Loving a Marine

Loving a Marine

         I fell in love with a Marine when I was 45 years old. I credit him with single-handedly pulling me from the bottomless well that my escape into alcohol had plunged me. Today I am the woman he introduced me to that dark year, the woman he fell in love with, the woman who would survive to tell this simple story. His love has made me strong, confident, capable and profoundly happy. By most standards, my life now is an ordinary one. I probably ask him the same questions every day of my life: In the morning,  “Did you sleep well?”,  later,  “What time do the Tigers play?”, at dinnertime, “Would you please open this damn jar for me?”, later in the evening, “How is your book?”, before we go to bed, “Did you let the dogs out?”, and unfortunately in the middle of the night as he flinches next to me, “Are you in pain?”. Every day greets me with hopeful anticipation and leaves me in peace. I often wake in the middle of the night afraid that God will not grant me another to spend with him.
         How did we arrive in this place? It wasn’t easy for either of us, but he was the strong one. There was a time I simply did not have the energy and courage I needed to survive. The enemy was my hopelessness, bullying me to succumb without a fight. I had lost my way and I was done. That’s when God sent me a Marine.
  He placed himself in front of me like a huge boulder that I could not walk around or push aside, and stopped the mudslide that would bury me. He never once turned his back on me or left my side. Not once did he give up on me or give in to me, and I tested him repeatedly. I tried to fool him, hurt him, distract him, ignore him and run from him, but he wouldn’t budge. His commitment to me was absolute and indestructible.
         Who is this man? Is he a man who became a Marine, or is he a Marine who became a man? It does not matter, because these are now and will always be inseparable within him, defining him. I am his proud wife. Thirty-eight years ago he lay helpless on the ground in Vietnam. He was there because he loved his country, had faith in its' beliefs and its' leaders had asked for his help. Others turned their heads, hoping for the best. The country was asking for too much. His love was absolute and his faith indestructable. He couldn't walk away. This decision would cost him  his legs and result in a lifetime of pain. In 1970, as he lay there bleeding, I was chanting mindless peace slogans in Washington Square Park. During the year he spent recovering in the Philadelphia Naval Hospital, I was fighting with my parents because they wouldn’t let me go to Woodstock. I thought I had all the answers to life’s big questions. All the world needed now was love, sweet love. No, not just for some, but for everyone. It was that simple.
         My husband loves his country and he loves me, and because of this love we have both survived to tell our story. All I can do is love him back and I pray that it is enough. He knew at the start that loving someone or something is never simple. It is not a passive act, but an active one. It requires hard work, diligence, courage, and constant attention in order to survive. Pain will often accompany you as you fight to sustain it. Love lives at our house and in our country because there are men and women who are willing to hold on and never let go. Thank God for the Marines.