Our son came home from Iraq for 18 days. We were expecting him on June 27, but of course, we should know better than to “expect” anything. He’s in the Army where oft is heard, “hurry up and wait.” When we thought he would be well on his way, he called from Kuwait to tell us he was delayed and probably wouldn’t be home until Sunday or possibly even Monday. We were disappointed, but set Sunday as the new “can’t wait for” day.
Sunday morning he called from Atlanta, Ga. He said he would arrive at the Portland International Jetport at 5:18 p.m. We arrived about an hour early, little American flags on sticks in hand. Chelsea and Nick had their “Welcome Home” signs rolled up. A handful of in-laws were at the airport. At 5:10 p.m. we went inside to wait for Zack to emerge from the plane. The only problem was there was no plane. We checked the board and discovered his flight was delayed an hour. We went back outside for another hour, once again disappointed.
At 6:15 we went inside, eager to greet our soldier – and again, there was no plane. The board said his flight was on time. We asked a TSA worker who said the plane had landed. We waited and watched passengers from other flights disembark and rush into the arms of waiting friends and family. Then the board said his plane was “on approach.” It must have been a long approach, because that is what the board said for half an hour.
“I feel like a kid waiting for Christmas,” I told my brother-in-law.
At long last, Zack’s flight was announced. Through the gate, I saw my son, the only young man in combat fatigues. I remember shouting, “There he is!”
He rounded the corner and as I hugged my son, I could hear the crowd around us cheering and clapping. It seemed to go on forever.
Strangers shook his hand and thanked him for his service. They walked up to him and clapped him on the back, offered their hands and wished him good luck.
One man walked up to Zack, shook his hand and said, “Welcome home, son. When I came home from Vietnam, people spit on me.” The man strode off so fast, we didn’t have the opportunity to say anything.
Zack was hungry so we went to Denny’s. When the manager learned Zack was home on leave from Iraq, our meals were free.
“His first meal on American soil should be free,” the manager said.
Zack wanted to go to the mall to buy some clothes because there was a mix-up with his luggage. The mall was closed so he said Wal-Mart would be fine for a couple items. As we left the store, the manager stopped us. He shook Zack’s hand, thanked him for his service and handed him a gift card.
It was so nice to have people thank him. He was embarrassed and humbled.
He has shown us videos and photos of his time in Iraq. None of it classified, of course, but enough to make us realize the conditions he has lived in. He has met people who, under Saddam’s reign, were unable to work or support their families. Most of them are grateful to the American soldiers for liberating them, for giving them hope.
I thought about how he was raised in Maine, where it’s safe to walk the streets, where you don’t have to worry about drive-by shootings or getting caught in the crossfire of gang wars. He grew up where he could watch the change of seasons, where freedom is taken for granted, where people can worship as they wish, shop where they want, own land and support their families.
He ended up in Iraq, a desert setting where temperatures reach 100 degrees by 8 a.m. and sandstorms turn day into night for several days. He ended up in a hostile environment where he must constantly be on alert and carry a gun with him at all times.
It has been good for him to be home. He has been able to relax, unwind and not worry about mortars flying in, but still he sometimes walks out the door without a word and paces the driveway. I ask him if he is OK and he tells me he is. I wonder what thoughts occupy his mind, but then again, I probably don’t want to know.
All I can do is hug him and tell him I love him and he is safe.                      – Renee Worthing