Military Mom, Part Five

Note: This is the fifth in a series of sporadic posts about this military thing happening in our family (one son in the Army; one joining the Marines). How many Military Mom posts will there be? No idea. But more than five.


Dear Spencer,

So this is what two o'clock in the morning feels like on the day you leave for a year.  In four hours, I'll be waking you up.  In 6 hours, we will be headed for your send off ceremony.  In 8 hours, you will be gone.  Far away.  For a year.  A YEAR.

So much can happen in a year, as you well know.  Just a couple of days ago you listed off the important dates you'll miss in that year: family birthdays, a high school graduation, friends' birthdays, your birthday, etc.  And those are the things you know will happen.  What else will happen, unplanned, while you are away?  Will Duke still be around when you return?  Will friends fall in love?  Will OU's football season turn out as great as we think it will?

I'm afraid I haven't done enough to teach you what you need to know.  Dear friends and your dad have talked me down from that ledge, for the most part.  I mean, really, I've noticed from the laundry I've been doing that you remember to put on clean underwear on a daily basis.  My most recent get-you-ready-to-leave trip to Target revealed that you go through deodorant, razor blades, and toothpaste at a pretty good clip.  You haven't been kicked out of the Army nor did you get a ticket tonight when you were stopped by the police--both evidence that you speak respectfully to authority figures (alas, I haven't been able to impart wisdom about not speeding).

But what about God?  Do you know that you know that you know that He is who He says that He is, He will do what He says He will do, and that you are who He says you are?  Oh, son, please tell me you know these things.  Please take His hand on this journey and let Him lead you, sustain you, comfort you.  Let Him work all things in your life.  Trust that He loves you.

Your family loves you, too.  No matter what.  We always have.  We always will.

I have no doubt that we made some great memories in the last few weeks.  Having relatives here, specifically to see you off, proved to be just the thing, didn't it?  We had a great time laughing, talking, singing.  I watched as you talked Chinook physics, as you played the guitar, as you held adult conversations.  You are an amazing person, Spencer, and I'm awfully glad I've been allowed to be in your life.  I cherish our conversations, from the moment you started asking "why" (and you questioned way past the limits of my intelligence by the time you were two) to this evening when you were packing and we talked about the goodbyes you said today.  I will miss your sense of humor, your interaction with your brothers, your constant need for a new phone, your smile. 

For about a week, there's been background music in my head.  We've listened to it several times together, and it's been playing as a pretty constant loop, kind of an underscore for conversations we've had, my trips to Target to get you ready, as your dad and I had a conversation tonight about how you were born for this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ng5-VUDcjJ8


It is not possible for a parent to love a child any more than I love you.  Take every chance you dare, Spencer.  I'll still be there when you come back down.  But don't forget to Skype often.

I love you so.