71. The Last Full Measure

When President Lincoln died from a gunshot wound on April 15th, 1865, his wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, received messages of condolence from all around the world. She attempted to answer many of these messages personally. To Queen Victoria, who suffered the loss of her husband four years earlier, she wrote:

"I have received the letter which your Majesty has had the kindness to write. I am deeply grateful for this expression of tender sympathy, coming as it does from a heart which from its own sorrow, can appreciate the intense grief I now endure."

Almost exactly 142 years after Mrs. Lincoln penned these words, I too discovered the meaning of that "intense grief." I became a widow and a member of the club to which no one wants to belong. People ask me all the time what they can do or how they can help. Honestly, I don't really know. Maybe just let me talk about Jon instead of getting all quiet and uncomfortable whenever I bring him up? Try not to make me feel so awkward when I tell our stories and share memories of the time we spent together?

Realistically, though, there's no way to fix what's broken here. I miss him. All the time. Everything makes me think of him. So unless someone figures out how to resurrect the dead, there's only so much they can do or say. It's particularly frustrating when people tell me to "call if I need anything." In an ideal world, I'd probably take up just about anyone on that offer. On the rough nights, I'd love to to call up my friends and tell them I've had a bad day. More often than not, though, I don't pick up the phone and I don't call anyone because I'm a self-conscious, blubbering mess. The intensity of my emotions always makes perfect sense in my own mind, but when I try to explain these feelings out loud to others, the words come out sounding hollow and strange.  I don't want to be "that friend" - the needy girl who's always sad and in tears because her husband died.  So I often keep my tears to myself...or hold them inside and fight like hell to keep them there.  And yet, despite all this, I know I'm still better off now than I was when I tried to bury my grief in work and unhealthy relationships.  Those distractions didn't solve anything, besides protracting the inevitable heartache. Ironically, my decision to quit following everyone else's advice on how to be happy again is one of the best decisions I've made since the day I was notified of my husband's death.

President Lincoln once advised that we "put [our] feet in the right place, then stand firm."  I've done plenty of tap-dancing around the right place since Jon died, but I think I've finally settled where I need to be.  It's where I should have been all along, and now that I'm here, I plan to hold my ground.  This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to attend a special screening of "Lincoln," a film based on the final four months of the President's life.  For as long as I can remember, I've been a huge Civil War buff, so the screening was a highly anticipated and exciting event for me.  In fact, one of my fondest memories is of traipsing around Bentonville Battlefield with Jon in North Carolina.  We'd passed the site countless times before, and on this particular day, he turned to me and said, "hey babe, let's stop and check it out."  I loved him for indulging my nerdy fascination with military history and for giving me the gift of that experience.  I loved him even more for getting excited about our discoveries together on the battlefield.  We were the only ones there that day...and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Appropriately, the "Lincoln" movie began and ended with some of Lincoln's most famous oratorical words.  On November 19th, 1863, President Lincoln gave a two-minute speech to commemorate the thousands of Soldiers who died four and a half months earlier on the outskirts of a little-known town called Gettysburg.  The words he uttered that day have become imprinted on the very fabric of our national identity.  When we consider the profound simplicity of his words in light of their monumental meaning, it's easy to understand why:

"In a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground.  The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.  The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.  It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.  It is, rather, for us to be here dedicated to the great tasking remaining before us - that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion - that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain - that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom - and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Jon, baby, I'm so sorry it had to be you.  I'm sorry you had the give the last full measure of devotion for our nation's freedom...but I know you wouldn't have it any other way.  Within a few short years, you lived a full life.  You died for the motto non sibi - not for one's self - and it is by this same moral code that I'll live out the rest of my days.  I promise, no matter how many of those days there might be, that I will do my best to finish your work and advance the noble causes to which you devoted yourself with such passion.  I promise you will not have died in vain.  As President Lincoln so eloquently put it, although my words will fade in time, the things you did here will never be forgotten.

70. The Extra Mile

"What is it like to lose your best friend, your soul mate, your everything? Your world just comes crashing down, you lose your life, you lose everything that ever mattered to you. My husband was only [insert age]. I am [insert age]. It took me [insert years] to find him, and I thought my life finally had meaning. My life finally had what I was searching my whole life for. We had a perfect life together that people only dreamed of. People would look at us and say how perfect we looked together. People used to say, when they thought of true love, they just pictured the relationship my husband and I had. People used to tell us that looking at us, they knew that true love soul mates really do exist. All they had to do was look at me and my husband. It was like we were a greeting card for Hallmark for true love soul mates. Our lives were complete. 

~I am Too Young to Be a Widow, LibertyBell (February 24th, 2009)

I think if one more person tells me I'll find love again, I will scream and throw a full-blown temper tantrum. I already had - and lost - the love of my life. He was my soul mate and my best friend. In short, my everything. And now he's gone. Forever. Why can't society just accept that sad reality, devastating though it may be, instead of telling me I'm "too young" to make the kind of life-altering decisions that others my age are fortunate enough to be making with their husband or wife by their side? I was also too young to become a widow, and yet here I am. The older I get, the more passionate I feel about advocating for the perspective that has come at the cost of losing what I love most.

After a particularly grueling and emotional day this past week, I woke up at 2:30 a.m. to the sound of something tapping on my window. My bedroom is on the third floor and there are no trees outside my window, nor was there a strong wind that night. My puppy heard it too - she jumped out of bed and started barking at the noise. It's times like these that I know Jon is still with me. And it's times like these that remind me of how impossible it is to open my heart when I'm still deeply in love with my husband. Enough with the "he would want you to be happy" stuff. Please - spare me. I've been dealing with all of this for five and a half years now. And yes, I know he'd want the very best for me. That's what happens when you love someone. He told me himself that if anything ever happened to him, he'd want me to continue to live my life to the fullest. But that's a lot easier said than done. He also didn't want to die. He wanted to experience a long life and rejoice in all the plans we'd made for the future. It's not so easy when you're the one who's left behind to live that life without your soul mate. It literally makes me sick to my stomach when people encourage me to "move on" and "find love again." I'm simply not ready, and I don't know if I ever will be. I tried going down that route and obviously it didn't work out so well. If anything, I felt I was somehow betraying my husband, even though I know that's technically impossible.  Like it or not, it's simply not something I want right now. Ironically, while the clock may be ticking on the one hand, society also tells me I'm also "so young" and have "so much life left to live" on the other. So I'm going to work on being happy just being me for a while. There's a big difference between being alone and being lonely because I miss my husband.

A few weeks ago I attended a conference in California to learn about entrepreneurial ventures from an inspiring - though somewhat eclectic - group of speakers. All were experts in their chosen fields. One man had created a renowned mentoring program and soccer league for refugee children in California. Another woman fled Afghanistan during the Soviet War and has since returned to her homeland to investigate the infamous opium trade. Members of the Occupy Wall Street movement discussed the challenges they've faced, while the author of the best-selling book What Color is Your Parachute? spoke about measures of success in hunting for jobs given the current state of the economy. All of these speakers came together in the redwood forest, high up in the mountains of Loma Mar, California, to encourage those of us in the audience who have faced personal adversity. Their words were powerful and reflected the wisdom and insight that can only come with knowing perseverance on an intimate level. As one speaker put it, "there is no traffic on the extra mile."

Before the daily slate of speakers got underway, I spent the early morning hours trekking through the forest on a long hike, and as I walked, I thought about the direction my own path has taken and how, lonely though it might be at times, it's worth every inch of the discomfort and sorrow because it's my path and no one can take it away from me. While everyone else might be doing what life has deemed right for them, I'm doing the extra mile because I believe that extra mile is worth all the blisters and sweat and tears of the work it takes to complete it.  Not only that, it's also worth the sacrifice my husband made to send me down this path. The extra mile may be long and it may be hard, but it's mine. As my brother-in-law told me after a particularly difficult and emotional talk, I should be proud of just being myself - he told me to just "stay being Jenna," and that that's all he could really ask for.  And as the conference taught me, nothing that's extra is ever easy. So no matter what others might say, I'll continue to meander my way down the only path I know. It's extra long and extra hard. But that's ultimately what makes it worth it - extra worth it.

69. A Little Misty-Eyed

"The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and inheritance of a great example." 

~Benjamin Disraeli  

"Because of you, I can." 

~The American Widow Project

This Veteran's Day, I woke up with the taste of my husband's lips still fresh on mine. My mind was numb with disbelief and yet my body tingled from the intensity of the sensation. In my dream, Jon and I were finally reunited in either this life or the next - it doesn't matter. All that matters is that I held him in my arms for what felt like forever. It was glorious. Then, as if in slow motion, I wrapped my legs around his waist and savored in the closeness of his heartbeat against mine. When I finally pulled back and opened my eyes, there were tears streaming down his cheeks. I kissed him, almost desperately, three or four times, relief pouring over me at the sight of his beautiful face. Jon rarely shed actual tears - he'd get "misty-eyed" at particularly sad movies, but that was his limit. So this was the only second time I'd ever seen him cry. The first time was within a few weeks of his death, and it too was in a dream as real as this one.

And then I woke up - in a strange bed and in an unfamiliar city.

Luckily, I wasn't alone. My bed-mate, another military widow, lay there sleeping beside me. "Snoring" always sounds so negative, so let's just say she was "purring" gently. This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to share a life-changing experience with group of nine other broken-hearted widows. Seven of us are widows of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan; three are 9/11 widows. All of us came together to help to rebuild one of the many houses in New Orleans that was destroyed seven years ago during Hurricane Katrina. The owner has been without a place to call home since then, but, thanks to the St. Bernard Project, she and her family will soon return to a completely refurbished house where they can begin the process of building new memories.

Our little group listened carefully to various safety briefings and then got to work on taping, sawing, hammering, insulating, and prepping for drywall. As we worked diligently (and apparently performed the rare task of volunteering on a Sunday - Veterans Day), we listened to an eclectic mix of country music and '80s classic hits, laughed at silly stories of our husbands, and snapped pictures of the new friends we'd known for only a few hours but with whom we'll share a common bond for a lifetime. I also discovered I have a new love in my life - a love of power tools. I felt empowered as I sawed through sheets of plywood and two-by-fours and smiled to myself as I felt warmth of Jon's presence. As I washed the sweat and grime off me at the end of the day, I knew I was fortunate to be surrounded by such good, selfless people and I felt for the first time in a while like I'd actually accomplished something meaningful. Like all good things, the weekend came to an end too soon; Dorothy once said that there's no place like home, but I was definitely more than a little misty-eyed on my flight back to Ohio. I'd probably modify Dorothy's mantra to something more like "there's nothing quite like a group of women with a passion for the men they've lost and a commitment to the life they have left to live."

I always laugh when I tell people that Jon and I would never have kissed for the very first time if not for a little liquid courage. Every time I kissed him after that first night was a gift for which I will forever be grateful. Sometimes I wonder if the memories of those kisses will be enough to last me for an entire lifetime, but every now and then he comes back, albeit fleetingly in my dreams, to remind me of how it felt to be in heaven on earth. With the help of some lovely ladies, the raw reality of those feelings seems far less overwhelming, and I feel less alone. I can't imagine doing anything other than exactly what I did to commemorate this past Veterans Day. Throughout the entire weekend of shared fellowship and hard work, the tears of both joy and sadness flowed constantly among the ten members of our little group. It might not have been the stuff epic movies are made of, but if Jon had been there, I think he might have been willing to make an exception to his general no-tears rule.  At the very least, I can imagine him up there in Heaven nodding with approval...and maybe even getting a little misty-eyed too.

68. Who Are You?

"I will love you - and only you - until death do us part."

If you think about it, this is really a pretty crappy wedding vow. "Until death do us part" is awfully vague. What happens when death does do us part? Love transcends the grave. Life ends; love doesn't. So what happens to the person with so much love left to give and no love of their life to give it to?


If there's one thing I've learned throughout this process, it's that people have an overwhelming desire to fix me and tell me that I'll be happy again. They tell me that the happiness will be "different," but it will happen one day. Being happy again, in society's eyes, means "finding someone else." But why? What is so wrong with loving one person forever, even when they are no longer here? Even when I ventured into the dating world, my heart always belonged to Jon. You don't tell a parent who has lost a child that they'll find another child, so why do we tell widows and widowers that they'll find another spouse? It's not like shopping for new pair of shoes when the old ones wear out.


This tendency to assume that happiness - or, at least, satisfaction - has to come from another relationship is something I've certainly been guilty of myself. As I've discovered, I do have a lot of love left to give. But maybe it's just not in the cards for me to have that love come in the form of another amazing man. I already had my one great love - the love of my life. I've been a lot of things, but I've never been selfish enough to assume that I deserve two in one lifetime. Does that make me sad? Yeah, it does. But maybe I can prove to society that adopting a child and channeling my energy into philanthropic outreach projects will sustain me until the day that Jon and I are reunited. Love doesn't really conquer all - death ultimately wins every hand in the game called life. And yet this in and of itself is a double-edged sword, for it wouldn't be this hard or hurt this badly if I didn't love him this much. You don't just get rid of the symptoms of true love and expel it from your system like some temporary illness.


I hope the book I read this summer titled "Heaven is For Real" is right. It tells us that this life is just a drop in the bucket. There's so much more waiting for us on the other side of the sorrows in this world. I think that sometimes when I voice these sentiments, people get all worried and assume I only believe those things because I want to see Jon again. Obviously I want to see him again. But it's more than that. In order to survive life here on earth, I need to believe there's something more. A friend once told me that although he can't understand exactly how I feel, he can certainly appreciate how different my perspective must be when the person I love is already waiting for me on the other side. And that's exactly it right there. Like I've said before, I'll see him again. Just not yet.


In church today, the title of the sermon was "Who Are You?" In the back of my Bible, the glossary of terms defines widow as "a woman whose husband has died." As I read those words over and over, I consciously told myself that I am so much more than this. I am a dedicated wife, a heart-broken lover, a passionate advocate for our nation's heroes, and a proud Soldier. Not one of these things defines me. All of these things define me. I am not just a woman whose husband has died. I am a woman who has seen more in twenty-eight years than many people experience in a lifetime, and I am a woman whose love for my husband lives beyond the grave. My love for him is endless, timeless. To feel this way is truly a gift, though a bittersweet one. No one can take this away from me because it's not just what defines me - it is me. And although it might not fit with popular sentiment, I won't apologize for it. I want to scream it from the rooftops. No, make that the mountaintops. I am me! I am in love with a man who is gone but never forgotten!


"Jonathan" is defined as "God's gift." That gift is unconditional and without equal - a real version of the kind of gift that keeps on giving. I can't imagine my life - or my identity - without the wonders of this gift. For I am here. Here I am! And he is always with me.

67. My Generation

"The Soldier, above all other men, is required to practice the greatest acts of religious training - sacrifice.  However horrible the incidents of war may be, the Soldier who is called upon to offer and to give his life for his country is the noblest development of mankind.
~General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, May 12th, 1962

When 9/11 happened, I wasn't just a kid.  I was a senior in high school, about to turn eighteen and officially become an adult.  The next year, as a freshman in college, I joined ROTC and began my military career.  In terms of my commitment to the program, I'd passed the point of no return by the time we invaded Iraq on March 19th, 2003.  This is why it frustrates me now to no end when people emphasize the fact that the current war is being fought by an "all-volunteer force," as if this somehow makes it more okay when bad things happen over there.

It's an all-volunteer force...but so what?  

Does that make the sacrifices of those volunteers mean any less?  There is no relative scale for self-sacrifice, and, if anything, volunteering to put oneself in harms way should make it mean that much more.  The force that constitutes today’s military is unlike any other form of volunteer work or duty in existence.  It is, in the words of General MacArthur, among the noblest developments of mankind.  In my words, I don’t care what it is you’re doing – unless your job here at home involves getting shot at every day or travelling along roads where people routinely get blown up, there’s simply no comparison.  That is not to say, by any means, that every person who serves deserves some sort of medal – there are a handful of individuals with whom I’ve served that I’m embarrassed to call Soldiers in the United States Army.  But they are the exception and not the rule. 

The fact that it is an all-volunteer force just makes the people who quietly resent the military's "privileges" and benefits seem even more ridiculous – the option of signing up is open to all those complainers in the same way it was open to me, to all those who came before me, and to all those who've chosen to sign on the dotted line over the past ten years.  For me, at least, it was never about the money, the benefits, solving violence with violence, or even the ability to do all the fun stuff, like jumping out of airplanes and shooting big guns.  Even the fun stuff comes with the price tag of a whole lot of suck and waiting around on someone to tell you what to do next.  And don’t get me started on the deployment thing.  We all go over there, knowing full well it could be us who doesn't get to come home alive, but discounting the probability and believing instead that we will be “okay.”  All we want to do is put our heads down and get through whatever it is we have to do so we can get back home to our families and away from the place that’s overshadowed by death at all times.  It’s not fun over there and it’s not supposed to be.  To call it a job is like the understatement of the year.  No, make that the century.  The E-3 Private First Class on the front lines may be getting paid…but his meager $2,000 a month paycheck is hardly enough to justify him coming home to his wife and newborn baby in a wooden box.   And therein lies another great paradox of inequity:  never before have the debts of so many been paid by so few.  When I observe the self-entitlement of some members of my generation, I literally feel sick to my stomach and have to physically separate myself from the situation.  Again, those individuals are the exception and not the rule, but it's funny how one or two bad apples have the ability to sour the whole batch.

Call me old-fashioned (or maybe even a little boring?), but this lack of patience with my own generation is what contributes in part to the respect and appreciation I have for my grandparents' generation.  By chance, I ended up having drinks and dinner a few nights ago with three wonderful people who've been around for long enough to know what matters most in life.  I've never met them before, but one of them - a man named Randy - literally could not stop crying and hugging me as I told him my story about Jon.  He took pictures of the photos I carry with me in my wallet, wrote down our names, and toasted to my sweetheart.  He also invited me to stop by the restaurant anytime for a glass of wine - he promised he'd be there and would be honored to hear more of my stories about the husband whose absence in my life and home never seems to get any easier.

Just a couple of weeks before this unexpected surprise,  I was fortunate enough to be in the presence of some of the greatest and most patriotic men and women I've ever met:  veterans of the Vietnam War.  As a local representative of the American Widow Project, I attended the reunion banquet of the Tan Son Nhut Association at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base.  A slight mix-up in the start time meant my cousin and I were a little late, which, considering it was a military event and all, didn't bode too well for the rest of the night.  However, things improved ...and quickly.  I approached the chapter president to thank him for having us and he immediately insisted on announcing Jon's name to the entire room.  As he listed the dates and place of Jon's death, he asked me to stand up and be recognized, and then the entire room followed in a standing ovation.  I was beyond touched...and, of course, in tears.  The Association also presented me with a coveted unit coin, which I am honored to be able to add to my collection of military coins.  The entire experience was truly the modern version of magical.  It made me prouder than ever of my sweet husband, whose sacrifice allowed me to experience such gratitude and kindness from complete strangers.

At the banquet, I knew Jon was right there with me.  While eating dessert, a nut from my brownie escaped and somehow made its way down the front of my dress.  My first thoughts were great, just what I need...but only moments later I had to laugh as I remembered the story about the hot brass going down the front of my shirt back in 2003.  I realized this was just Jon's way of encouraging me to smile, even in the midst of an incredibly emotional event.  What more can I say?  Jon was one of those special members of my generation who gives me hope for the future.  His sacrifice was the most selfless act a person could possibly perform, and his love for me was endless.  I hit the husband lottery.  It doesn't get much better than that.