Saying Good-Bye

Ok, here's the deal. My son, my sweet, sweet son, (whom I still think of as a little boy, regardless of his three babies and wife, sorry, son) is going to war for the THIRD time in TWO years, in ten days.
He and his family came to spend a few days, last weekend, and we went for a quick day-trip today for one more good-bye. He leaves a week from Wednesday. The odd thing today was how . . . normal everyone behaves at a time like this, when we could be saying good-bye for THE LAST TIME.
How is a Mom supposed to feel? Proud, I imagine. Yes, I do feel proud of him, but I am afraid that my pride is overwhelmed by sadness, and anger. Anger that he has to go. That the damned Yahoo headlines broadcast numerous deaths EACH AND EVERY DAY in Iraq, that his brave and noble wife has to care for the three little ones on her own while he's gone.

This is the boy who brought me chocolate ice cream when I had bad hair days. Who proudly brought me beautiful drawings from art class. Who, Marine machismo notwithstanding, has learned to cross stitch, knit, sew, change diapers, and a billion zillion other things that offered a challenge to his brain. Who also ran the Marine marathon, cut off a finger building a cradle for his firstborn, and haggles with the best of 'em when buying a new car. Proudly kisses his babies. Jokes endlessly. Creates. Cheats at Scrabble (and Boggle, when needed. . .) Bakes cheesecakes. Borrowed my biography of Buckminster Fuller and gave me a math puzzle book for ransom on it.
God, this young man would be missed by SO MANY, if anything were to happen to him. He had to go through dead bodies in Afghanistan to investigate bombings, yet came home with the same zany sense of humor that he left with. God, PLEASE protect my child. PLEASE, I boldly ask you, shield him in a bubble of Your Grace and Protection., just like the clear thing around Wonder Woman in the comics. PLEASE keep him safe, on his flight, when he lands, and on a daily basis as he serves his country.
So many men and women have been wasted through this stupid, egotistical, greedy, oil-gluttonous war. Each of them had a family who loved him as well as we love our Marine. Please, God, help someone, anyone, to have a CLUE and stop the madness.

This son worked with his own sons this week to make a colorful paper chain. The paper chain encircles their breakfast room, and there are as many links as days he will be gone. The boys are to remove a link each day until daddy comes home. They will see the chain grow shorter and shorter until the day comes for his return. How like him to think of this beautiful and tangible sign for his children. How like him to take the time to complete it with them.
We love my son and we all need him, whole. Complete. Healthy. And . . . alive.
Please, God, I ask you boldly. Protect my son.