Waiting: One Wife's Year of the Vietnam War

Chapter 2

{Chapter 2} I found myself sitting in a chair near a boarding gate with an opened paperback in my hands, though I had no idea how I had gotten there or what the blurred pages said. As I looked up, a man’s face appeared in my green-tinged line of sight. I jumped. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, stepping back. “But are you all right?” I opened my mouth but no words came. I simply nodded. “You look upset,” the man continued with concern. I shook my head, grateful that I still had on my sunglasses. He turned away and then back, saying, “Look, I don’t want to bother you, but I can see that you’re crying. Is there anything I can do to help?” Only then did I realize my shades were not the disguise I had believed them to be. “It can’t be all that bad,” the man said, seating himself one chair away. I looked at him sharply to see why he was so interested, but all I found was a middle-aged, balding man in a sports jacket looking truly sympathetic . I didn’t want to talk, yet being rude seemed wrong. I tried out the words for me as much as for him when I hoarsely said, “My husband just left for Vietnam.” “Oh, I see,” he said softly. More tears I could not stop. “Here,” he said quickly, reaching into his back pocket, “use this.” I shook out the white cloth and wiped each eye underneath my glasses. I blew my nose and then in despair realized that I had no way to return his handkerchief clean. More tears flowed. [14] chapter 2 Growing distressed himself, the man said, “Don’t cry. He’ll be home before you know it. A year’s not so long.” If it were only a year and not forever. He kept gently extolling well-meaning platitudes while I choked and struggled to breathe. The harder he tried, the tighter my chest constricted. “Oh, I know,” he said suddenly, reaching into his other back pocket and pulling out his billfold. “See, I do understand how hard this is. See? I’m in the Reserves.” He handed me his military identification card, different from Lee’s only in color. I looked at the small laminated ID, wondering how the hell it was supposed to make me feel better while mentally begging, Please don’t be nice to me. Don’t take away my last defenses. Ignore me. Bombard me with anti-war slogans, but please don’t be nice because I will fall apart. Nodding my head was the best I could do. “They’ve called my flight,” he announced as he stood and replaced his card in his wallet. I looked at the wadded handkerchief and then up at him. “Keep it,” he said smiling, “and remember, your husband will be back.” He waved over his shoulder as he fled. We were both relieved at his departure. I spoke to no one else until I landed in Los Angeles, communicating with the flight attendants with nods and shakes. I closed my eyes and wondered if I could sleep for twelve months. But after take-off, my eyes popped open and I was facing a gorgeous blue sky and a few puffy white clouds. I instantly found the idea of being up in the sky, up in the heavens, calming. I felt physically closer to God, and I realized that while I had no control over what happened to Lee, He did. In His infinite wisdom, He would watch over Lee. I prayed. Please, dear God, please take care of Lee and bring him back to me. It was a prayer I had been repeating frequently, asked of the God I’d worshipped all my life. Amen. Immediately a heavy burden lifted from my chest. I breathed deeply, knowing I would offer my prayer hundreds of time during the coming year. I checked my watch. Where would Lee be now? Surely at Travis. Maybe already airborne. April 1969 [15] Without warning, the adage leaped to mind: God works in mysterious ways. Preachers had always emphasized that, and now the saying was reverberating in my head. I remembered the warning that we should always be careful what we prayed for, for God just might deliver. P.S., God. When I asked...