Saturday afternoon about 5 p.m. I went to the laundromat a stone's throw from my apartment. Just as I'd put the last quarters in the third washing machine, my cell phone rang and my heart leaped with joy for the thought of a conversation with a friendly voice while I waited for the suds to do my duds.
It was not to be a happy call, however. Anything but. This was probably the worst news I could ever receive, as a matter of fact.
It was from a good friend, who by all rights should have been my mother-in-law years ago. Her son and I had a long relationship and I was accepted as part of the family, even though he never did what it took to make that official.
What she had to tell me was that her grandson, my equivalent of a nephew, had been killed in Iraq yesterday. That's all I got from her -- I have no details.
I refer you back to a post I wrote in late February, when this same young man was wounded over there and we prayed that he would be sent home. Unfortunately, at that time, he was not. Now he is being sent home, in a wooden box. And it sickens me.
The Wounded Veteran