And honestly, it is almost like hearing George Strait in stereo. Perfect range, perfect pitch, perfect vibrato. The trouble is, I doubt he will ever do anything with it. He is talented in so many other ways that singing falls by the wayside. But it might be okay. If this was a gift intended just for me, I'll take it.

Who could have a day this bad?

I watched the first half of Gone With the Wind last night. It's been a while since I've seen the movie, so it felt a bit fresh to me. And as I watched Scarlett deliver a baby for the wife of the man she loved, escape a burning city, be kissed and abandoned by Rhett Butler, and drive a dying horse home to Tara only to find her mother dead and her father crazy, I decided I've never had a day that bad. We should all consider that comparison, even though my example is fiction. But you don't have to look very far in the world to find bad days even worse than that.

I'm very happy at the moment. So happy that I just spent the morning shining up my house and cleaning windows inside and out. It helps that it is 50 degrees F outside. This afternoon I will devote myself to oil painting.

I looked at the boys basketball statistics for the Indiana High School Athletic Association last night, and discovered that my son was listed as 38th in the State for the number of rebounds per game. This morning, the Indianapolis Star listed him as 13th in the State. Frankly, I'm amazed. His school is one of the smallest in Indiana, and his team doesn't have a very good record. Mom is pretty proud.

My Son, the Cowboy

My son was walking out the door this morning when I convinced him to let me take some shots of him. Here are two:




I love and hate him for being so photogenic, even in work clothes.

When I say "Where in the world is my son?" I really mean it.

Having a son in transit is almost as bad as having a son in Iraq.

The last message I got from my son the soldier was on April 22nd. He said the Army was "80% sure" he would be flying out of Iraq on May 2nd for his mid-tour leave. If not then, it would be the next day.

So here I am, never far from a telephone, waiting for a call from my world traveler.

My son got hammered on his 21st birthday.

Yesterday was J-Dub's 21st birthday. I called him on my way home from work to see if I could drop off a cake and a card (with cash), thinking he may have left work early. I asked if he was at home. He said, "No, I'm at the hospital."

Those of you who followed me at Journalspace may remember that I have a phobia of March. March is when all the bad things happen. Last year, my youngest son had emergency surgery to have a blood clot removed from his spine at midnight on February 29th. The year before, my father passed away in March, and in years before that we lost my father-in-law and my husband's favorite uncle.

So it wasn't really unexpected that somebody I know would end up in the hospital. The cause couldn't really be predicted, though - while at work, my son was banging on a piece of equipment with a hammer when the hammer shattered, embedding a piece of steel into his thumb.

I didn't go to the hospital to hold his other hand, because I had the youngest son's sectional basketball game to go to (they lost), and J-Dub wouldn't have wanted me there anyway. When I called later to check on him, he said, "I'm in surgery right now."

Words every mother secretly wishes to hear from her son, but only if he's a doctor.

On Disappointment and Wavering Faith.

If I've ever gotten anything I wanted, or prayed for, it's hard to remember. Except for having become a farm wife and the mother of three boys (which should be more than enough reward for anyone), my prayers have gone unfulfilled, perhaps even unheard. And I'm not talking about winning-the-lottery kinds of prayer, but smaller things...desires that are almost insignificant in the larger scheme of things.

Most recently, my heart-welling prayer was for my oldest son, a soldier in the U.S. Army Infantry, who has had more than his share of disappointments, too: difficult high school years, three girlfriends who have dumped him (one while he was in basic training, one while he was in Iraq), numerous thefts of his belongings...I could go on. So when he was given the opportunity to go to sniper school - something he's been wanting for a long time - I was thrilled for him. Hopeful that, at last, here would be a success, something to bolster his faith and his confidence in himself. I prayed and prayed for him, for the clarity of his mind, the sharpness of his skills, for his ability to do math. And that he would be given the opportunity to at last prove himself as the kind of soldier he has always wanted to be.

As usual, the desires of my heart, and his, were denied. I finally spoke to him on the phone last night, and the words "I failed out" broke my heart.

One of the greatest tragedies in life is that a mother cannot do anything to prevent her children's disappointments.

Another tragedy is when you begin to lose faith in prayer.

So I console myself with this, as all Christians do - that God has a good reason for my son to not be a sniper - and that should be enough.