One Woman's Sacrifice One Woman's Gift

Because of someone's precious child, I can look out my office window into a world of opportunity and freedom, given by those I will never know, who paid the ultimate price so I might have the "gift" of choice.

"Why won't Daddy come home?" asks little Billy.

Similar words resounded for generations throughout the American Heartland as the Horsemen of the Apocalypse Death and War, ride shattering family lives.  Drowning them in a cold dark ocean of wrenching emotional pain, broken hearts and a waterfall of tears visible in the silence and private depth of night.

In an instant, gone are once vivid moments of human love and interaction, now fading reflections of past memories - infectious smiles of joy - echoes of laughter, and the hopes and dreams of a once vibrant voice.

A sprouting teenager Billy asks: "Why do we have to fight?"

His mother raises her eyebrows, thinks for a moment searching for the right words to answer her inquisitive yet impressionable son, who no longer just accepts, but seeks the insight of reasoning:

"Well Billy," she says, "All we have in this country has been purchased by guardians of freedom, who endured difficult trials, bitter oppression and religious opposition.  Americans who decided to fight to make things better for themselves and future generations.  They and your Dad have given us a special gift so we could be free to live the way we choose and too be able to speak our minds, even if it's wrong."

"But Mom," Billy interrupts, "People on TV are yelling at each other about not fighting and how bad people are who want to."

"Oh, Billy, no family wants their loved ones to fight, but there are times when you must stand up for a principle such as freedom or lose it."

I think of my own children and the same visions are all too clear and chilling, repeated throughout the heartland, as now I walk to take my place among family, friends and wide-eyed innocent children standing in silence, lining the streets three-deep in the Town of Proud Americans.

I sense the soft whispering winds and blinking sunlit shadows of a summer's day.  There is an air of somber pause and community pride masking sallow faces, swollen eyes and an occasional tear wiped away on the cuff of a hand.

A convoy of brightly polished motorcycles and a sea of American flags briskly vibrate with life over the saddle-bags of veterans from around the state, who have descended upon "Any town U.S.A."

Side by side they roll down the old Route 66 escorting one of their own to a place of peaceful solitude.  A silent world free of tribulation; bathed in floral scents and surrounded by the drying dew of freshly cut grass and the flicker of one destined eternal flame.  Soaring seagulls flutter and dive playfully over a glistening pond of Water Lilies, oblivious of the fact that another American has given his life that all men might live free.

Feeling a chill run down my spine, my thoughts are one of anger and sorrow.  "There is no way I will be able to comfort my friends who grieve such a loss.  As a mother, I can only offer prayers and grateful thanks for the sacrifice another family has made, asking for God's grace to get them through this."

Suddenly, my subconscious reminds me of a high-ranking civil servant in Mexico who wrote: "I am convinced that as parents we should inculcate in our children values that allow them to discern how to act and then help them to become capable people and to conduct themselves with respect and honesty in a world lacking these things. . ."

I find myself sighing, almost shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head when the silence and my train of thought is broken by a twenty-one gun salute, and a weeping family, as Billy's mother her hands shaking reaches out to receive the folded red, white and blue emblem of our country, the American flag, and the material finality of a life and service of her son Billy, the grown boy who didn't want to fight in a war, yet decided as a man there was a job to be done. . .and did it.

Army PFC Billy Jakes was a young man who grew up not afraid of anything.  Wrestled on the high school team, was a consummate prankster, a buddy's buddy and as his mother said: "A kid who understood the meaning of the word respect, and did what he believed was right."

My son told me: "When Billy was home on his last leave, one of the things he did with his buddies was to light up a cigar.  He smoked a little bit of it, then wrapped it up and stuck it in his friend's freezer to finish when he got back."

While in the ravaged dusty terrain of Afghanistan his Humvee was attacked.  Though Billy was hit in the leg, he continued to fight to the end.  Our little Billy Jakes is an American hero like so many others.

"When I heard he had gone down fighting and saving others, I was not surprised," said his best buddy Steve.  "It sounded exactly like something he would do."

As I look around into the military faces I see the melting pot of ethnic backgrounds.  I see blurred with redness of human emotion hiding behind a military stance; men affected by the loss of one of their own.  I shed a tear as the lump in my throat grew tighter, sadden, yet grateful, I live in an American Heartland, a country with a gift of free choices provided courtesy of all the Billy's male and female, who have served in the many wars and skirmishes.

As for the frozen cigar, when Billy's friends heard he had gone down fighting, they gathered over the weekend, together, lit the cigar and passed it around while telling stories about their boy hood friend.

The little boy who as a Peewee B didn't want to go onto the football field and cried before each practice, the grown teenager of their football and state championship days and the craziness of being young and of testing boundaries.  Billy's buddies agree: "It is what he would want us to do with the cigar.  That is why he left it.  He wants us to remember all the good times."

Billy's loss has touched my life, and has touched my soul.  How do I cope with the loss of my friend's child I watched grow from a toddler to manhood?  I am in emotional turmoil and dig deep inside the spiritual realm of my being.

I have hope for that strapping young man who once downed a number 54 red and white football jersey, and the ultimate football mom, who once was filled with bubbly emotion and proud smiles, will one day hear the voice of God:

"Rise Billy Jakes - Mother forever behold your son."