Dear Family and Friends

“Hey, Mom.” Ray leaned down and dropped a kiss on his mother’s silver-streaked head.

“So glad you could come!” Maria beamed and thrust a paint roller on an extension in his hands. “You get the job of going for the high spots. No one else can reach those places without a ladder.”

Maria watched closely as her son surveyed the dilapidated house. She was trying to gauge him, to ascertain how present he was. Something she had always taken for granted—a maternal ability to read the barometric pressure of your child had dissipated.

When he returned home, a seasoned war veteran who served two prolonged tours of duty, Maria had been under the false assumption she could finally breathe and let go of the anxiety she’d shouldered the entire time he was gone. While Ray had his burdens to bear, her son would never fully comprehend the weight she and Hope carried while he was away. How their minds would take them to dark trapping corridors where they felt they would never see Ray again, never hear his laugh, never be able to wrap their arms around him, enfolding the weight of his being. Ray would never understand how every time, between the waking hours of 6 a.m. and midnight, when a strange car pulled into the driveway, you’d immediately drop to your knees, shaking and crying because you knew this was the time the uniformed service members would ring your doorbell to state your son had been killed. Ray would never know how her heart jumped into overdrive when the online family support system lit up the second a communication blackout occurred. The clock started ticking once this happened. You knew within the next twelve hours, some family somewhere would be getting the news. Their soldier was seriously injured or dead. Will there be a knock on your door this time? When the notification period ended, when the official word went out by electronic mail, a relief you’d never known, washed over you. On this day, at this moment, your child was still alive.

In this space of quiet rejoicing, however, the devastating knowledge existed that for another family, an agonizing nightmare, from which there was no return, was beginning. And how can you take any form of solace when another family suffers? The process was gut-wrenching and inhumane. Today one of her son’s comrades died on the battlefield.

Thank God he’s alive, thank you. But for what, taking the life of someone else’s son or daughter? There were no victors in this sick, sick, absolute game.

Dear Family and Friends, on November eleventh, our company was involved in an incident that resulted in two soldiers being killed in action. The soldiers’ primary and secondary next of kin have been notified. On behalf of our Company, I send my condolences to the families. Memorial services for these heroes will be held at a time and place to be determined. Please remember to keep these soldiers and all other deployed servicemen in your thoughts and prayers. You will receive details from your family readiness group on how to support the family and when the memorial will be.

How naive they had been, thinking all would be restored when Ray returned, physically in one piece. Maria had read the “What to expect after deployment” brochures and knew some adjustments would have to be made and would take time. But she hadn’t been prepared for the shattering of her son’s core. All the truths he held for a lifetime had been tested. In addition to the parts that made him uniquely Ray, there were layers of confusion, anger, and at times an outright attempt to lose the remaining pieces of himself in destructive behavior. She learned over the past years how to get through a day by focusing on getting through each hour. Maria returned to this strategy.

In this sun-drenched moment, Maria felt blessed. Ray, her only son, her second-born child, was alive, sober, pushing through, and for this, she was grateful. Every night, her daughter sent a text:—He’s okay.—

—He’s mowing the grass.—

—Barbecue is on the grill. Can U join us?—

And on those dark, starless nights when he turned to the bottle, Maria would bend in prayer. Please ease his pain. Let him get through this night unscathed. Please let him live to see another day.

Maria, Hope, Gabrielle, Miguel, and now Leo, were frantically trying to weave supportive strands underneath him, hoping that even if some of them broke, the rest would not fail from the remaining weight. They were all on Team Ray, even if he couldn’t see it.

****

He looked furtively over his shoulder. “You sure Dad isn’t going to be here?” Since he left his father’s church mid-sermon, Ray managed to avoid him. The last thing he needed was one of his father’s lectures, followed by another of their agonizing confrontations. In Ray’s mind, he had taken the first step after his return; he had tried. He had attended church as requested, had lasted through the beginning of the sermon. But as far as he could see, besides physical appearances, his father had not changed.

Ray dipped the roller in the summer wheat exterior enamel and began painting. Their church congregation had been helping down-on-their-luck parishioners, and community members refurbish crumbling domiciles for as long as Ray could remember. Volunteering so many times over the years, they had developed a seamless routine, each person playing to their strengths. They arrived in droves, bringing whatever equipment was needed and food and water to sustain themselves. Under an awning, Ray could see Hope and Gabrielle helping set up the nourishment tent. Gabrielle was wearing baby Hiram in a forward-facing infant carrier, his chubby legs sliced through the sultry air, an Olympian swimming the backstroke. Their goal was to complete the act of service in a day. The group flexed as needed throughout the assignment. They assisted others when necessary, fell out for rest, then returned. All help was welcome; some members came and stayed all day, and others came and went as their schedules allowed. Yet no one was made to feel guilty should they not be able to contribute. And somehow, miraculously, his father always said, at the end of the day, their work was done.

“I wish you and your father would mend those fences and get on with it.” There was a catch in his mother’s throat. She wiped her face leaving a streak of pale yellow across her cheek. “But to answer your question, no. He’s in Oklahoma City, attending an evangelical pastor round-up. I don’t expect him to be back until late tonight.”

Ray spoke as he continued painting. “I’m not the son he wanted me to be. In his words, I’m a disappointment. How do I fix that, Mom?” Ray knew she could hear the pain in his voice, the ever-present need for his father’s approval. “I can’t change who I am, and I shouldn’t have to apologize for doing what I thought was right.”

“Even though your dad is an orator, I don’t think he always chooses the right words. It’s not dissatisfaction with you. Your father’s personally distressed. He was dismayed he couldn’t protect you from the repercussions of war. He felt his job was to shield you. And, of course, he feels if you respected him, you’d have honored his wishes and wouldn’t have enlisted.”

“We’ve been down this road before, Mom. Enlisting was never personal. Why doesn’t he get that? We see the world differently. I never meant to be disrespectful.”

“I know that, son.”

****

Maria paused and looked at him. He kept painting, avoiding eye contact. She knew the time had come. Even though she respected her husband’s need for privacy, she didn’t understand why he wanted to hide this part of his past. Having a functioning family took precedence—enough of this lunacy, this inability to navigate beyond the deadlock.

“There’s a reason he’s this way,” she said. She could see both points of view clearly and understood them. Why couldn't the two most important men in her life get their relationship sorted out? She sighed. “Even though you might not be able to forgive him, if you can see things from his perspective, maybe, at least, you’d understand.”

The second wave of volunteers was heading toward the food tent when his father’s gold Buick Century pulled into the drive. Ray stopped, dead in his tracks, paint roller in hand, and looked accusingly at his mother. “I thought you said he’d be gone all day!”

“That’s what he told me this morning.” Ray looked distressed and ready to bolt. “Ray, you must believe me. I had no idea he’d be here.”

****

With a whispered surge, Ray heard the members of his father’s congregation murmur. “He is here. Pastor Shipworth came!” The acknowledgment moved through the crowd in an undulating swell. The words were imbued with admiration and respect. For Ray, there was a disconnect. As a child, he stood where they were, feeling adoration for his father. Now, there’s just an unending sense of let-down, of being constantly judged, and of being found severely lacking. He returned to the task at hand. Ray determined not to back down. I committed to being here and won’t let him bully me into leaving. He saw his mother steel herself, and, with resigned fortitude, she resumed painting.