We Are Broken

As this week ends, so does Jeremy's second month in Afghanistan. It is hard to believe that he has already been gone for two months. It is even harder to believe that I have to do this for another 10 months. It is days like this that are the hardest, days where Jeremy doesn't even seem to exist, where he feels impossibly far away, and time is playing cruel tricks on me and not even passing at all. I have never missed anyone so terribly. I never imagined that it would be this hard. But there are times where I think about how, somewhere on the other side of the world, there is a guy as crazy for me as I am for him, who misses me like I miss him, and it is a small comfort.

I have been reading "Blood Makes the Grass Grow Green" by Johnny Rico. It is an account of his time spent in Afghanistan in 2003. It is a much more sarcastic and humorous perspective on war, and it isn't very disconcerting to read as far as violence goes. It has however irritated me in a way that I wouldn't imagine. The soldiers in Rico's unit are bored out of their minds thus far in their tour in Afghanistan (about a couple of months in), and their duties consist mostly of 'guarding dirt'. They don't feel like they are at war at all, and are anxious to be involved in action. So much so that some of Rico's fellow soldiers contemplate shooting a random Haji simply out of boredom and not because he poses any threat to them. They treat the Afghans as less than dirt and hate them as a people group. They are at war with the Taliban, but their disgust is openly directed towards all of the people of Afghanistan. There is no sobriety in their group and they mock and tear apart care packages from caring civilians in the States. Their absolute boredom and total lack of purpose in Afghanistan gives them an almost primitive, animalistic mentality. It is actually rather discouraging to read, because the characters and their attitudes and actions are kind of despicable. Of course, I should not be quick to judge, because I could never imagine what those kind of circumstances can do to the mind and the spirit. Rico is simply portraying the outward actions and attitudes of his comrades, and there is not a lot of insight into the machinations of their thoughts and how they are driven to the point they are at. Rico himself has a kinder attitudes towards the Afghans, but still partakes in the disturbing, stir-crazy antics of his fellow soldiers.

I refuse to imagine that this is what Jeremy's squad is like, given that the circumstances are completely different. I know that they are incredibly busy, and the area that they are in has a lot of Taliban influence. They aren't just there guarding dirt. They are at war. I would imagine that the places that their minds go is a far more dangerous kind of 'crazy' than what Rico and his comrades were experiencing. My fear for Jeremy isn't simply a fear for his life, but a fear for his mentality when he comes home from Afghanistan. I speak from almost total ignorance. I know nothing of war. I can only read about it in Johnny Rico's book and understand very little of it from Jeremy's letter. I can hesitantly read news articles about a new assault in a river valley outside of Kandahar. But really, I know nothing, and I can't really imagine what it is like for Jeremy. I can only hope and pray that God brings him home safe and sound.

[Fall]ing

The living room of my grandparents house is lit with early evening sun. Its 80 degrees, but the humidity is low, leaving it warm and comfortable with the breeze. From where I sit, I can hear kids laughing and shouting on the playground across the street. It is a lovely September day, and I can only think of a few things that could make late summer evenings better.

It is the beginning of harvest time, and along my way to work and into town every day, there are tractors parked in the fields, filled to the brim with soybeans and corn. The leaves are just beginning to lighten noticeably into yellows in reds, and occasional gusty winds are beginning to rob the trees of their foliage.

Driving home on this particular evening, I realized that when it comes to thoughts of him, they are becoming as frequent and as necessary as breathing. Living in a town where there is nothing to remind me of him, where we have no memories, leaves me feeling a bit disoriented. There are pictures of him in my room, and I sleep with the blankets we bought on Pikes Peak. In the cooler fall mornings and evenings, I wear his flannel shirt. In my wallet I keep our ticket stub from the penny arcade in Manitou Springs. And I am almost ceaselessly listening to the music he loves, while my mind wanders to Afghanistan, and I pray ceaselessly for his safe return. Our few weeks in Colorado seem little more than a dream, and that dream is what I am living for.

Its not that I am not engaging in the reality that I live in, but the greater part of my heart is usually wrapped up in this nearly non-existent relationship, this love that most days just seems like a figment of my imagination. In the past 38 days I have received 3 brief Facebook messages, and heard his voice once. It is never enough. I think daily of how wonderful it will be to be waiting for him at the Bangor International Airport when he comes home, to hold him and be kissed by him, to hear his voice. And I never think of the end of that 2 weeks, because it signals the unfortunate end of yet another good dream.

"I'm right here and I must admit I've been pining for you. You're my wish...I just hope when I cast my spell you'll be falling for me. Because falling in love could be the first thing. Falling in love could be the worst thing. Falling in love, there is no rehearsing; retarded in love."