This has nothing to do with the things I usually talk about here, but it has to do with being a human, and loss, and love, and family. And I think these are all things that we can relate to, so I wanted to share some things with you today.

Today is the 13th anniversary of my uncle’s death. He was the husband of my father’s sister. He was a colonel in the US Army, and he was a good man. He helped raise three boys that, I have it on good authority, have also turned into good men. One of them married a Kelly, AND she has curly hair, so we know at least he has some good judgement. 🙂 

I will never forget the day I found out. It was a Sunday. I lived in a house with three other girls I wasn’t really friends with. They were having a dance party in the living room. My mom called me twice, which never happened so I picked up the second time around. “Jim was killed,” she said. I don’t remember the rest. I was in shock. I called my boyfriend at the time (I didn’t know Brandon yet..he came to save me later that summer), and that was a conversation I wish I could forget. I signed into AIM (throwin’ it back to 2007, y’all), and my friend Jordan popped up. He asked what I was doing. I told him the truth. He said “Well {roommate} and I ordered pizza and are going to watch Spiderman if you want to come over.” So I did. Jordan and I weren’t best friends, but we were friends enough. So we ate pizza and watched Spiderman and they let me cry and it wasn’t weird. I haven’t talked to either of them in years, and they’ll probably never know what it meant to me that they just let me be there. I think Jordan took me to the airport to fly to Kansas the next day, but I’m not 100% sure. It was a little bit of a blur after that.

My oldest cousin, the one with the Kelly, came to pick me up from the airport. We’ve always had a bond. He was my big brother I never had. He smiled when he saw me but it wasn’t a whole smile. None of us really knew how to be. I got to the house and it was just full. There were so many people. I remember the sticky note on the answering machine. “DO NOT TOUCH.” It still had a message from him on it. My dad had a stack of blue index cards with who was coming when, on what flights, where they were staying, and who was going to get them. He called it his “Blueberry” (pre-everyone owning a smartphone). The man can organize everything — he planned a WAR for the love of God — and he was in work mode. He spent 20 years in the Army himself, and did his own time on Casualty Assistance. He, quite literally, knew the drill. He ran interference the whole time. He was a champ. 

Daddy pulled me out to the backyard within a short time of me being there. He said my aunt had asked if I would sing at the funeral. I was free to say no, but she had asked. How do you say no? I don’t remember the entire turn of events, but I remembered a song I’d written in high school. The only song I’ve ever written alone, front to back. It took me all of 30 minutes, lyrics and melody, just one of those things that comes together like it was supposed to be all along. If ever in my life I was meant to do something, I was meant to write that song so I could sing it then. 

We all had our special memories of Jim. My sister didn’t eat Oreos for years. They were their thing. He always loved to hear me sing. I don’t sing much now. I do when no one is around. But when I was younger I would sing in church and things like that. They all came out to Colorado one year on vacation, and I remember sitting in the backseat of their rental Land Rover, singing to the radio, and all of a sudden he turned the volume all the way down so it was just me singing by myself in the car. I was so embarrassed, but I loved that he just wanted to hear me. And I will never, ever forget the day they all came to see me sing at church. They are all Catholic, my dad’s whole family, and we aren’t, but they came to our Baptist church with us one morning because I was going to sing and he wanted to hear me. I can still see them all sitting in a row, to my right, and he was just beaming. I was maybe 17. I’ll never forget it. 

Speaking of never forgetting. The Patriot Guard. This was in the thick of that crazy Westboro Baptist Church doing their thing. Do you remember them? The bunch of crazies that would protest funerals and the like with their signs that military deaths were God’s punishment for the sins of America? I don’t even know if they still exist. But let me tell you about the Patriot Guard. This was a bunch (dozens. hundreds?) of bikers who took it upon themselves to be our protectors. We had to go collect his body. (It still makes me sick.) That plane came in and the soldiers had to walk that casket out and put it in a vehicle for transport. It was so honoring. I can’t imagine having that job. We were all numb. I have pictures in an album somewhere and it still doesn’t feel like I was really there. But we were surrounded by bikers. They escorted us home. We were surrounded by tough looking men and women in leather with American flags EVERYWHERE. They lined the interstates. They lined the roads from the gates of the base to the off-base funeral home and everywhere close to it. They were there. Bikers are the best.

I can’t explain a military funeral to you. You just would have to experience one. They say the military is a family, but that doesn’t even seem like the right word. There’s just a bond. A connection. A deep understanding. I can’t listen to bagpipes play Amazing Grace to this day. We all got through it. We listened to a letter read from the Iraqi commander my uncle worked so closely with. I wish I had a transcript of it. It was one of the most honoring things I’ve ever heard. I somehow sang my song, and as far as performances go it was probably disaster, but I made it through. My dad got up and stood in the outside aisle of the church so I could see him, and maybe he doesn’t remember but that’s what got me through it without fully breaking down. Daddies just know what you need. I saw an old friend of mine from middle school in the crowd (literally a crowd, the chapel was packed), which was ironic. That particular base was known for turnover. Most people weren’t there for more than a year, but she was back. She’d been friends with my middle cousin (a few months younger than me but infinitely smarter and I’m old enough to admit it now). We shared a few words and an understanding nod and went on our ways. My family had to walk the short way to the burial site. The priest said his words. They presented the flag. Bagpipes. Bugles. Taps. Tears. 

I lived on that base twice. Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Third and fourth grade, then seventh and eighth. We had a third grade field trip to the cemetery on base. Never would I have believed you that fifteen years later I’d be back. They’ve since named a street after him. He wasn’t even supposed to go back overseas. He was supposed to retire. They asked him to go. He ran the US Disciplinary Barracks for years. Apparently he was crazy good at running a prison system. My freshman year roommate and I would stop over at their place on our way home from school… it was exactly halfway between Nashville and Colorado Springs, and huge, and kind of haunted but we looked past that. The good Iraqis wanted his help. It wasn’t their fault the Taliban got in. They were nasty, and snuck in every little village they could, convinced people to do their dirty work wherever possible. His shooter was dead before he hit the ground. Jim wasn’t the only one lost that day. There was another soldier killed in his vehicle when they were attacked, and I can’t remember his name, but he was also a good man with a family who didn’t deserve his end. 

We weren’t the closest of families growing up, if you look at the way some people grow up. Heck, half our lives, we were in separate hemispheres! They spent a lot of time in Germany. I still have Little League & Senior League World Series swag from “the boys” playing with their teams from Ramstein. But in the grand scheme… I think we have always meant a lot to each other. My aunt Penni said “You need to come here now,” and my dad got in the car. Those boys are my cousins, but they are also my brothers. We were never geographically close, and maybe not even the best of friends close, but I have always felt close to them. We are blood, and we shared the same experiences growing up. I didn’t lose my father. But I lost theirs. 

And every now and then, when I’m singing to myself in the kitchen, I remember that day in the car when he turned the radio off. And I kick it up a notch, and I sing just a little bit louder for him. 

I hope you can still hear me, Uncle Jim.
I love you.  

Tags: family loss military