Who can ever unclench from the reality of sleeping in Kevlar, never knowing where your enemy is, home-made bombs disguised as children?

When soldiers come home, they don’t stop being soldiers.  They don’t magically feel safe and let their guard down and say, “Ah!  I’m home.  All is right with the world.” Many can’t shake the practice of “hyper-vigilance,” even on the couch in their condo.

We make time to get our hair done, our mani-pedis, we’ve got hours to kill playing Farmville on Facebook.  I think we’ve got a minute or two to send up a good thought for our men and women in uniform.  We owe them so much more, but for now, a prayer will suffice.

War ravaging within me.
Peck, peck, pecking away,
every time my phone moans.
Every time I wonder, where is my child now?

This is war.
Every time I beg You to keep them safe.
Every time the news has a new tally to share.
A new death toll.
Dashing young faces appear.
Dates of beginning and abrupt ends,
scrolling below their smiles.
Is my baby there?
Only You know.

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