A Time to Weep
My husband and I saw the movie “Marley and Me” the other day. It’s the story of a family, centered around their dog. So you can guess the beginning of the story—they get the dog. And no doubt you can guess the end of the story. What counted was everything in the middle. Anyway, I couldn’t quit crying. It wasn’t the hard boo-hoo sobs that wrack your body, but the tears that start rolling down your face and just won’t quit—no matter what you tell yourself in the darkness of the movie theater. It’s been two years since my husband returned from his second deployment. Or as we say—eighteen months since he mentally got back. Fifteen of those months were spent with many personnel pressures compounded by under-manning due to ongoing deployments. It was tough (understatement). So, what did all that have to do with the movie? It dawned on me that so often in the military we don’t take the necessary time to grieve. We live intensely; we adapt quickly; we check off the blocks. Move to Ft. Riley, know anyone there? Know the housing. How about schools? Paint inside or not? Send husband to war. Pray he comes home. Cry with friend whose husband didn’t. Help her move. Get orders. Move again.