Jane Cook - Stories of Faith and Courage from the War in Iraq and Afghanistan

When the time came for William to come home, we decorated our car and made signs to celebrate: Welcome home! We love you! When the day finally arrived, my two younger sons and I drove to Camp Pendleton in San Diego to pick him up.

We watched with mounting excitement as a busload of Marines came in. Parade vehicles, flags, and yellow ribbons surrounded us. Marines reunited with their families as people cheered and cried with band music blaring in the background. Scanning the crowd over and over, we couldn’t find William.

“Excuse me,” I approached a sergeant. “Where’s Will Johns? Isn’t he here?”

The sergeant found a captain to ask. “This is Corporal Johns’ mom. Can you tell me where he is?” he said. The captain looked blankly at me. Then it looked like something clicked in his brain.

“Oh my God, you didn’t get the notification? Your son chose to stay behind for another three months so a married Marine could come home.”

“Well, that’s very nice of him to do,” I said as calmly as I could.” “Do you think you could arrange for him to call home so I could tell him I love him?”

“Yes ma’am, I’ll make that happen for you by tomorrow.”

So we packed up our welcome home signs, fresh baked cookies, got in the car, and drove home bawling our heads off. We were devastated.

Then in July, we went through the same routine, had the car painted, made signs, baked cookies. When we got to Camp Pendleton, I saw the same sergeant, captain, and chaplain who I had spoken with last time.

“Well gentlemen,” I said, “I hope for the sake of all three of you, that William Johns is on that bus today.” All three of the men marched up the hill to where the Marines were checking their weapons and each one asked for Johns. Marching back down shoulder to shoulder, they said, “We’re happy to report that your son is in the armory.”

This time, I cried tears of relief.

Lord, turn my suffering into a stronger character; fill me with hope for tomorrow.

“We know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” (Romans 53b–4)

“Mom, don’t they know we’re doing a good thing over here?” William asked me over the phone during his second deployment to Iraq. Negative rhetoric about the war was spreading fast, and Cindy Sheehan had become an internationally known figure for her anti-war camp at President Bush’s ranch in Crawford, Texas. “Please don’t let us come home to what the Viet Nam vets faced,” William continued. “Please tell them the good stuff.”

“The press says it’s all terrible, William. So tell me the good stuff.”

And he did. That’s when I got on radio stations and I began to tell their stories of progress, reconstruction, and hope, because the soldiers themselves were not allowed to. I made it clear in more than five hundred interviews that what Cindy Sheehan spoke negatively about military families she was dead wrong. She didn’t speak for all of us. Besides radio stations in the United States, I added my voice to the airwaves of the BBC, as well as stations in France, Germany, and Australia.

I had May 22 designated as Yellow Ribbon Day in California, and was the spokesperson for the bus tour called “You Don’t Speak for Me Cindy,” that crossed the nation and ended in a pro-troop rally in Crawford, Texas. Ten thousand people showed up outside the president’s ranch to demonstrate support for the troops.

A year later, our second national bus tour was called “These Colors Don’t Run” and showed support for General Petreaus and the troops. Another tour to honor heroes during the holidays collected 150,000 cards to send to troops. In all, we’ve rallied support with five national bus tours so far.

William and I have both come a long way from that bleak winter day at the recruiting office. He has completed three deployments in Iraq, and I am Director of Military Relations for Move America Forward, a nonprofit organization supporting America’s troops and their efforts to defeat terrorism. With the Lord’s help, I found a way to not just survive my son’s deployments, but to take an active role supporting him and other soldiers risking their lives for freedom.

Lord, take my fear and turn it into courage so I may serve you boldly.

“Act with courage, and may the Lord be with those who do well.” (2 Chronicles 19:11b)

Where is John F. Kennedy’s grave? What do OEF and OIF mean on a headstone? Where’s the bathroom? Who’s the oldest dead person buried here?

A woman, who has answered the same questions for more than a lifetime, sits at a kiosk in the middle of the Arlington National Cemetery Visitor’s Center patiently answering every question as if it’s the first time she has heard it. People scramble about, filling water bottles, snagging tourist trinkets from the gift shop, and taking pictures… lots of pictures.

I take none. I’m not here to capture or preserve history; I’m here to experience it. Shortly after returning from our tour of duty in Spain in 1968, my family and I went to Arlington. We made the traditional loop up to the Kennedy graves where I saw carved in stone the reality of Senator Kennedy’s assassination. That was almost forty years ago, and I have returned now as an adult, a grown up Air Force brat, a mother of three young men, a patriot.

A squad of uniformed military cadets enters through the southern door. The sea of people parts, and the corridor opens before the squad. The cadets walk smartly, heads up high, heels clicking on the highly polished floor, not one wrinkle among them. The squad never breaks stride in their cadence; nor bead of sweat on their brows, despite summer’s oppressive heat. A holy hush follows them. They have come to Arlington to begin at the end.

In search of my own pilgrimage through America’s history, I leave the majority of tourists behind and turn toward today’s history found in Section 60. This section has been set aside for the soldiers of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars.

As I walk the empty access road, I am immediately engulfed by silence. Except for a lone gardener, I see no one. On this visit, I want to do more than travel through Arlington. I was not raised to be an American tourist who enjoys the benefits of liberty, but lives disconnected from the soldiers who have secured it. I want a commission.

Lord, make me an ambassador of hope to the soldiers who serve on the front lines of America’s wars and to their families who await their safe return.

“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” (Jeremiah 29:11)

Step by determined step I walk on through Arlington Cemetery. A car passes on my left, then another and another. The procession of mourners drives by in slow motion making its way to the grave site. A color guard stands at attention near a freshly dug grave. A bugler waits for his call, and a squad of seven riflemen stands across the field for their moment of tribute. Cicadas hum just below the surface of unspeakable grief.

I hurry under a tree, not suitably dressed for a funeral nor invited by the family; but here by circumstance in my nation’s field of honor. He is my soldier.