God's hand

I was part of a miracle today.

What a special emotion, to feel so deeply connected to God - and nothing else - for a small but divine moment. That's what I felt today. In a moment where no reason could explain the circumstances except the hand of God.


I had an appointment at the local VA hospital today, set for 0800 in the morning. I have long anticipated this appointment, scheduled since December, when I would finally have a chance to speak with a doctor about my leg and (hopefully) straighten out my medical paperwork. It was just a check-up, involving an x-ray and a consult with an orthopedic surgeon.

As an aside, the VA Healthcare System employs a lot of really great people, and I've met many of them by now, but the system itself is terribly frustrating. I usually wait several hours after the scheduled appointment time before I actually see my doctor. Although I had the option to go elsewhere, I chose to become an outpatient at the VA so that I would have the opportunity to interact with veterans. Certainly been a learning process, which I appreciate. I am praying now, possibly more than ever, that the U.S. military is an organization with enough talent on the battlefield to make up for its absurd paperwork scheme.

So now I'm finally becoming used to the VA routine. I had an x-ray of my leg first thing this morning, then was sent back up to the waiting room of the ortho clinic. I came dressed in sweats and a hoodie. Not trying to stand out, I wore no indication that I ever had anything to do with the military. Just gray pants and a college sweatshirt. For the x-ray, however, I had swapped my sweatpants for gym shorts that had the letters "USMC" on my left thigh. I stuck with the shorts when I finally made it back to the ortho clinic, but after a slightly depressing x-ray experience decided to purposefully cover the USMC letters with my arm while I lounged in the waiting room. As much as I love speaking with Marine vets and others about my experience, I just wasn't feeling it this morning. The x-ray tech had suggested I consider removing the metal parts in my leg because they could be interfering with my bone marrow and blood production. I'm trying to avoid a second surgery as much as possible, so I wasn't thrilled by his suggestion.

So I sat quite sadly in that waiting room, deliberately covering the symbol of my military connection. At some point I must have been distracted and changed sitting positions without realizing I was now revealing my USMC identity to the world. A man walked past and said simply, "Marines?"... I replied, "Yes," without really looking up at the man now standing beside me.

He said, "I've got two of my own," and seemingly from nowhere pulled out a long-lived wallet, flipping it open to reveal two small photographs side-by-side. I first noticed the female Marine, on the right, then glanced at the brother Marine, on the left. Both were in their formal pose in USMC dress blues.


"I know him." ... oh God. "I know him." I repeated softly, my interior suddenly void and my brain stupefied. I knew that Marine.

I looked up then into the friendly eyes of a strong but confused face.

"He was killed in Iraq in 2005," said the stranger with the beloved wallet photos.

"I know. My boyfriend was killed with him." I couldn't believe it.

"Who's your boyfriend?"... "Jason Frye."

"Oh my God." ... "Are you Pat's dad?"... "Yes".

At that moment - the Godly moment - I stood up and embraced this man. He had started to extend a hand to me, but I threw my arms around his big dad shoulders without hesitation. And then the tears came.

I have not cried so freely or purely in years. Such a blessing, to feel complete peace and grace in tears. Genuine disbelief ... but FAITH. Sweet Jesus... oh the gift you gave me today.

LCpl Patrick Kenny was among the four Marines killed in the humvee explosion on October 6, 2005 near Fallujah, Iraq. He grew up in the Pittsburgh area in a solid Irish Catholic family and was one of Jason's closest friends in the Marine Corps. I had even spoken with Pat once over the phone just before the boys left on their deployment - what was Pat's second and Jason's first.

Today I found his father. Or rather, he found me.

I met the Kenny family in 2006 at a memorial service at Camp Lejeune, when the entire battallion honored the lives of their fallen Marines, Jason and Patrick among them. Under those circumstances, we did not have much of an opportunity to learn each others' stories beyond the shared death of our boys. But I could easily recognize how special Pat's family is, even then.

I felt so comforted today to be embraced by a father who understood my suffering - had even shared in it. I cried without knowing I was going to - and the tears came from a place inside of me that hasn't been open in a very long time. This October it will be four years since they died.

Mr. Kenny and I talked then, for what must have been an entire hour. It was phenomenal just to hear about how his family is today - how their lives have changed and moved forward but still remembered since that day. He seemed equally happy to hear my story... he nor any other member of the October 6th family - all persons impacted by the events of that day - knew that I had joined the Marine Corps myself. What a neat gift to be able to share my story with him, a father of two Marines and veteran of the 82nd Airborne who injured his back after jumping out of planes.

How small is this Godly world we live in? How sacred the gift I received and shared today - the knowledge that God is real, truly real. No other explanation suffices. If I had not joined the Corps, selected Pitt Law School, broken my leg at OCS, chosen to become a VA patient, scheduled the x-ray and follow-up for March 3, 2009 at 0800, removed my sweatpants to reveal my USMC gym shorts...I never would have crossed paths with this man today. A man who immediately became part of my family when the very lives of our Marines came together in friendship so many years ago.

The hand of God is so powerful. So incredibly powerful. I believe in miracles like this one, and I fully rejoice in them.

I don't think I will ever forget the quietness of the instant in which I met eyes with the picture of LCpl Patrick Kenny. The world truly stood still when I saw that photograph. I pray that I can recall the feeling of this gift for the rest of my life.

I also believe that today two very special Marines took a break from guarding the streets of heaven to watch as God connected two very grateful souls.

Happy 23rd Birthday Jason

Jason is 23 years old. It's been almost 4 since he died. Hard to believe.

The world - my world - has changed so much since then. I've grown seemingly a thousand years older. I sometimes wonder if I would have been this way - the person I am now - if he hadn't died on October 6, 2005. And then I'm a little sad to know that I wouldn't be. I'm better because of his life, and I'm better because of his death.

I've certainly gotten older. I'm almost 23 myself. I know that by any real measure of age, that's not very old. But look in the eyes - the eyes tell a person's real 'age'. How many times their spirit was tested, their heart was broken. I think my eyes must look pretty tired sometimes...but I know that I am an optimist. So I hope my eyes still have a little shine to them.

What I want more than anything in this life is to be a mother and wife. Since Jason died I've met all kinds of people... good, bad, the whole gamut. From all over the nation and beyond our borders. I've made countless friends in that time, too. But I'm afraid I'll never again meet someone who is good enough, who can even compare. And I feel bad that whoever he is, if he exists, he'll know that I hold him against a very high standard. Jason set that standard. Why put someone through that conscious comparison?

My dream of being a wife and mother - will it ever come true? I know I'm young but it's a worry of mine. That it just won't happen because God already gave me my chance for that type of love. It's come and gone - the best love I'll ever have. A part of me, even if I find someone someday, will always be a little spoiled by a love from long ago. I don't want to ever have to settle. Jason told me he didn't want me to ever settle - but he thought I'd be 'settling' with him. Sweet Jesus the man was humble. I worry like this... then I decide (with a sad smile, but still a smile) that it's okay. If that was my chance, and I missed it, it's okay. I've learned there are ways to impact this world beyond being a wife and mother. That just happens to be the way I want to do it, but maybe God has a different plan. And that's okay with me. Somewhat reluctantly, I admit that God's plan is a lot better than mine. And I want to get to Heaven - I have to! Some folks are waitin' on me up there.

I can't remember Jason very well, unless I really sit down and concentrate on it. I hate that I can't remember, but I think my heart just healed that way. I sometimes imagine that I have the chance to talk to him - to see him, as if he was really held captive all this time and will just walk into my law school classroom looking a little dirty and tired but wondering where I am so he can hug me. How strange would it be to suddenly see someone you love after accepting and moving on from their death?

Every once in a while I realize how special he is. No matter who I meet, there is no Jason except him. God didn't bless the earth twice in that way. Just once - just one Jason.

Now that I'm older and a more than a little wiser, I appreciate him. And I want him. I see pictures of him and recall how handsome he was. I think of what a great daddy he would be, and what a fun neighbor he would be in our community. We'd host cookouts and coach youth soccer or something. He'd take our kids fishing really early in the morning on the first day of trout season. And I'd pack the lunches and come along to take photographs. Jason is the type of young man every good father silently prays will fall in love with his daughter. And Jason did.

One of my fears... if he hadn't died, I'd be a lesser person...and so would I have appreciated him enough to hold on to him - to never let him go? I'm afraid I wouldn't have realized what a special gift I had in having his heart. But there is a small part of me - the everlasting hopeful part - that thinks I would have come around sooner or later and really understood the gift, in due time.

Every once in a while I stop the busy life I lead as a full-time student, in a world where nobody knows what turmoil I went through not too long ago in losing someone I love so much. Even my closest friends don't know, save a small few. People can tell I'm different, I know that much. They can tell I think carefully and love people - just love them, in a faithful genuine way. Even if I told them what happened to Jason, to me, our families, it wouldn't make much difference. I could never describe it to do it justice; the experience was so raw in a way that even I can't bring myself to feel it again.

I miss Jason. I miss him all the time, if I slow down long enough to consider it all. But on his birthday weekend I really truly missed him and wished he was still alive. How different these last four years would have been had he not died that day. I don't cry, but I hope he's still here with me.

Happy Birthday, Jason.

I wonder who you'd be today... I wonder who I'd be today.

Three Year Anniversary

I don't expect anyone but me, Jason, and God to find this post. It's been so long since I ventured to pour my heart here. My life has changed a thousand ways since February 2007, and probably a hundred thousand ways since October 6, 2005.

I would say that I am a 'different person' because of my Jason experience, but I'm not. I'm just the person I was destined to be. God had this all planned out from the moment I was born... that I would fall in love with a childhood friend and young Marine just before his first and last deployment to a war that I simply could not appreciate at such an age. Nineteen years old was so young, compared to my life just three years later. So much has happened since then.

I graduated from Cornell in May 2008. Summa cum laude. With distinction in research. The whole nine yards, as far as academics go. I had a hard time leaving Cornell. I realize now it was difficult for me to leave the place where I had been when Jason died. I cried in an empty dorm room there...watched for signs from God and Jason there. But I made a lot of happy memories there too. Even happy Jason memories, although he never actually set foot on campus.

On President's Day 2008 I joined the Marine Corps. I really did. It was the most difficult decision of my young life. Without a doubt the hardest choice I will ever make. I knew what to expect ... I knew that I too could die in uniform. I finally took the leap and signed the paperwork. I wanted to be a United States Marine.

And it wasn't even because of Jason. Not really. Not in the way so many people assumed it must be. I joined for me. It was my dream. My very own dream. I wanted to contribute to something greater than myself. I joined for the reasons you can't put into words very well - the reasons every Marine seems to understand, even if he doesn't agree himself. I would never have known the Marine Corps had Jason not introduced me to it, but I didn't join for him. I joined for his Marines. I want to improve the lives of Marines and their families... and I know, darn well, that God gave me the talent and dedication to do it.

It was a surreal experience. Truly surreal. A week after my Cornell graduation my parents dropped me off at Marine Corps Base Quantico, Virginia. I wore proper civilian attire - a black polo shirt tucked into khaki pants. Shoes matched my belt, hair was in a bun, but I was as sloppy as any young female civilian trying to prove she was braver than she thought. I was so nervous I couldn't speak to the troop handler who asked me if I was 'prior service.' Apparently I had the look of a Marine well before I ever put on the uniform. Not too many compliments I'd rather receive.

I was an Officer Candidate at Quantico for five and a half weeks out of the ten week program. It was challenging, but I did it. I succeeded. I was a good candidate, destined to graduate on August 9th with my platoon.

I broke my right leg on the Combat Course. A lifetime of year round athletics and I never even sprained an ankle... but I knew right away my leg was broken. My entire leg was numb from just above the knee to my toes. Couldn't feel any pain, but I started crying anyways... I didn't want to go home.

I worked hard for 2 years to prepare myself for OCS. It took that long to get that good. And I wasn't even great. All of it gone in a second.

It's strange to recall my memories of OCS. We had uniform fittings on multiple occasions, and I remember thinking to myself, "I have a feeling I'll never actually get to wear this uniform." Like I was expecting it to glow or something when I put it on for the first time. It didn't.


I'm now a law student in Pittsburgh. Talk about a change of pace. I went from a rigorous Ivy League academic workload to sleepness nights of severe bronchitis and chilly chow halls to hospital surgery wards to criminal law textbooks in a matter of months. Needless to say, it's been a long year.

I have a metal rod in my leg now, the length of my tibia. And three pins. Strange to think that I have more hardware than the good Lord started me out with, but so it goes. I am not sure if I will ever make it back to Quantico to finish what I started. In my heart of hearts, I would love to finish and carry on with my dream. But it's a tough row to hoe. Probably worse the second time around, with full knowledge of the sufferings yet to be endured.

I could write a book on my OCS experience. So much has happened since Jason died. I got so close to the Corps that he died for. Every day of training I thought of him. Asked him to help me through it. Rolled the sleeves and laced the boots he once wore as a fellow Marine. Sounded off to Gunnery Sergeants who probably somehow know the Marines he served with.



Tomorrow marks three years to the day since Jason was killed in Iraq. I sat here listening to my Jason music and looking through photographs that I dare only view a few times a year. They have to seem "new" to me for the rest of my life.

It's a good life, but it is not nearly the one I expected for myself. No one in it understands where I've been and where I'm going, but I find comfort in knowing that I'll never be alone.

Shedding Thanks

I cried today for the first time in a long time. I've become emotionally hardened in the last 17 months. The only time I seem to weep anymore is when I'm amazed by God's grace. Not such a terrible outcome - to cry only with gratitude for blessings.

Today I mailed letter #109 to LCpl Brandon Frazer. He is stationed in Iraq with a Marine recruited by Jason a few years ago. Their tour is in the home stretch, and I am certain that this Marine especially is looking forward to being reunited with his fiancee, who is also a very very dear childhood friend of mine. My relationship to each of these individuals is evidence of God's magic - bringing people together in mysterious webs of faith, hope, and love.

While in my last class of the day I received a phone call. Although I was unable to answer, I felt my stomach drop to a familiar low. I knew very well that a Marine was killed today, and I prayed desperately that my current Marines were merely injured. I remained in class for another 20 minutes... and I could feel myself slipping into a haze that I left long ago. My heart was panic-stricken as I waited to hear the message that had been left for me.

A predominantly apathetic, leftist college campus is not the most ideal place for a person like me on a day like this one. I was surprised by a calm voice relaying a message about an IED attack, a concussion, and a badly cut and bruised Marine. But he is ALIVE. I felt my shoulders fall, and after listening to the message I learned that multple Marines were injured yet alive. But one was dead.

A Marine was killed today, 7,000 miles away from the country that raised him, and the people passing by on the sidewalks had not a clue. Part of me wanted to scream at them - hate them for their ignorance, for their disconnection with the war - and the better part of me decided it wasn't a good approach. Students pass me every day who will never know what this war has done, or even failed to do. Someday their grandchildren will ask them - what was it like being a college student during the Iraq war? If they have an answer at all, I hope never to hear it.

My frustrations were short-lived, because soon events occurred that I couldn't quite control. My mind slipped back into Jason's death. All of a sudden I could remember phone calls from superior officers in Iraq to his family... I remembered how 'the system' works when a Marine is injured or worse.

And I remembered a time and state of mind when I would have given anything for a phone call like the one my childhood friend received...that her beloved Marine was injured, but just that. In a hospital, but not the one in Germany that implies he's been terribly near death. The person sitting beside him was the one who died.

After returning to my room, which nowadays showcases only a few Jason pictures, I wept in thanks to God. The power of prayer is unbelievable only to those who never dare trust in it.
I looked at Jason's face for the first time in several weeks. It's just too sad anymore. Jason likely wouldn't want any one of his own beloveds to mourn in the way we have, but in some respects it's been necessary. God gave me the gift of life, and Jason himself taught me how to cherish that gift. He spoke so often of the things he "cherished."

The sadness of Jason's death is nearly under lock and key, but today I felt closer to it than I have since last year. Literally took my breath away.

Praise GOD that today a few special Marines were saved by a few good men, Jason and Jesus among them.

May peace be with the beloveds of the fallen.

Hiding the Key

I haven't written to you or Jason in a long time. To be honest, I haven't wanted to do so. Slowly but surely, I'm finishing this death.

I decided a year ago that I do not want Jason's death to be my LIFE...
but only recently did I arrive at a platform from which I feel empowered to choose.
And I choose life. Mine.
It's a gift from God, and it's mine. And I only get one.

I've learned that bad things happen to good people. I've learned that even bad things can have good component parts. And I know that when a bad thing does happen - to anyone - there's a real process that cannot be avoided - like a bypass to life. Depending on the individual, they move through the bypass quickly...and return to some sense of normalcy, although they'll never forget what they saw and felt on the sidetrack. For others, the bypass requires much more time...and for others still, they never find the main road again - even with help. There is no remedy for those who are sidetracked, no way to bring them along faster or even slow them down. Once you're through - you're through. Eyes forward, shoulders strong...and no going back.

I'm packing a box now...in preparation. A long time ago I wrote of unpacking and repacking - this time, I'm packing for certain. Soon all of the death will be placed in this box. It will be shelved in the farthest reserves of my heart, mind, and soul, and there it shall remain. The box will hold all the sadness, anger, and frustration - all of his death - and it will only be opened by me, when I choose to remember where I hide the key. It's a final attempt at a solution, and by God's grace this one will work.

A Kit Kat for Valentine's Day

Just yesterday I asked a very dear friend to recite his favorite candy. He is my best friend at college, and I wanted to surprise him with a treat for this special holiday. At the same time, he asked me to provide my favorite candy... although I'm not much of a junkfood junkie, I have loved KitKats since I was a little kid. That was Jason's favorite candy bar too. I haven't eaten one in well over a year. My friend showed up at my door today with a KitKat for Valentine's Day.

We had gone to the local mini-market to get Dr. Pepper to go with our food. About an hour earlier we had been standing in Jason's kitchen, just gliding around on the linoleum or something... when he called in an order to the local bar. Chick's bar is famous (or infamous) in our small town. You'd never know it was there until someone guided you to the door, and there's no sign outside really... but everyone knows it as "Chick's Bar". Jason went there every Thursday to have the lunchtime special. Something with gravy...and I remember him going on about the "little green peas" and how much he loved them. I thought he must have been kidding, but he was sincere about everything - even peas from a can.

So Jason dialed Chick's without even looking for the number. He placed an order for two cheeseburgers and fries.. I think I remember him going over the order with the respondent at least twice - that seems like something he would do - just to double check who wanted pickles, etc. Jason usually didn't get something like that right the first time, likely because he concentrated too hard on keeping track of details... so he had to repeat everything. And he did.

We walked into Chick's about an hour later and it was my first time ever stepping foot inside the place. There were people inside who looked as though they had been there for a long time, in the very same position at that. Jason and I stood out like sore thumbs, but with his smile and famous, "How ya doin?" people welcomed him right in. As we picked up our food I started to peek around to the back of the kitchen... Jason said not to worry - the food is good, just don't wonder about what it is or how it came to be. As we were leaving, someone at a table asked when he was shipping out.

I didn't know what it meant for Jason to be a MARINE at that time... I was still very ignorant... but I do know, with absolute certainty, that I was very proud that day. When I listened to Jason explaining to that man how he would be leaving soon for Iraq, I felt like a million bucks just because I was standing next to Jason. That feeling was accompanied by uneasiness, because listening to Jason talk about his deployment made it very real for those five minutes. When we left the establishment we were free to go back to our special summer, but for those five minutes in a small town bar I was aware of what might happen to him. The man had told Jason to make sure he takes good care and come home safe.

I remember this now - we were on our way back to Jason's house and I mentioned something about having a Dr. Pepper with a cheeseburger - just a good combination. Then Jason insisted that he would drive 6 extra miles to get me a Dr. Pepper. We were right near his driveway, but he insisted and so drove us to that mini-market. There we each got a Dr. Pepper (our favorite) and a giant KitKat bar for 'dessert.' In retrospect Jason probably loved the fact that he was getting me to eat unhealthy food... he thought that was hilarious.

When he wasn't looking I wrote this on our foodboxes. I think he had gone out to their camper to get the only bottle of ketchup his family had at the time.

We didn't eat our KitKat that day for some reason. I think we put it in the fridge to keep it from melting in the warm summer air... and then forgot about it. Because later I was on the phone with him and we "shared" a candy bar over the phone. He was at Camp Lejeune then, just days before leaving, and he had purchased a KitKat at the store so we could eat one together over the phone. That was the last KitKat I've eaten. Jason made me make some silly promise to eat one only in the "presence" of the other person - same with Auntie Anne's soft pretzels. I'm not sure why - was just a silly promise. But he made me promise not to eat one until he came home and we would do it together. When a beloved dies you hold on to whatever you have left... even a silly promise.

Right before Jason died I bought two KitKat bars. One would arrive in Iraq and he would eat his while I ate mine over the telephone. He died before I sent them, so later I sent them to his best friend in the Corps.

(bitter)Sweet Sixteen

I didn't even realize that today was 'the day' until I started to write the date on the heading of my class notes. Sixteen months is a long time to be waiting for a happy ending. It's coming, for certain, and the waiting is what builds character.

Jason's home valley in Pennsylvania

1 Therefore, since we have been made right in God’s sight by faith, we have peace with God because of what Jesus Christ our Lord has done for us. 2 Because of our faith, Christ has brought us into this place of undeserved privilege where we now stand, and we confidently and joyfully look forward to sharing God’s glory.

3 We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. 4 And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. 5 And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love.

Romans 5:1-5

Happy 21st Birthday Jason

Jason loved cheesecake. He claimed his mother's homemade was the best. Today on my way home I stopped to buy a piece for his birthday. He often teased me about eating sweets, which I do not enjoy doing very often - not much of sweet tooth. Jason could eat junk food as an entire meal, and he remained baffled that I refused to touch the stuff. But today I bought a slice of cheesecake... "for Jason".

It's difficult to know how to feel on a dead man's birthday... do we celebrate? Sure, in some small quiet way. His birthday, although an intangible sort of 'entity', is proof that he was here on earth. Even if for just a short while - he was here. Came and left, but at least a birthday implies that he came in the first place.

I wondered what Jason would have done today. Now HE would celebrate. He was in a steakhouse with his mother near Camp Lejeune a few years ago... after listening to Jason babble about how certain alcoholic beverages are concocted, the waitress assumed he was of legal drinking age and asked him what he would like to order. Jason didn't hesitate to place an order, with his mother worrying frantically about the consequences of supplying alcohol to a minor - even your own minor. Jason happily called everyone he knew to proclaim that he was having his first alcoholic drink in a public establishment.

If he were still alive, his two feet would very likely be standing at attention (or parade rest) on a Navy ship near Iraq. His unit recently left Camp Lejeune for a float tour. Somehow he would have found some Jack Daniels - his favorite - and done a round in honor of his own 21st birthday. He likely would have called, very silly/happy, just to say hello and maybe sing us a song or two. No matter what continent he was on, he would be surrounded by people who love him.

It's strange to think that two birthdays have now gone by for Jason since he died. What will this feel like when 20 birthdays have gone by? When I'm forcing down a piece of cheesecake in 20 years for him on February 1st, I'll be pained to recall that Jason never aged. I'll look at his pictures with my two tired eyes on a face beginning to fill with wrinkles. But he never grows older in the way that we experience aging. He'll look 19 years old for the rest of his life - eternity. He's certainly handsome at 19 years old, but in the grand scheme of things... 19 isn't very many.

Consider it a sheer gift, friends, when tests and challenges come at you from all sides. You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors. So don't try to get out of anything prematurely. Let it do its work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way.
James 1:4

Tears in My Pockets ... and Seashells

Today I wore a jacket that's been hanging in a closet for many months... the coldness in the air has finally called to my old red jacket.

When I was emptying the pockets after a long day, I came across a wad of tissues and a palmful of seashells. As soon as I felt those seashells in my pocket, I remembered exactly from where they came.

Last May I stood on the beach at Camp Lejeune and wanted desparately to climb into the crashing waves, swim across the Atlantic, and find Jason on the other side... I filled my pockets with tissues and seashells that day.



Before he left, Jason gave me an assortment of small gifts. Among them was a bag of seashells from Camp Lejeune - he had gone to one of his favorite quiet places down there and collected them just for me. At first I thought it was a little bizarre for him to be giving me a plastic sandwich bag filled with a couple seashells... then he showed me that one was actually a shark's tooth... and the rest were just shells he thought I would like. He's funny like that.

If Jason had not been killed, I was intending to ask him to join me on a trip to Florida. We were both excited about the idea of going somewhere together - someplace fun and relaxing.

When I was in Florida, I made a point of collecting some shells along the beach... just for Jason. It was nice to lay in the sand at night and wonder if he was there too...a long with every other star in the galaxy. I remembered that night when I found my Lejeune seashells today. Jason's Florida seashells are at his headstone. I placed them there when I returned from Florida last summer - along with the day lillies that signaled that the "Jason time" of year had arrived.

Today I am reminded that no matter where life takes us in a single day... no matter the tears or the triumphs... the sun always sets, and then rises again. And so comfort finds me.

Every Other Marine

I'm learning a lot about the Corps. I think when Jason first told me he was a Marine, I had not a clue what he meant. Camouflage? Tanks? THAT kind of stuff?

But I've come full circle. Since he died, I have come to know what "Marine" really is.

If I ever earn the title myself, so help me God, I will carry the names of every Marine I know who is helping to guard the streets of heaven.

Every so often, when I slow the pace of my life long enough to contemplate this story, I wonder how on earth I ever ended up playing any kind of part in it at all. How did I get here - and did this really happen?

I know I'm not alone in the fight. Not by far.

Here's another Marine. Learn his name... learn his story.

Here's a part of Jason Dunham's story. You should know this Marine. He received the Medal of Honor.

We're never alone.

A Future (and a Past) without a Face

I haven't been here in a while.

Lately I've tried to stay away from the place ... where I knew a dear boy since middle school...we were friends in high school...then fell in love when he was a young Marine about to leave for his first deployment... during which he was killed. It's a funny chain of thoughts, but they comprise a chain, no less.

My words have become fewer and far between - I realize. I suppose it's a form of 'moving on' that I've tried to find for a long time. In retrospect, it's only been 15 months since Jason died. If I live to be 100 years old, this will have been such a small pause in my life... but it seems like so long to a heart that has danced through so many emotions.

For many weeks I tried to avoid honesty within myself. The stages of grieving are complex in such a way that I don't believe a person could ever write about them without having experienced them for him or herself. True that 'stages' do exist, and certain that they may only be recognized as discrete after already passing through them. In the last 15 months I have spent a lot of time wondering if I've reached the end of it all - is the grieving over yet?

No. And in some way - some last ridiculously small strand of a way - it never will be. There will always be something... something that calls us back to stage 4 or even stage 2, whatever those may be. No matter how many times I sit back and say to myself, "You know what? I think you've made it... you're done. It's over..." there comes a time not long thereafter when I'm back in this story. I don't cry much anymore, hardly ever. Evidence that some wounds to a certain type of heart can be, in effect, emotionally culderized.

But

I can't remember Jason.

I do not know why. But I do know that I do not want to admit that very sore fact to myself. I can't remember Jason. I'm terribly sorry for it, too. Sorry to myself, sorry to him, sorry to people who also want me to remember him. I pray for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry, Jason," I'll say. Sorry that I can't picture your face or remember what you said to me or how you said it or why you said it. I don't feel terribly guilty, just terribly frustrated at times.


Sure, I can recall the facts and I can imagine the photographs I have looked upon more times than a person can comfortably count. I can go into his bedroom at home and see that his closet still holds his USMC uniforms. I can wear his old PT shorts when I spend time training myself for my own future. I can hug the stuffed dog that he himself handed to me, and I can hear the clanking dog tag he used to wear on his boot. I can try to wear his cover and then remember his head was a smaller size than my own. I can even open my Jason-drawer at home and reach way into the back, pull out a bag and open it to smell the contents: Jason's old USMC PT shirt.

We remain with every single piece of a person's life - except the person himself. I am glad we have those things, despite the very fact that they are just things. Because somehow they allow us to know that he was here in the past and will, in some way, remain into the future.

Truly an odd existence. For this reason, I suppose, I've unintentionally pushed it into a corner of my mind unopen even to me. "It" being the entire story - the life, the death, the aftermath - all of it. Jason's in there... but I can't find him anymore.


I believe that before this phase of total blankness came an exhausted phase of wanting this to be done. Somehow put the lid on the box and store it as a blessed token of history. I stopped finding a reason to tell people about Jason many months ago. I just gave up - most people, by no real fault of their own, simply could not recognize what was actually meant by, "Jason was killed in Iraq. He is a Marine." Surely if someone were to ask, I'd tell them his story.

Then there was the phase of putting Jason-things away. Just desparately frustrated from looking at the same 8 pictures in frames...so I finally started putting his photographs away. Now there are two, and the new phase of not remembering.


God has brought people and experiences into my life since October 6, 2005 to help me to become just plain old Meredith again... very very slowly I am returning to the girl who did not yet have a dead beloved. I will absolutely never be the person I was before Jason, and I'm glad for it. I understand life (and death) in a way that many people my age simply cannot.
But I've reestablished my own goals, although I'm not much of a dreamer anymore. I know that most dreams don't come true, although they are fun to make and all. So I'll stick with goals instead. They seem more realistic by their very nature. Recently I had to make some very intense decisions that will influence the happenings in my life for the next decade... and for a short time I allowed my frustration to get to me. Jason's presence on earth would have, in some minimal way at the very least, played a part in where my shoes take me. And I couldn't help but realize that my shoes would likely have been going in a very different direction.



There is always hope. Always faith. Always God. I can even push Him away, but He still finds me. And for that I am so desparately grateful. Still, I pray that this is simply another phase in the game.



The precious bits and pieces I will never lose are those that I have written down.

I miss you, Jason.

Dogtags

Before he left for Iraq, Jason had a few days between the time he returned to Lejeune from pre-deployment leave and the day he actually left the country. He didn't really have much to do - although the gear was probably packed and repacked half a dozen times. So he picked out a few cards and sent them home to me, staggering their release so that I would have them after he had left. He told me to keep one or two to open after he had gone. Each one is filled with the same silly scribble and some goofy doodle face he always drew.

I was on the phone with Jason when he told me he had plans to send home a small gift for me as well. Jason, by his very nature, cannot keep this type of secret. He can carry those dramatic childhood best-friend type secrets to the grave, never tell a soul, but he couldn't keep a surprise as a surprise. He just got too excited about it - ridiculously so, in fact. I would cut him off before he allowed too much to come flying out of his smiling lips.

So I guessed that he was buying me dogtags. And I guessed correctly because he unknowingly offered so many telling hints.

When he persuaded me to tell him my 'guess', he asked what I would have liked to have printed on them. I told him to go ahead and make one up that looks authentic - like I'm in the Corps too. He said something like, "Oh, well... I already had it made, and that's not what is on it. Sorry. But this has a special meaning - you'll find out later."

I think it was after Jason was bound for Kuwait (and Iraq) that I received the package he had sent home to me from Lejeune. The dog tag was enclosed, of course, and the package itself came with a funny story attached.

Jason had gone to the post office on base and spent several minutes making sure that the small package was properly sealed - meaning he COVERED the thing in tape. When he took it up to the counter for weighing, the postmaster told him he had to remove all the tape - the wrong kind! (I thought this story was hilarious when he told me over the phone). So eventually that dilapidated box arrived at my home in Pennsylvania, but not without some frustration.


When I showed the dog tag to Jason's mother after it had arrived (and Jason was in Iraq) she noted that he had a similar tag from his youth. The first dog tag every bearing his name included a similar phrase. He had purchased the tag at Hershey Park during a field trip. She didn't know where his replica was anymore, but it was neat to think that he had done that for me.

For Christmas 2005, just months after he was killed, Jason's mother went up into their attic to retrieve this special gift for me. She must have found it well in advance of Christmas, because she, like Jason had difficulty in keeping the secret. I knew right away what the surprise would be - and I desparately hoped I would be proven correct on Christmas day. And I was.

The very first box she opened in their attic - right on top of the contents...

Jason Lee Frye
2-1-86
Perry County Country Boy

A memento that he himself had probably not held in years, but so special to him that he remembered it well enough to make an exact 'copy'. It's companion tag is my first, and rightly so.

Visiting Quantico ... and Embracing Historic Tradition

A place every Marine should witness. The National Museum of the Marine Corps. I think if there had been a church inside, I could have made it a permanent dwelling. Truly a fantastic tribute to the entire CORPS, and certainly an honorable tribute to Marines of past, present, and even future.

The museum just opened this past November, appropriately so since the Corps' birthday is November 10th. I heard of it a long time ago, and so was terribly excited to know that I could stop by for a visit on my way home from Washington, DC. The museum is located in Quantico, Virginia - just a few miles from the Quantico Marine Corps Base - which is also home to the USMC Officer Candidate School. Only a half hour south of DC, and worth every mile of road in between.

Every part of this place is inspiring. Actually, in the Corps they use the term, "motivating." I couldn't stop smiling. The Marine Corps has a sense of tradition like no other, and it's got a remarkable history to boot.

This is THE flag flown on Mt. Suribachi at the Battle of Iwo Jima. THE FLAG that made a few good men famous. The flag that is a hugely symbolic part of Marine Corps history. I couldn't believe it was here - but what better home for such 50 stars and 13 stripes?

This is a photograph of the side of an exhibit; this is meant to look like the bulkhead on a ship... when you get closer the 'bolts' are actually miniature EGAs and anchors. One for every Marine or sailor who died in the Vietnam war. And there were many.

The museum was humming with visitors young and old. Many parents had brought their children along, as a way of continuing their legacy. A mother encouraged her children to line up on the infamous yellow footprints - just as she had done on Parris Island for USMC boot camp.

The older gentlemen walked more slowly through the exhibits. Wasn't hard to know who is still a Marine... they paused at photographs from Korea, Vietnam... as if they were seeing themselves in a mirror - and perhaps they were. When other visitors kept walking, these veterans stopped to remember... the way an M-16 feels in your grip... the way a heavy pack can throw your weight forward...the way an MRE actually tastes pretty good after not having much to eat.

A very funny thing did happen while we were there. I was near the Medal of Honor wall - a tribute to every Marine who has ever won our nation's highest award for valor. Only one Marine has been awarded this medal in recent years - Corporal Jason Dunham. I have read The Gift of Valor, which tells this Jason's story, so I wanted a photograph of this tribute to him.

His photograph was posted high on the wall, since he was the first of this war. I stood on my toes and held my camera up above my head to take a picture. I tried a few times to focus the camera correctly, and to manage the flash... I was in the middle of my photography experiment when the lights went out. The electricity in the entire museum shut down. Every last light bulb, video clip, or audio segment was turned off as if by a giant switch. For an instant the power resumed, then went off again. A man's voice called over the loudspeaker and invited all the visitors back into the main rotunda, where natural lighting made everything visible.

We asked a nearby museum attendant if the power had ever gone out before - and she confirmed that this was, in fact, the very first time. A brand new museum, only a few months in operation, and the electrical system was failing on a clear spring-like January afternoon.

We chuckled then... imagining our Jason smirking next to a power switch as I tried to photograph another Jason. He did love practical jokes.

Jason's mother told me that when their family visited the oldest son at Camp Lejeune, Jason would walk all over the base on his own in an attempt to explore the USMC way of life and its history. He delighted in simple things, and would certainly read every single card or panel that belonged to a statue or museum exhibit. He wished to learn as much as could. I think he really would have enjoyed seeing this Marine Corps museum. The exhibits are organized by major wars in which the Corps participated, and the portion devoted to Iraq and its neighbors remains unfinished. Until the current war ceases, this exhibit is merely one of photographs - but these are pictures that speak volumes about the war.

Civilians have an opportunity to contribute to this unfinished exhibit. I brought paperwork home with me regarding a potential contribution to the museum, and I thought about it for a better part of the ride home. I have dozens of letters from Marines, some I've never even met. I have photographs and tokens from Iraq, and I have trinkets that were carried in the pockets of a very special Marine. I would like to someday be a part of the Marine Corps history. Jason was from the moment he stepped onto those footprints.

Names in the House

Yesterday I made a trip to one of the buildings occupied by our House of Representatives. I was arriving there for a research project interview, and I was not expecting the sight that greeted me on the inside of those four walls.

After I had come through the main entrance and passed through security, I walked over to a bench to rest for a moment and organize my things. Then I realized what was on the wall in front of me.

The entire wall... covered with more than 3,000 names. Each listed in alphabetical order, by month of death in the Iraq war. I think for a few seconds I couldn't breathe.

And there it was. Jason's name. And Cabino's, and Chevy's, and Pat's, and Schiavoni's, and Troyer's.

I am not sure why I felt so taken aback - perhaps by just seeing this name so far from it's real home. Being here in Washington makes Jason's death take on a new identity to me. For days I have been exposed to Congressmen and important decisionmakers. Today I walked past the office of the National Defense Council for the war in Iraq. This experience has made me consider everything from a new perspective.

It's real. The war is very real to me, even though I've never even strapped on a uniform. I listened to committee members plan defense strategy, and my own two feet stood where our President's feet were holding his place just days agoas he discussed the war. LCpl Jason L. Frye on that wall makes Jason's death very real - worldwide.

Later that day I spoke with a prominent member of the House Armed Services Committee, and I thanked him for this wall. I wanted him to know that I appreciate how every person walking into that building - elected official or not - will acknowledge it's presence. Every single name. And as they go about their days on the Hill, I pray that they remember Jason among his family of names on that wall.

A Purple Heart, Gold Star, and Vietnam

I am in Washington DC this week, and today I made the journey to visit our nation's war memorials. I visited a few museums and galleries, but nothing struck me in the way these memorials did.

I am not certain why I wanted to see the Vietnam memorial more than anything else in Washington. I don't know anyone by name who died there, but I feel more connected to that historic war than any other in our nation's past. I had seen the wall on a 6th grade field trip - one that Jason's elementary school went on too. So I know Jason saw this part of our country during his time on earth. I'm glad for that simple fact - because walking these hallowed grounds alone has made me wish desparately that he could be here too. Jason loves history, and we are both terribly passionate patriots...

When Jason's class came here in 6th grade, he went to the wall with paper and pencil and made a rubbing of the name of a young man who died in Vietnam - a classmate of Jason's father. Jason took this paper to the young man's mother, a member of their church back home.

I found a Marine Lance Corporal from Pennsylvania - and focused on his name. There are so many names, and that's all it is - just names. That's all it should be... people should see the name and wonder about the face, the heart, the home, the family... the stuff that remained behind.
John J. Murphy is my LCpl from Pennsylvania.

I stayed at the wall for a while. Secretly I wanted to weep all over the black stone, and if I was already in the military, I would have saluted every single panel of the wall. There were dozens of people passing through to look, and I wondered how many of them understood - really understood - what they were witnessing.

I walked along and paused to take these photos. Only after I had covered my camera lens did I realize that a man had been standing in the edge of the frame. He seemed to be praying, or at least remembering something. I wondered then how he knew the name his eyes and heart remained focused on while others walked on.

A few moments later I found myself near the reflecting pool. There were vendors selling military patches and pins. I walked over to the table and discovered that one of the items for sale was a metal KIA bracelet like the ones we had made with Jason's name. Someday a person may end up purchasing a KIA bracelet with Jason's name on it - there is a company that makes these bracelets and distributes them to people who likely never knew the person behind the KIA name.

Here I purchased a Gold Star pin. Such an adornment is worn by a beloved of someone killed in action. I was wearing a Marine Corps pullover, and decided the pin would rest nicely on my lapel. When I explained to the vendor my cause for a gold star, he asked me to wait patiently while he retrieved another pin for me. He returned with an Operation Iraqi Freedom Purple Heart pin - the purple heart is given to anyone wounded in combat, even those fatally wounded. He told me to take this pin without charge, and to tell Jason's family that people are grateful for his service to this nation. The man is a veteran of the United States military - best in the world - so I thanked him graciously.

I ended up buying a large gold EGA pin at another stand when the vendor explained that all the proceeds are used to maintain the war memorials. SEMPER FI Marines... oorah!