99. Christmas: Once Again, "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year"

"It's the most wonderful time of the year.
There'll be much mistletoeing,
And hearts will be glowing
When loved ones are near . . . "

Until December 25, 2006, Christmas was always my favorite holiday.  I loved the music, the lights, the food, and, most of all, the idea of one day when friends and family could put aside their differences and laugh together without restraint.  I always associated the holiday with freedom from responsibilities - school was out, work was on hold, and for twenty-four hours, I could escape from the tightly-wound ball of perfectionistic tendencies that dictated my everyday life.  At the age of twenty-two, I embraced Christmas with the same enthusiasm as when I was little and found myself too excited to sleep.  Back then, I'd pass the long hours until morning listening to tape recordings of books like Roald Dahl's "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" until my parents finally allowed my sister and I to race downstairs, open presents, and read "Santa's" letter cautioning us to be good again during the upcoming year.

That all changed on December 25, 2006 when, unknowingly, I said goodbye to my late husband, Jon, for the last time.  He had been at home on R&R from Iraq during the two weeks leading up to Christmas, and Christmas day just happened to be the date he was required to return to his unit.  I always describe that last moment I saw him as being somewhat surreal and unsettling - he turned his head back toward me, flashed a big goofy grin, and then he was gone.  But he'll be back, I told myself.  And soon...right?  In theory, things were supposed to get easier during the second half of his year-long deployment; we were on the downslope, and although Jon always told me he didn't like to count the days (that was bad luck), reaching the six-month mark represented a milestone...and, for me, a huge relief.  As it turns out, of course, it's not that simple - there is no safety zone in a place like the one to which he had to return, and over the next several months, many good men lost their lives there.  I was twenty-two, life was just beginning, and as we said our goodbyes, I naively believed the worst of it was over.  Oh, how wrong I was.

We didn't have Skype or anything like that back then - just email and photos - and as I watched him disappear down the runway, I mentally prepared myself for the fact that the last couple of weeks of precious memories would have to sustain us for the remainder of the deployment.  No amount of preparation, however, could have helped me face what would ultimately amount to a far longer reality.  As you might imagine, Christmases after that year were always among the most dreaded of days.  It should have just been another hard date, but I always found myself haunted by what I now knew was the last fleeting moment I'd see him alive.  How can a person go from being so happy and vibrant and alive one minute to being dead and gone the next??  Part of me wanted to bottle up a mental snapshot of his face in that moment so that I'd never forget the sight of it while the other part couldn't stomach the sickening feeling I got whenever I realized that moment was it - the last one.  For the first couple of Christmases, I think I was still somewhat in shock...then shock turned to sadness, anger, trepidation, and finally, back to sadness when I finally started to deal with many of the issues I'd tried to push aside for years.  To say I was stubbornly opposed to the possibility of enjoying the holidays again would be an understatement.

As I've finally realized and learned to accept, however, Christmas is just another day.  Sometimes it might be a day full of joy and laughter and togetherness, and, as many soldiers can attest, sometimes it might be spent many miles away from home in a combat zone.  For me, this Christmas was a blissfully uneventful and relaxing occasion during which, for the first time in longer than I can remember, I felt peace.  Ah, peace...such a wonderful, elusive thing.  After years of yearning and searching for it, I finally seem to have found it.  I spent the day doing a whole lot of nothing with the man I love and feeling immensely grateful for his unquestioning acceptance of who I am, complicated past and all.  He is, in every sense of the word, my partner, and I'd be absolutely lost without him.  We laughed, cooked together, ate Christmas dinner, and made plans for the weeks ahead.  I can honestly say it doesn't get much better than that, nor could I have asked for more.  Christmas doesn't have to be the big, boisterous, shiny occasion it was when I was a kid for it to still be as perfect as anything ever gets in this life.

I guess I must have been relatively good this year because the gifts I can neither appraise nor quantify have been plentiful.  The greatest of all these gifts is, without a doubt, love.  Thanks to love, I can now look forward to future holiday seasons with a smile.  Thanks to love, Christmas is once again one of the most truly wonderful times of the year.  And thanks to love, optimism and excitement have taken the place of stubborn opposition to holiday happiness.  To simply call myself "lucky" doesn't do justice to this new reality; it fails to pay proper tribute to what is nothing short of a major turning point in my life.  For the first time in years, the thought of a "happy" new year doesn't seem so far-fetched...in fact, I'm looking forward to it.

98. Happy…to be wrong

"I'll never love again . . ." 

"It's not possible for me to ever be that happy again. . . " 

"My life is over - I've already had the best this world has to offer, and I lost it all before the age of twenty-three . . . "

These were all phrases that became a crutch for me after I lost Jon, a fall-back when life got hard.  Bad things would happen, some of which had nothing to do with Jon, and I crumbled because I thought I had been through enough and couldn't take any more heartache or adversity.  I sometimes used what had happened to Jon and I as an excuse to fall apart in situations where I probably could have been stronger or made better decisions because everything just seemed so inherently unfair - life doesn't give a shit about my happiness, I thought, so why should I care about doing the right thing or aspiring to great things when it doesn't really matter anyway?  I could cure cancer and then get hit by a bus the next day . . . you can call it karma, or maybe it's just another example of our complete and utter inability to exert any control over the things that really matter - things like people . . .  and love.  Those are the things we cherish at the end of the day, and those are the heartaches that cut the deepest.  Even when things finally started to get a little better, I was still, at best, treading water.  I fought just to keep my head above the surface, and I'd resigned myself to getting by for the rest of my days without true love in my life.

That was then.  This is now.  Finally, there is something to live for, something greater than myself.  My friends and family were right - I can be happy again, and it doesn't have to look the same as it did before for it to be just as good.  In fact, it might even be better now that I have a far deeper and more informed appreciation for what matters in this life.  It's not as simple as "I'm a good person and, therefore, good things happen to me."  It's also not as straightforward as "I did a bad thing, and now I deserve to be punished."  Bad things happen to good people.  They happen all the time.  It doesn't work in that tit-for-tat manner to which we often cling when we seek an explanation for the inexplicable.  We like that model because it's logical and coherent . . . but that would imply there is some logic or coherence to life, and there simply is not.  It's taken me over six years to get that through my stubborn skull, but I think I finally understand that it's true.

Today I find myself living in a great country that believes in things like freedom and equality.  I'm healthy, and I have a promising career ahead of me.  I have a supportive family and wonderful friends who put up with me, even when I feel like I'm too busy to breathe.  I'm almost done with the law degree that's now taken nearly eight years to complete from start to finish.  The Captain Jonathan D. Grassbaugh Veterans Project officially has clients.  People seem to want to tell the story of how I got to this point, and they smile with happiness at what represents a "good news story," rare though those are in the media these days.

Most importantly, I am desperately head-over-heels in love with a wonderful man who treats me like the most important person in the world.  He makes me laugh like a hyena and has this uncanny way of finishing my thoughts before I can even get the words out.  Whenever things get a little rough, he reaches over to squeeze my hand, and on the mornings we're not physically together, he makes it a point to wake up first so that I always have a sweet "good morning" message waiting for me.  He tells me every day how happy he is to have met me - in Afghanistan, of all places.  It doesn't get much better than that, and for all those things I am most grateful.  I literally get chills when I think about how lucky I am.  I've never been so happy to say that I'm glad I was wrong - happiness after heartache is possible.  In fact, this kind of happiness is perhaps the best kind of happiness because it's the result of slogging through a whole lot of bad to get back to what's good.

If you look up the definition of happiness, it's described as a mental or emotional state of well-being characterized by positive or pleasant emotions, ranging from contentment to intense joy.  If you ask me, though, it's so much more.  It's mental, emotional, and everything in between.  It's hard work, it's perseverance, and it's often the product of blood, sweat, and, ironically, tears.  I'm just happy to say that, for me, far more of those tears are happy ones these days.  There will be more challenges and more adversity, I'm sure.  There will be other times when I feel like the world has turned against me and refuses to cut me some slack.  But when these things happen, I'll try to remind myself to smile and recognize that this too shall pass.  The happiness that comes after the storm is well worth all the rain.

97. Veterans Day Weekend 2013

Although I'm not usually at a loss for words, I cannot adequately describe the whirlwind of incredible experiences I've been fortunate enough to enjoy this Veterans Day weekend.  Perhaps I should simply let the record speak for itself; it will do justice to the events that have brought me to the brink of happy tears more than any words I might offer.  On this Veterans Day 2013, I thank all my brothers and sisters from the bottom of my heart for your selflessness and sacrifice - this great nation owes you a debt of gratitude that can never truly be repaid:

MSNBC - "Taking the Hill" Panel on Remembrance:

http://www.msnbc.com/taking-the-hill/watch/the-influence-of-9-11-62748227554

ABC/FoxNews - "Good Day Columbus" Interview:

http://abc6onyourside.com/shared/news/features/good-day/stories/wsyx_monday-veteran-featured-cosmopolitan-magazine-6021.shtml#.UoFNgKXHJfM

Tiffin University - Veterans Day Ceremony Speech:

Today is Veterans Day. Though sometimes confused with Memorial Day, today is about service. It’s about thanking a veteran for their sacrifices and rejoicing in the fact we are all fortunate to live in a great country where our freedom is attributable to selfless service. It’s been said that, “war has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter and the things that don’t.” You can ask any veteran if that’s true, and no matter what his or her experiences in the military have been, I can guarantee you the answer will an emphatic yes.

My name is Jenna Grassbaugh, and I’m a third year law student at the Ohio State University Moritz College of Law. I’m also an active duty Army Captain, a veteran of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the proud Gold Star wife of another veteran, a veteran who taught me to recognize what matters and what doesn’t. That veteran, my late husband, Captain Jonathan Grassbaugh, lived by the motto “non sibi,” – “not for oneself.” He told me that despite the challenges life, law school, and the future might bring, at the end of the day, what mattered was that we had each other. He promised he would love me through the best of the best times and the worst of the worst.

He was standing at a pay phone in Iraq when he uttered these words. You see, six weeks after we were married, he was deployed for a second time with the 82nd Airborne Division. Ten months after our wedding, on April 7, 2007, two Army officers knocked on my door to tell me that Jon had been killed by an Improvised Explosive Device in Zaganiyah, Iraq. Despite our hopes of starting a family and growing old together, our dream was not to be. Jon was twenty-five years old when he died.

During a trip home from Washington, D.C. last year, I was at Reagan Airport for an early morning flight and, as usual, I had over-packed. As I checked my heavy bag in at the ticket counter and then hoisted it up onto the screening belt, I was struck by a sudden sense of déjà vu. I've been here before, I thought. This all seems incredibly familiar. It was in that moment that I remembered lifting a similar bag up onto the same conveyor belt over six years ago as I prepared to leave D.C. after Jon's funeral. On that first trip, I felt weighed down - both physically and emotionally. Leaving my husband's body behind was hard enough; contemplating what on earth to do with the rest of my life seemed unimaginable. My bag was heavy and full, only instead of clothes and shoes, it contained things like a wooden flag box, a folded American flag, brass casings from the 21-gun salute, and a plastic container full of all the letters Jon had ever written me. I was a 22-year old widow going home, only I didn’t know where home was without Jon. It was the worst of the worst times, and I had to navigate them without the one person I knew could show me the way.

Over these past six years, I’ve tried so many different things to overcome this tragedy, though I don't think you ever truly “get over” the loss of someone who made this world a better and brighter place. I withdrew from my first year of law school at William & Mary and threw myself into my Army career. I deployed to Iraq as a Military Police platoon leader. I ran races to raise money for organizations that help the families of fallen soldiers. Eventually, I realized I still wanted to serve in the Judge Advocate General’s Corps, and I applied to the Army’s Funded Legal Education Program. I began law school again – this time at Ohio State. It wasn’t until last fall, however, that I realized there might still be more I could do to turn my worst nightmare into a positive good. I realized I had the power to ensure that Jon’s belief in selfless service would live on into perpetuity and that I could help others in need in the process.

Here in the state of Ohio, there are more than 900,000 veterans. As I’ve discovered, not everyone understands exactly what constitutes a veteran or can appreciate the kind of unique legal issues they often face after returning home from what might be their first, second, or even fifth deployment. A veteran is anyone who has served overseas during a time of war. It is not, necessarily, the forty-five-year-old Colonel who retires with full benefits after twenty years. Instead, it might very well be the Staff Sergeant who served two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and then separates from the Army with child support payments, debt issues, and severe post-traumatic stress disorder. The more research I did, the more the problems facing veterans caused me concern. The Legal Aid Society of Columbus is overwhelmed by a caseload that requires specialized knowledge and expertise, and, as of last fall, there was no central location to which Ohio's veterans could go for help.

With this knowledge, I started brainstorming ideas for how to go about providing free legal services for veterans. I realized that Ohio State did not have a clinic dedicated to tackling veterans’ issues, and I decided it was time to change that reality. I'd also reached a rough point personally in dealing with some of the issues associated with Jon's death, many of which I think I'd more or less suppressed up until that point. My hopelessness at how to deal with things completely beyond my control gave me the motivation I needed to do something more tangible with the time and resources I had at my disposal. On October 26, 2012, I attended a Veterans Wraparound Summit hosted by former Ohio Supreme Court Justice Evelyn Stratton, which provided me with the tools I needed to understand the complexities of the legal issues facing veterans. From there, I used the models of several preexisting clinics at other law schools around the country to approach the Moritz faculty with an informal proposal for a similar project. After much discussion and compromise, we agreed on a basic structure for the program: the Captain Jonathan D. Grassbaugh Veterans Project would pair veterans with law students to help them sort through their legal issues and find solutions. Practicing attorneys – many current JAG lawyers in the Ohio National Guard – would volunteer to supervise the student work.

I donated the seed money, endowing the fund with $250,000 of the insurance funds I received upon Jon's death, and the law school is currently engaged in a fundraising drive to match that amount. This will ultimately enable us to provide 2,000 hours of free legal services to veterans annually. The Captain Jonathan Grassbaugh Veterans Project was officially launched on April 5, 2013, just two days before the sixth anniversary of Jon's death. The project is up and running today, and Moritz students are actively assisting veterans as we speak.

I can honestly say that it was not until I founded the Grassbaugh Veterans Project that I finally felt a sense of real peace and happiness. The mission of the project means more to me than any material thing that money could ever buy. This is Jon’s legacy and it’s one that will go on long after I’m gone too. It means that my other very worst fear will not come true – that being that, in time, he’ll be forgotten.

Ironically, in the military, one person can feel very insignificant—success in combat depends on countless people at various times during multiples phases of a carefully-planned operation. The military is practically the poster child for the concepts of “communication” and “interaction” and “teamwork,” which is probably why the “Army of One” slogan didn’t do quite as well as “Be All You Can Be” or even “Army Strong.” The reality, however, is that without one person doing their job and playing their part, military precision breaks down. One person can make a difference – a big one. One person can have a vision for how to save lives or how to improve the status quo, and provided they can rally an army of supporters, so to speak, that vision can become a reality.

So, despite being cautioned against doing anything too drastic or giving away too much money, my stubborn determination to make the Grassbaugh Veterans Project a reality will ultimately, I hope, make a meaningful difference in the lives of others – others who have already given so much and sacrificed time away from their families and the safety of home to deploy overseas and fight for our freedom. Quite frankly, I never second-guessed my decision to pursue this vision or doubted the need see it through to completion. I was overwhelmed at the university’s support for the concept once I was able to demonstrate how we might make it happen. And once we got the ball in motion, it didn’t stop. I would have been happy to see this project become a reality by, say, the time I graduate in May of 2014. Instead, by the time I graduate, the project will have been up and running for an entire academic year, and law students will have helped to fight countless legal battles on behalf of veterans. It wasn’t a miracle, and I didn’t do anything extraordinary or superhuman. I just did what I thought was the right thing to do. This project is my attempt to identify and address veterans’ legal issues at a time when we can still prevent the worst of the worst from befalling our nation’s heroes.

A couple of weeks ago, I returned to Washington, D.C., a bittersweet place for me, and ran my fourth Army Ten Miler race. The course winds through the entire city, past the Smithsonian Museums and national monuments, across Memorial Bridge via Arlington National Cemetery, and ends back where it began at the Pentagon. I ran to raise money for Fisher House, the organization that came to the government’s aid during the recent shutdown when it provided funds to families of fallen soldiers to cover funeral costs and travel expenses. Later that weekend, I spoke at an event overlooking Arlington National Cemetery, where those who served our nation with dignity and honor are laid to rest – including Jon. At Arlington, Jon rests amongst many heroes, all of whom believed in the importance of selfless service and gave their lives to that end. Each of these heroes represents just one person, but one person who meant the whole world to their loved ones and left a lasting impact during their short lifetime. President Abraham Lincoln said that it’s not the years in a life – it’s the life in the years. Jon didn’t have the luxury of many years, but he was one person who managed to achieve so much and represented so many wonderful things: he was an Army Ranger. A Patriot. Leader. Friend. A loving husband. He made me a better person – and he still does.

Today is about the kind of selfless service in which Jon and all the soldiers he served alongside believed wholeheartedly. The Grassbaugh Veterans Project seeks to honor that selflessness and sacrifice by helping those who return home from war to live better and happier lives. The project is about distinguishing the things that matter from the things that don’t. Thank you to all veterans for what you have done and continue to do on behalf of all of us. You matter, and we are forever grateful.

96. The Ultimate Conundrum (Re-blogged from the Millennial Veteran Project)

Note:  The following article was originally published on the Millennial Veteran Project blog, a site that, for various reasons, is no longer operational.  

On August 30, 2013, the Department of Defense announced the death of a soldier who was supporting Operation Enduring Freedom.  His name was Staff Sergeant (SSG) Michael H. Ollis, and he was a native of Staten Island, New York.  SSG Ollis died of wounds sustained when insurgents attacked his unit with an improvised explosive device, small arms, and indirect fire.  He was 24 years old.

SSG Ollis’ family will now undergo the heartbreaking process of burying their beloved son, which will undoubtedly be followed by many years of questioning what could have been (and should have been), had things turned out differently.  Yet, the average American citizen is unlikely to know SSG Ollis’ name.  In fact, some Americans are unaware that we’re still at war in Afghanistan.  Nothing could be further from the truth, and yet the latest and greatest Hollywood scandal will undoubtedly get far more news coverage than the most recent American casualty from Operation Enduring Freedom.

Why is that?  Why do we care more about things like the birth of the royal baby than we do about the loss of American lives?  Have we become so emotionally desensitized that unless a record-breaking number of Soldiers die in one catastrophic incident (see, e.g. “Portraits of Lives Lost:  Thirty U.S. troops were killed Aug. 6, 2011, when their Chinook helicopter was shot down in Afghanistan,” available at http://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/portraits-of-lives-lost/2011/08/09/gIQAWxmF5I_gallery.html#photo=1), we barely bat an eye and mindlessly continue on about our day?  Do we really need another World War II with its staggering loss of lives to feel anything resembling remorse and sadness these days?  Or will we be content to simply continue to push aside the more difficult and morally problematic issues until, after over twelve years, the war in Afghanistan is officially over?

And will it ever really be over?  For those of us who have already lost more than we could have imagined, the war will continue in some way or another for many years to come.  Combat operations may end, but the questions that continue to haunt us will lurk persistently just below the surface, always threatening to rear their ugly heads at the most inconvenient of times. As a veteran of both Iraq and Afghanistan and the widow of a Soldier who returned home from Iraq in a flag-draped casket, I often struggle with the ultimate conundrum:  Are we simply giving up after twelve hard fought years?  And if so, what does that mean about the sacrifices we have made? Should we just give up and walk away after attempting to eradicate terrorism from that area of the world for more than a decade? 

  

Or should we continue to stick it out until we’ve achieved “mission success?”  And what does that even mean in these asymmetric conflicts against non-state actors?  On the one hand, mission success, however you choose to define it, is the quintessential foundation of my military career; on the other, I intimately understand the finality and loss that comes with death. It’s permanent in a way that nothing else is in this world.  I’ve seen one too many heartbroken families whose lives are forever changed when they are suddenly forced to continue on without the husband, wife, father, mother, son or daughter who made their life worth living.  For those of us who find ourselves facing this unthinkable reality, the question we avoid at all costs and can’t help but come back to over and over again is relatively simple:  why? 

Given this conundrum, you might imagine how I felt when an article was published this summer regarding the contemplated immediate withdrawal of U.S. troops from Afghanistan (see “U.S. Considers Faster Pullout in Afghanistan,” available at http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/09/world/asia/frustrated-obama-considers-full-troop-withdrawal-from-afghanistan.html?_r=0).  I looked around with a momentary sense of panic and thought, “Wait! We’re still here, and there is still so much to be done!” However, my next thought, was, “well, actually, maybe withdrawal would be for the best.”

Like many, my feelings are incredibly mixed. Like any trained soldier, I never want to leave a problem unsolved, but I wonder how much more good can come from our continued presence in Afghanistan.  Further complicating my views is the fact that my husband, Jon, was killed in Iraq, and I served there as a Platoon Leader a year later.  In 2011, we officially withdrew from the region, leaving many of the same problems we’d faced during my tour still unresolved.  As I watched the video footage of the last of our vehicles crossing the Iraq border into Kuwait, I was filled with an unsettling feeling of disappointment and relief – disappointment at the fact that we’d abandoned the mission my husband died for, and relief at the fact that it was all finally over.

Barely two years later, much of Iraq has returned to its former chaotic state of violence.  Just recently I read an article that included a photo of the marketplace we patrolled through every day in Mahmudiyah, Iraq - it used to be relatively safe and secure, but had recently been targeted by several suicide bombs and looks to be an absolute catastrophe once again.  (see “Deadly Blasts Rock Southern Iraqi Cities,” available at http://www.aljazeera.com/news/middleeast/2013/06/201361673910345481.html).  It makes me wonder what, if anything, we’ve learned over this past decade, and whether things will be different this time around given the recent rumblings about contemplated military intervention in Syria.  Many political commentators are comparing the current situation to the one we faced years ago in deciding whether to invade Iraq.  I recall all too vividly how it felt as an eighteen-year-old ROTC Cadet to witness the symbolic toppling of Saddam Hussein’s infamous statue on the news – at the time, my friends and I celebrated what we thought was a quick and easy victory.  But that was before the human cost of the decision to invade hit all too close to home, and my present-day feelings are far less celebratory.  This time, my instinct is to shudder when I think about the potential consequences of getting involved in another conflict before we’ve figured out how to “end” the current one.  Perhaps Plato had it right – only the dead have seen the end of war, especially when the war never truly ends.

In 1963, country music singer Skeeter Davis released a song entitled “The End of the World.”  Among many unanswerable questions, Skeeter asked why:  “Why does my heart go on beating?  Why do these eyes of mine cry?   Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?  It ended when you said goodbye.”  As Americans, we love a good story with a nice, neat, happy ending, but for those of us who never got to say goodbye, the realities of life are messy, and the whys will always remain.  History will undoubtedly offer many explanations for the decisions that were made, but no explanation can justify the loss of what cannot be replaced.  The catastrophic losses we suffered during World War II are often equated with a righteous victory, but for those families directly affected by those losses, there will always be questions like the ones SSG Ollis’ family will ask themselves in the days and years ahead:  Why my son?  Why my husband?  Why my father?  Although times may have changed, the answer is still the same:  there is no answer.  There never is. 

95. Happy

"No one can take away your pain...so don't let anyone take away your happiness."
~Unknown

It's been too long since I last wrote, and for that there have been several reasons. Believe it or not, all of them are good. Good, you say? During a deployment to Afghanistan? Yep, believe it or not, this has truly been an experience I feel grateful to have had, albeit for a relatively short period of time.

Quite frankly, I'd stay here for longer if I could. I've learned more in just a few months in this environment than I could ever have hoped to learn in the equivalent time back at home. It may sound strange to hear me say that I feel relatively "happy" in Afghanistan, but truthfully, I can say it without hesitation. I work with wonderful people, I have loving friends and family waiting for me back at home, and I have gained invaluable insight into a delicate situation about which I can now express an informed opinion. Personally and professionally, it doesn't get much better than that. My experience here in Afghanistan has been markedly different than my previous deployment to Iraq, perhaps most notably because it's been six years since Jon's death and I'm not inextricably linked to the very same country where he spent the last days of his life. This separation, both in terms of time and distance, has allowed me to see things with much more clarity and peace of mind than I've felt in a very long time. To say that I'm relieved to have the weight of grief become a less burdensome thing to carry does not do justice to the extent of my gratitude.

Over the past six years, I've done a lot of things that have almost guaranteed my own unhappiness. I've subsconsciously refused to believe that I could be as happy again as I once was and, consequently, I've worked really hard to compile my very own recipe book of disasters for continued emotional hardship. That stops now. When I return to Ohio in a few weeks, I will turn my attention to ensuring that the Grassbaugh Veterans Project accomplishes its goal of helping veterans, and, in doing so, I anticicpate much joy at seeing the fruits of our labor in action. I'm going to focus on my family and friends and try not to worry so much about the things I can't change that tend to send me into a downward spiral of depression and self-destruction. Last but not least, I'm going to loosen my grip on cynicism and allow myself to experience love and true happiness. My favorite U.S. President, Abraham Lincoln, once said that "people are just as happy as they make up their minds to be."  At this point, I've practically become an expert at making things unnecessarily complicated for myself, and, as a result, I've experienced one too many bad days. Mr. Lincoln dealt with a lot of complicated issues during his presidency, but I think he hit the proverbial nail on the head here: it really is as simple as making the decision to be happy.

I'm happy to say that my mind is made up. Happiness is on the agenda, and I'm not settling for anything less.

94. Still

"Imagine everything you ever wanted shows up one day and calls itself your life. And then, just when you start to believe in it - gone. And suddenly it gets very hard to imagine a future." 
~Side Effects

For some people, death is the scariest thing on their list of fears. For others, forgetting those who have died or failing to find some meaning in their deaths is far scarier. Those of us who are left behind are already serving a proverbial life sentence - why fear the very thing that set them free? I work long hours over here in Afghanistan, but I still have too much time to think about these things. When I hear about Soldiers dying, my heart breaks for their families. The truth is (and I don't say this to be morbid, nor do I have a death wish), I would much rather it were me than someone with a wife and kids waiting for them at home. And yes, in case there was any doubt, after six long years, I still feel that way. It may not be quite so prevalent in everything I do and say as in the past, but it's still the truth.

"Still." How I hate that word. It seems to suggest there will come a time when this won't be my reality. As time continues to pass, I become more and more certain that that day will ever come. I think I've gotten pretty good at putting on an exterior show of the fact that "I'm fine." It's a necessity in my line of work. Maybe I'm wrong about that - maybe people see right through my act to the heart on my sleeve and the guarded defensiveness in my eyes. For now, though, I'm going to tell myself that I'm doing a decent job of masking what I can't ever really hide.

It's funny, you know. It used to be that when I looked at people, especially men, I noticed hands and eyes. Now I notice wedding rings, and I think about what that ring says about the person. Maybe they're married to the love of their life, and maybe they'd feel the same way I do if they ever lost that person. Maybe their marriage isn't great, but they remain faithful and committed because they took an oath to do so and refuse to go back on their word. Or maybe they're like the man in my last attempted relationship: They wear the ring when they feel like it to pretend that they're living the picture-perfect, happy American life, but, in reality, the words fidelity and commitment mean nothing to them. Am I still bitter about that? You would think so, right? But, honestly, no. I no longer dwell on the pain he caused or the lies that constituted the basis of our entire relationship. But I don't doubt that I'll never quite be the same when it comes to my ability to trust in people or believe in the inherent goodness of mankind. As a good friend of mine pointed out, there's a reason they say you can never get rid of the weeds. I'll try to remember that more often when I ask myself the dreaded question: Why do bad people get to live while good people have to die? And yes, I still ask it. And no, there's still no answer. I wonder what people think when they see the two rings on my right hand...

As one might guess, I have a love-hate relationship with the Army. Still. There are so many bittersweet moments that cause me to take pause and imagine what could have been and should have been. Since Jon died, it's always been the little things - the day-to-day things - that strike hardest where it hurts most. Initially, I looked for him in everyone, everywhere, hoping he'd somehow magically turn up where I needed him. I'd see him in other Soldiers - the way they walked or the way they laughed. I've stopped looking for him in those places; now it's all about those little things. Just the other day, for example, I decided to recycle a couple of pairs of Army PT shorts that were well past their prime. You'd think this would be a relatively simple and emotionless activity, right? Wrong. I suddenly remembered that Jon had taken these shorts with him to Iraq and, as he always did, he wrote his name on the labels so they wouldn't get mixed in with someone else's things. They were really too small for him - he wore large shorts and I wear mediums - but the thought of him squeezing into my too-small-for-him shorts always made me laugh. This revelation changed my decision-making process completely. Could I bring myself to throw away something he'd worn, that had physically touched his skin?

At this point, I've gotten used to look on the faces of the Army movers when they come to pack up my household goods for one of my many moves to a new duty location - they seem surprised (and perhaps even a little annoyed) that one person could own such a vast quantity of stuff. That's because I really have enough stuff for two people - myself and Jon. Many of the things I continue to hold onto that belonged to him are trivial, silly even, but I can't bring myself to get rid of them because they were his. He was a real person, a living and breathing person, and he had things that reflected what he liked and who he was. So who am I to decide that it's time for these things to go? I can't just discard them like they meant nothing to him. The fact that that they meant something to him means that they continue to mean something to me. His all-too-familiar handwriting is proof of the fact that he was once here by my side - he put pen to paper, and he wrote things like "I love you and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you." He wasn't just a figment of my imagination or a fantasy of a life I wished were mine. He was real. We were real.

So, to return to the PT shorts, my solution to my dilemma was to remove the faded, discolored labels with his handwriting and store them safely in a zip-lock bag until I return home to the United States. I don't know what I'll do with them when I get there - probably add them to the box of cards, pieces of scrap paper, and post-its I've kept over the years that bear the evidence of the person I love. My point is, though, that the simplest of things continue to add fuel to the fire of my post-Jon existence. In many ways, I still feel stuck, like I'm just treading water and waiting for the nightmare to finally end. Still. "Still" almost feels like it's becoming my new version of "forever." The word itself is short and simple, but the meaning it carries is heavy and, at times, unforgiving.

In 1998, Canadian country music singer Shania Twain co-wrote and recorded a song titled "You're Still the One." Although Twain and co-writer Mutt Lange divorced in 2008 after 14 years of marriage, the words of that song continue to hold great meaning for me. I'd like to be able to tell Jon that he's still the one - still the one I run to, the one that I belong to, still the one I want for life. He's still the one that I love, the only one I dream of, and still the one I kiss good night. Still. Always. Forever.

93. They Say...

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on when in your heart you begin to understand there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend, some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold.” 

~Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

They say everything can be fixed.
I disagree: Not everything.
What I can’t fix literally haunts me.

They also say we always want what we can’t have.
They might be right about that: Those that are old would give anything to be young again, and those that are young just want to be old enough to be taken seriously. The rich want to be richer, the poor want to be richer. Those who lead normal lives wish for more excitement. Those who live under a microscope of public scrutiny curse the price of fame. When I wake up in the morning, I keep my eyes closed for a few extra seconds and hope that when I open them, things will be different – the tattoo with the date of Jon's death will be gone, Jon will be at his computer checking the headlines on CNN.com, and everything will be okay. But when I open my eyes, my tattoo with that life-changing date is still there. I'm alone, and Jon is no where to be found. And everything is still not okay.

They say I have to go through all the stages of grief and that one day I’ll finally be “done” mourning Jon’s death. But I go through multiple different stages throughout the course of one day. To suggest that I’ll ever "get over" the love of my life seems ridiculous and, quite frankly, downright insulting. I’m beginning to doubt that this process will ever really be over for me. They say everyone has their own timeline and that I don’t have to rush anything until I’m ready. It's been six years and on some days, I still can't even say his name without breaking down in tears. So, I guess my timeline is really, really slow. And to be honest, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I can’t let him go. I can’t just compartmentalize my life with Jon and put away all the things that remind me of him. There are few things to which I’ll voluntarily admit defeat, but this might have to be one of them.

They say that "the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path - one that we all must take. The gray rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it: White shores...and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise."

I truly hope they are right about that.

92. "Here I am, Lord. Send me."

"Fly me up to where you are beyond the distant star.
I wish upon the night to see you smile.
If only for a while, to know you're there,
A breath away's not far to where you are..."

I often have this odd sensation of looking down on my life from up above, as though from a distant galaxy. The edges of what I can see down below are a little hazy and out of focus, and I can't quite discern what lies beyond the fours corners of my existence. Perhaps it's just easier to disassociate from the truth by taking myself out of the picture entirely. This out-of-body sensation usually envelops me just as I'm about to drift off to sleep, and I always wonder if the picture will look different by the time I wake up. But when I return to reality, I'm back in the picture and Jon is still gone. The picture is the same, and there's still an empty spot in the bed where his 5'10" frame used to rest next to me so peacefully.

Due to the nature of what I do here in Afghanistan, I can't openly discuss the details of my job or what I've learned thus far.  What I will say without restraint, however, is that I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with mass media and its impact on wartime operations.  When Jon was deployed to Iraq, my heart sank every time I turned on the news and saw the news ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen with the names and numbers of the Soldiers we'd lost in combat that day.  Now I find myself scouring the headlines for any mention of Afghanistan and, similarly, my heart sinks when there's nothing to be found.  I see more coverage of insignificant things happening in other countries than I do about our own Soldiers fighting and dying for the sake of everyone back at home.  It's as if this kind of news is no longer sensational enough to splash across the front page and has now been downgraded to a mere afterthought.  Why is that?  Is it just that after twelve years, the majority of the American population has become numb to the loss of our men and women at the hands of terrorists? And when did we reach the point at which we could be so cold and indifferent towards death?  Is it because so few Americans are personally impacted by these losses given that so few people volunteer to serve in the first place?  Hey, if the news isn't covering it anymore, the situation can't really be that bad, right?  Ha.  I don't mean to sound bitter, but if people only knew . . .

Although the national anti-war sentiment was far more rampant and unforgiving during the Vietnam War era, I'm beginning to wonder if this is how those veterans felt when they returned home and were told by cowardly draft dodgers that what they fought for was "wrong" or pointless.  I find myself studying past military operations in which American lives were lost (like Operation Gothic Serpent, Somalia) and wondering if we've learned anything at all from our mistakes.  I guess only time will tell.  But until then, I won’t hold my breath.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  Never before have the debts of so many been paid by so few.  And if you ask me, there’s something very wrong with that picture.  As some of us know all too well, freedom is not free.

People ask me all the time why I'm still in the Army after everything that's happened.  My question to them is "why not?"  Someone has to do it right?  My husband taught me a lot about leadership, and one thing it does not include is looking around for someone who'll take the hit when shit hits the fan.  It really is as simple as stepping forward and saying "here I am, Lord.  Send me."  (Isaiah 6:8)  When my ROTC instructor, Matthew Eversmann (75th Ranger Regiment Veteran and co-author of the book "Black Hawk Down,” which tells the story of Operation Gothic Serpent), first recited this quote to my young, impressionable commissioning class, I thought his words were just that:  words.  But now I know better.  They're not just words - they're proof of a purpose in a world where terrible things happen and so little makes any sense.  And so I say, here I am, Lord.  Send me.  Jon would expect no less.

91. Seven Years

"Life's not fair, you know? Good people die, and others let you down."
~A.W.

In Afghanistan, the air is usually so full of dust and grime that it shrouds the mountains and makes it impossible to see the stars.  Last night, however, was an exception.  As I bypassed the concrete T-wall barriers that skirt the path back to my room, I searched the night sky for the brightest star.  As soon as I settled on a winner, I smiled.  Hi, baby, I said out loud, oblivious to anyone who might be nearby.  You'd better not forget to stop by and visit me on June 9th.

Seven years ago on June 9th, 2006, I stood before a roomful of family and friends wearing the dress of my dreams and said "I do" to the love of my life.  I held his hands, looked into his eyes, and promised to cherish him no matter what life might bring, be it the joy of laughter or the anguish of tears. At the time, I thought the "unknown oceans of the future" we spoke of in our wedding vows would include multiple Army moves and deployments, graduation from law school, and, God-willing, our own little family. Seven years later, the moves and deployments have transpired as predicted, and graduation from law school is imminent. The children we prayed for, however, are not to be, and the unknown oceans have proven far stormier than I could ever have imagined. Ten months after our blissfully happy wedding day, two uniformed officers showed up at my door and turned my happy world upside down. Predictably, the "anguish of tears" quickly became the rule, rather than the exception.

As I've learned since then, life is full of little ironies. In the infamous words of a well-known songwriter, "isn't it ironic? Don't you think? A little too ironic, yeah, I really do think." I think of these words whenever people tell me that no one can take away what Jon and I shared together. They seem so eager to reassure me that our memories are mine to cherish forever. And they're right, thank goodness. However, what's also painfully true is that no one can give me back what I lost the day he died. That loss is permanent, and no matter how desperately I wish to see his face or feel his touch for just a moment, those wishes will remain no more than dreams that torment me, some nights more so than others.

Disappointment has also assumed a whole new dimension over the past few years. These days, whenever someone falls short of my expectations, I feel ten times worse than I did in the past.  Maybe it's because I look at people who treat others like stepping stones and think, dammit, Jon was twice the man you'll ever be. Why is it that he's gone and you're still here?  Or maybe it's because Jon isn't here for me to lean on in these moments of frustration. No matter how bad things seemed, he had this uncanny way of talking me down from the ledge and reassuring me that everything would be okay.  Always the gentleman, I think of the way he ever so gallantly carried me over the threshold on our wedding night and then gently removed the hundreds of bobby pins from my fancy updo as I leaned back against him, happier than ever to call myself his wife.  He couldn't have let me down even if he'd tried.  If the last seven years have taught me anything, it's that men like that simply don't come along every day.

I continue to wonder all the time about the little things that might have made a big difference. What if he'd been assigned to Fort Campbell (his first choice) instead of Fort Bragg after his tour in Korea? What if I hadn't missed his call the night before he died and I'd gotten to say "I love you, baby" just one more time? What if I'd thought to send him a Red Cross message when we found out my mom was in the hospital and he'd come home immediately instead of going out on that logistics patrol? He could have been on a plane the very next day! Instead he was one of five Soldiers in the lead truck on a dangerous road in Iraq. And when that truck got hit by 500 pounds of explosives, he didn't have a chance at survival. Today we don't even use those trucks in combat anymore, in part because they can't withstand the kind of catastrophic damage caused by Improvised Explosive Devices.  IEDs - God, do I hate that word.  My skin literally crawls every time I hear it.  Seven years later, the enemy continues to improvise while we continue to be the victims of their success.  Sadly, despite the fact that IEDs are often constructed from simple, rudimentary materials, the effect they have on families like mine is anything but ordinary.  And therein lies yet another great irony.

The day I married Jon will forever be etched in my memory as the happiest of my life, just as the day I lost him will undoubtedly remain the saddest.  It's hard to imagine anything ever topping the elation I felt as I walked down the aisle and the future seemed to stretch out before me like a long red carpet of endless possibilities.  I've come awfully close to tumbling off the edge ever since that knock at my door cut short what should have been a life full of unknown joys and heartaches, but somehow I'm still on the path, battered and bruised though I find myself at times.  As I looked up at those stars here in Afghanistan the other night, I thought of Jon and all I'd like to be able to tell him.  And then I realized that although much has changed over the past seven years, there is one thing that remains constant:  he knows.  When he was here beside me, he always knew what to say and what I needed to hear, and to this day, he continues to know me better than anyone.  No matter how many years might pass, I'm guessing he always will.

90. Zoo Exhibit

"I find that I stare in wonder at people who have kids and a spouse. It feels a little like being at the zoo, looking through the glass at a little world I can't get to, watching a species so different from my own. I examine them and wonder how they feel. I wonder if they feel lucky to have so much to live for. I wonder if they feel the sense of belonging I miss so much." 

~Cassie, Widow's Voice (May 27th, 2013)

Cassie's words hit the nail on the head - with a simple analogy, she sums up exactly what I can't quite seem to convey when people ask me how I'm handling everything.  When I see happy families and hear people talk about their spouse or kids, it's like rubbing salt in a wound that won't ever heal.  Ironically, my reaction is usually one of two extremes - either I turn away and separate myself from the painful reminder of what I've lost, or I stare, mesmerized by their happiness, and think, "God, I had that once - and now it's gone.  I'm in love with a man I'll never see or touch again in this life.  How can someone be expected to live like that?"

Another author from Widow's Voice wrote about the goodbye she wished she'd been able to share with her husband the last time she saw him.  The problem, of course, is that she had no idea it would be the last time - none of us do.  We don't comprehend the need to cherish every second and every touch until it's too late; only then do we come to the sickening realization that those precious few seconds of physical contact will have to last us a lifetime.  We agonize over every last detail and every last word - did I tell him I love him?  Why didn't I kiss him for longer?  Did he know I felt like the luckiest woman in the world to be his wife?  Why didn't I stop him from leaving?  Would he still have died if I'd done something differently?  There must be something I can do to change the way things played out...

I knew when I said goodbye to Jon that I had good reason to worry because he was getting on a plane to go back to Iraq at the height of the violence, but I convinced myself that there was absolutely no way it could be our last embrace or our last kiss - we still had so much living to do together for it to be over so soon. Now when I look back and relive the moment I saw his face for the last time, I wish I'd never let him go. I don't think I'll ever stop wishing that. He told me in person years before be died that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and if I could bring him back for a moment and tell him one thing today, it would be just that. Life ends - love doesn't. I love him more today than I did yesterday and I'll love him a little more tomorrow (if that's possible) than I do today. That's just the way it is. Deep down, I know that no number of tears or "I love yous" will bring him back, but a tiny part of me continues to hold out hope for a miracle.  

Such is the life of a young widow.  Countless people have told me that he would want me to be happy and that he's always with me.  And I get it, okay, I do - hell, I even agree with them.  But what they don't seem to realize is that they have the luxury of detached objectivity.  Offering advice from the outside looking in and living this reality minute-to-minute are two very different things.  In the latter scenario, it's really me who's like the zoo exhibit while the rest of the world passes by, glancing at me from behind the glass with pity.

"Happy" is what I was when he was alive.  There's no going back to the simplicity of how things were after all the emotional trauma and heartache - unfortunately, it's too late for that now.  That may not be what people want to hear, but, as with everything, the truth hurts.  You can create lemonade from lemons, but the bottom line doesn't change.  Some things are just sad, and, quite frankly, I don't always want people to try and make a happy ending out of something that, for me, represents a life-changing tragedy - sometimes, I just want them to say, "Jenna, it's not fair, and he didn't deserve this.  And neither do you.  You lost the love of your life - you have every right to feel sad, alone, and cheated."  And sometimes - well, make that always - knowing that he's with me isn't enough:  I need to feel his embrace and hear him say "I love you," instead of just imagining these things.  I don't think that means I have a bad attitude or that I'm an abject pessimist; it just means I refuse to treat as "okay" something that isn't "okay."  My twenty-five-year-old husband died in a war many Americans seem to have forgotten about, and he was robbed of a long life and the children we couldn't wait to raise together - that's not okay.  It never will be.

They say that losing the love of your life is like a wound that never heals.  It eventually becomes less like a gaping hole and more like a tender scar, but it's always there.  I'd have to agree.  And I'll bite the bullet and play the part of the zoo exhibit if it serves to remind people to be thankful for what they have, because you simply never know when the last time will be the last.  As I've learned the hard way, there are but a few simplistic principles that sum up what matters most in this world:  Love people, not things.  Do good for others, not just yourself.  And last but not least, never miss an opportunity to say "I love you" one last time.  Take it from me - you won't regret it.

89. One-in-a-Million

"Because they've got a broken wing and they're hurt and they're an easy target. And in this case...I think that wing is being fixed. And you gotta make sure if gets mended. And you're getting in the way of that right now, okay? Because she's sensitive and she's smart, she's artistic. This is a great girl and you gotta be respectful of that. Come on. Let me walk you back to your car." 

~SLB

In case there was any doubt, it's hard to have it all...and then lose it.  When it comes to relationships, my view on things is irrevocably skewed. I feel very different in so many ways from most people my age. I'm like a young, inexperienced teenager stuck in a fully grown adult's body. Theoretically, it would be great to be able approach the dating scene with a completely carefree and open mind, but in reality, I've been married, and it's probably too late to turn around and go back to the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed outlook I had when I was 18. Bottom line, I put on a good front, but I'm still pretty fragile.

To further complicate things, I feel incredibly nervous about all the emotional baggage that inevitably accompanies becoming a widow at the age of 22. I realize there's nothing I can do about it, but I do worry it will make it hard for anyone to love and accept me for everything I am. Friends and family always tell me it will just take a really special and understanding person - and that anyone less simply isn't worth worrying about - but the pessimist in me often wonders if that's just something they say to make me feel a little better. They are certainly right about one thing: I usually expect too much from people and continue to take it to heart when they're not who or what I thought they were. Thanks to Jon, my expectations are awfully high, and, to make matters worse, I continue to give the people who disappoint me one too many chances. After twenty-nine years of seeing the best in everyone and hoping like hell they won't let me down, it's hard to figure out how to change gears and completely reverse my strategy.  Either that, or I really just need to stop caring so much about what other people think and do what's best for me.  Or not.  I can't even type those ridiculous words without feeling a pang of guilt.

I've already had my one in a million...and now he's gone.  Is it selfish of me to hope that I might be lucky enough to be blessed with two?  I guess only time will tell.

88. Night Sky

"When you commit U.S. forces, you need to understand that there could be a cost. It is combat, and you need to be ready to stand by those decisions. When you commit U.S. forces to combat, there are bills to be paid." 

~COL (Ret.) Tom Matthews, on Operation Gothic Serpent (Somalia, 1993)

A wise man once said that the world will break your heart three ways to Sunday - that's guaranteed. 13 Soldiers died in Afghanistan this past week...and I've been sitting here worrying about final exams. If that doesn't put things in perspective, I don't know what does. The irony of it almost speaks for itself - a couple of days ago when I mentioned to someone that I was deploying to Afghanistan this summer, they said, "oh, how terrible! But we're pulling out soon, right? And things are a lot better there now too, aren't they?" Yeah, sure, of course - try telling that the to families of those 13 Soldiers. Just because you don't hear about it anymore on the news doesn't mean it's not happening.

For those who know to never say never, it's easy for us to get caught up in the little stuff because it gives us a good excuse to distract ourselves from the big stuff we can't change. Seriously, I sometimes throw a stupid, irrational mental temper tantrum and think to myself, "my husband died...and now I have to deal with something as ridiculous as a speeding ticket or a car problem or a broken phone/etc.?" But the truth is that everything seems ridiculous after your husband dies. And I'm still human. I can forgive myself for being a little childish sometimes as long as I remember at the end of the day what really matters. When I saw that number reported in the news, I literally just started to cry. I didn't know any of the 13 Soldiers, but I do know what their families are going through now and my heart breaks for them. Although I should have been studying at the time, I gave myself a quick emotional time-out to pay tribute to what's really important.

A good widow friend of mine recent told me that she still wishes her husband were here with her more than she wishes she were here. Particularly after this last week, her words struck a chord with me - I don't think I could have said it better myself. It made me think a lot about my own future and the constant uncertainty of everything. I've barely had time to contemplate my upcoming deployment in the midst of the craziness of the Veterans Project launch and final exams, but now it's suddenly sinking in . . . and I hope I don't get there and panic. It's not that I'm afraid of anything happening to me. Why would I be? The worst has already happened, and Jon will be waiting for me in a better place until it's my time to join him there. Plus, I'm a Soldier, and I volunteered for this, knowing all too well what I was getting myself into. People get all wrapped around the axle when it comes to saying these kinds of things out loud for fear of sounding morbid, but believe me, avoiding it is not going to make it go away. We are so good at compartmentalizing the realities we don't want to face. And yet if you're the one who's left behind and you don't take advantage of the opportunity to talk about the "what ifs" with the people you love while you still have time, you'll find yourself wishing you could turn back the clock. The way I see it, if it's my time, it's my time...and besides, I do believe in heaven, and I know Jon is already there waiting for me. What I don't want is to get to over there and have a PTSD-like freak-out moment where I think, "oh God, I can't do this." Fortunately, I do have enough experience at this point to understand how the battle between my brain and heart will usually play out. I've now faced many of the issues I tried to bury for years, and I know the triggers. I just have to be sure I listen to them - they're always there for a reason.

Many years ago, Marcus Aurelius, former head of the Roman Empire, told us all to dwell on the beauty of life. He told us to watch the stars and see ourselves running with them. I hope I can see the stars in Afghanistan. I imagine there might be a night or two (or three or four...) when I look up at the night sky, find the brightest star, and ask Jon to please be with me and tell me what to do. Luckily, he's never let me down yet. And somehow I doubt he's going to start now.

87. To Great Friends

"It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it." 

~Anonymous

It's that time of year. That time when appearances don't matter and coffee should be administered intravenously. There's even a whole separate "tumblr" for it, so you know that means it's bad (see http://wheninlawschool.tumblr.com/). It's that time when law students brave the toxic fumes of the library, become delirious from lack of sunlight, and collectively endure the suckitude that is finals. Finals have this curious, innate ability to suck all remaining joy and happiness from your soul, leaving you eating cake for dinner and laughing hysterically at buzzfeed articles that aren't really all that funny. Finals are also like the test of a good marriage. People who sequester themselves, turn into self-engrossed hermit crabs, and refuse to communicate or share notes? Bad friends and bad long-term partners. People who embrace the suck with you, post stupid YouTube videos to your Facebook account to make you laugh, and drag you out for a beer after you've spent well over 12 hours staring at a computer screen? Good friends and great life-long partners.

People matter. Period. Other things come and go. People who matter don't. If there's one things this rather painful experience continues to remind me, it's that perspective is key. It's just work, and they're just exams (really, really hard exams given by cruel, Satan-esque professors, but, at the end of the day, just exams). No one is getting shot at and no one's life is going to change as the result of one crappy exam grade. I'd like to think I'm a decent example of that - I don't have the best grades in my class, and I don't spend every free moment of my life studying, but I do have some pretty great friends who would abandon studying for exams in a second if I needed their help. It's these people I've tried to go out of my way to spend as much time with as possible during this rather miserable time before I have to leave for Afghanistan in a couple of weeks. This is my way of saying thank you to those people. Thank you for keeping me grounded in reality and for pushing me to keep at it while reminding me to laugh along the way. Honestly, this ain't shit, people. It's just school. The hard stuff is yet to come. And for me, at least, the hardest thing I've ever had to do has already happened - I live with it every day. We'll get through this, just like everything else, and when all the serious stuff is over and done with, we'll do some serious celebrating. So cheers to another week of suck - and to the wonderful people who will help to get me through it.

86. Greed

"Three great forces rule the world:  stupidity, fear, and greed." 

~Albert Einstein

I realize this may come as a great shock, but greed is right up there on the list of qualities I absolutely despise in people.  Infidelity takes the cake on that list, but greed is a very close second.  I won't go into all the details of precisely why I came to this recent realization because it would implicate some people with whom I continue to have to interact.  However, let's just say that I'm a firm believer in the fact that money is root of most evil - maybe not ALL evil but certainly a considerable amount of it.

I have a really hard time understanding people who, for all intents and purposes, appear to be motivated almost entirely by money.  When people don't have enough of it, they're unhappy.  When they have enough of it, they want more of it.  If only I could make them see how inconsequential money is in comparison to the things that have no price tag.  I'm a realist - I understand that financial woes cause exasperating amounts of stress and hardship in the lives of those who find themselves facing such crises.  Maybe I just lack the ability to see things from other people's points of view; it's hard to understand the value of money when callousness, greed, and misery are the things I associate with it.  At the end of the day, I switch off when I hear someone say that money makes the world go round; instead, I adhere to the mantra promulgated by Brian Tracy:  "Successful people are always looking for opportunities to help others. Unsuccessful people are always asking, 'what's in it for me?'"

By now it's no secret:  The money I used to found the Grassbaugh Veterans Project represents the money I received from my husband's Servicemembers Group Life Insurance (SGLI).  Every Soldier in the military is required to pay a small portion of his/her monthly salary towards this account unless he/she specifically waives all coverage.  I remember the first time I had to fill out and sign the SGLI form as a Cadet - the thought of something happening to me seemed so absurd back then that I told my instructors I wanted to forego the coverage.  Only after some forceful words to the wise from those who knew better did I change my mind.

The mechanics of SGLI are no also secret - information about how it all works is readily available to anyone with access to the internet.  The insurance benefit itself totals $400,000.  There is also an additional death gratuity of $100,000 paid to the next of kin within a few days of the servicemember's death - this "gratuity" is intended to defray the immediate costs associated with the death of a loved one (funeral expenses and arrangements, travel, etc.).  As Jon's next of kin, I was the recipient of that money.  Half a million dollars was mind-boggling, especially when I'd just become the 22-year-old widow of the man with whom I thought I'd spend the rest of my life.  I would happily have given up every penny (and then some) to have him back.  That money has sat and stared me in the face for six long years.  Honestly, it's a welcome relief when I sign into my online account and see that half of it is no longer there.  Yes, people say that it’s like cutting away my safety net, but I don’t look at it that way.  Jon would have wanted me to do this. What's more, if the roles were reversed, he wouldn't have hesitated before doing something like this for me.

In case there was any doubt, half a million dollars is no substitute for a human life.  I'm not saying that I think the dollar amount should be more or less; all I'm saying is that the value of money and the value of people cannot be compared.  When all of this first happened, my father-in-law cautioned me against being open about the money I'd reluctantly acquired - he said people would take advantage of me (true) and that because I was overly trusting, I probably wouldn't recognize it until it was too late and the damage was done (also true).  I dismissed his concerns at the time, but he was right to be worried; after learning my lesson the hard way, I'm no longer quite so nonchalant or quite so naive.  I understand that I might not be able to make anyone who hasn't been through this experience understand why I have such distaste for monetary concerns, but like the saying goes, don't judge me until you've walked a mile in my shoes.  Make that 10 miles - at least.

When it comes to the future, I think I've had enough experience to say without hesitation that I'd rather accept a job I loved for half the salary of one I didn't like for twice the pay.  That should be pretty evident from my chosen career path in the JAG Corps - if I wanted to be a lawyer working for a fancy firm with a starting salary of at least six figures, this is entirely the wrong line of work.  I'm sure private firm lawyers must glean some satisfaction from what they do; anything less would be pure torture, considering how many billable hours they have to work on a weekly basis.  But it's not for me.  What good is tons of money if you spend all your time working for it and never have a free moment to stop and enjoy the so-called "better life" it's providing?

So, in short, I don't do any of this for the money - if I did, I wouldn't be true to myself.  I'd happily live in a cardboard box if I could live in it with Jon.  They say the best things in life are free, though I think that's the understatement of the century.  The best things in life are love and happiness.  Not only are they free, but they're also invaluable.  "Invaluable" means priceless, inestimable, and inappreciable.  Love is undoubtedly all three of these things.  Money may be the root of most evil, but love is the root of all happiness in this world.