Published: August 01, 2008 09:48 pm      

Blue Star Mothers' letters stir memories, gratitude

EDMOND — One Sunday afternoon last month I joined others of all ages at the family life center of my church to write letters to our service men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan. The letters would be included in hundreds of Blue Star Mothers care packages and sent to unnamed recipients.

We milled about, visiting and snacking before we got down to business. All kinds of paper and cards, whimsical stickers and pens were provided. Except for the occasional ring of a teen’s cell phone, silence prevailed as we spread out along the sides of long tables and got down to work.

I selected bright construction paper and a pen that I hoped would be legible and settled down to begin a project that would touch my heart far more deeply than I’d imagined.

“Dear Soldier,” I wrote, and then I stopped. How dare I go on? Me, who sits at a table in a safe, air conditioned room among friends. Me, who will soon return to my own comfortable home and go about the rest of this day and the next and the next in the midst of all that’s familiar.

An enormous debt of gratitude to the youngsters who made my comfort possible washed over me. What could I say to a soldier about the same age as the students who sat in my classroom not long ago?

Robbie’s face materialized at that moment, and I remembered how real he had made Desert Storm to me in his letters. What had I written in response? I might have reminded him of the kindness he’d shown to a careworn woman he once interviewed in the classroom for an 89ers research paper.

What a blessing that had been! Cowboy Robbie’s quiet reassurance had revealed his tender side to me and, more importantly, to his peers. I doubt that any of us ever looked at him again in the same way. I know I didn’t. Robbie’s Desert Storm letters were as thoughtful as he’d shown himself to be that day.

My Blue Star letters will carry no return address, and I’m sorry. A one-sided conversation reveals much about the writer, but that seems unfair. I’d have to perceive my Iraq and Afghanistan soldiers in the way my soldier students had taught me, though I’d rather know them through their responses.

Before Robbie, there had been Paul, who sat on the front row in the classroom with his legs thrust out into my space. We agreed it was the best way to accommodate his great length. Besides, having his attentive face nearby was worth my effort to avoid tripping over his protruding feet.

I’d been forewarned that Paul was many things, and not all of them positive. I knew of his family situation and marveled that, in my opinion, the good outweighed the bad. Sandy red hair going every which way and a troublesome case of acne worked together with his background to make Paul no one’s best friend.

His letters from Vietnam were beautiful, informative, long and profuse, and I answered every one. What depth of character that young man revealed! After the shooting stopped, he brought his bride by the house to meet me, and I was pleased with what I saw.

I sat there in the family life center that day with my heart in my throat, hoping against hope that the words I wrote would convey my gratitude and respect for the young men and women who can’t be that far different from Robbie and Paul.

God bless every one of them and all they endeavor in my behalf.

MARJORIE ANDERSON is an Edmond resident.