Some people actually do mean it when they promise to ‘Support the Troops’

BY EILEEN BRADY
THE NEWS JOURNAL OF WILMINGTON, OHIO ​

A handmade card, a table full of flowers, blue skies, warm sunshine and a squeaky-voiced “Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy.” It was nearly perfect.
Finally, at 10:46 a.m., the phone rang.
My husband was on the other end. “Would you like to go to lunch on Tuesday?” he asked.
I could not have been happier.
Lunch? On Tuesday? That’s my idea of Mother’s Day perfection?
It is when the phone call comes from the Middle East, and the future lunch date is the first one in months, with a handsome Air Force officer who was called to duty in January.
My husband is coming home from Afghanistan, after a long, tough winter for everyone involved. 

​He left two days before our daughter’s fourth birthday. She tried hard to be stoic when he left but started sobbing hysterically the minute he was out of sight. She cried on and off for two straight days, repeatedly playing the Build-A-Bear recording of his voice. She slept each night on a pillowcase with his photograph ironed on it. She lay on a foam map of the world, hugging Afghanistan. She searched each night for the moon and the stars, because her daddy had promised he’d be looking at the same night sky.
She got better, then she got worse. She and I both needed constant entertainment, so we booked our days solid with friends and activities. She made a poster of photos he had sent her and showed it to her preschool class. We sent packages, letters, e-mails and videotapes. We talked to him on the phone. But it wasn’t the same as having him here. 
Four years ago, when he received orders to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, we thought we’d live near Fairborn. At first we didn’t want to return to our hometown of Wilmington. It would be too far from the base, it would be too small. But then we realized, with a then-6-month-old baby, we needed to be as close to family as possible.
Sometimes we’re smarter than we look.
So when we found out my husband would be deployed after Christmas, we realized exactly how smart our choice was. Although there is comfort in being in a military community among people who are going through what you’re going through, there is also comfort in being around people you grew up with, living on a street where you know everyone’s name, having friends and family who don’t think sending a husband off to war is old hat. 
 Everyone who knew about the deployment was verbally supportive — though I certainly could’ve done without a few “Four months isn’t so bad” or “Afghanistan is better than Iraq” comments — but several wonderful people didn’t just offer help, they followed through.
Sure, almost everyone claims to “support the troops,” but I have discovered that for some people, that support ends as soon as they slap on the bumper sticker.
Others, however, do as much as they can. And they know that supporting troops with letters and packages is only part of the solution; they know that supporting troops also means supporting their families at home.
My mother canceled her annual snowbird time in North Carolina in order to be just down the street if we needed her. (I tried to convince her — and myself — that we’d be OK without her. Don’t tell her, but I’m glad she didn’t listen to me.) My in-laws often came and took my daughter for the day so I could have a break. They would’ve taken her overnight but my daughter developed a sudden aversion to being away from her remaining parent at nightfall. I understood, considering the insomnia that plagued me for the first month.
Other family members and friends cooked dinner, invited my daughter and me to family outings, shoveled our driveway, visited us at home, e-mailed us, bought lunch, called us to check in, sent tons of Valentines and simply asked how we were doing. They sent care packages to my husband and cards and e-mails with words of encouragement. They listened to me when I was at my wit’s end being a single parent.
In short, they made it crystal clear why we felt compelled to return to Wilmington when we had the opportunity. My daughter, a devotee of “The Wizard of Oz,” could break it down to five words: “There’s no place like home.”