The Light's Still On: Spring 1991

Claudia Knight-Zimmer

Brockton, Massachusetts

Vol. 17, No. 1 (1992)

Yellow ribbons, once tied into crisp bows, hang in dirty tatters from the antenna; the Christmas tree sits forlorn on the china cabinet, its needles, sparse and brown, sport bright yellow ornaments that look out of place; but three white candles still shine brightly every night on the sill of my living room window.  Now that the newspapers and TV anchormen have declared the war over, I suppose that I should untie the ribbons, toss the tree, and turn out the lights, but for me the war isn’t over yet.  Jon Paul is still in Saudi Arabia.

I believe that our country needs to be militarily strong for peace.  The military has been a part of my life from a very early age.  The first memory I have of my father is the day we drove to Amarillo, Texas, to meet him when he returned from Germany after the occupation following World War II.  As I was growing up, our home was home-away-from-home for local GIs.  GIs were considered the cream of the crop by my parents…men who were giving their time, talent, and energies so that I might grow up in freedom.  I was taught that a military career was as high a calling as a doctor, a lawyer, or even a minister.

My children’s father served in the Marines, and I was proud to be a military wife.  When Dan, my oldest son, and later Jim, the middle of the three boys, decided to enter the Marine Corps, I felt that they had made good decisions.  Jobs were hard to come by in northern Idaho, and the Marines offered them a way out.  Several years ago, Jon Paul, my youngest, decided that his only hope of getting away from the drug scene was to join the Army.  My husband, Tom, and I both encouraged him to enlist.  We felt that the regimentation would be good for him.  It was also a chance for him to finish school, to rebuild his self-esteem, and to get back on the right side of things.  Even though I was very much aware of what had happened in Granada and Panama, I still felt that, overall, military life was good.

On the other hand, I am peace loving…and very much anti-war.  I pushed the two older boys in their stroller as I took part in walks for peace.  Jon Paul grew up in a home where he was taught that we should work for peace…that there is no place in our lives or our world for aggression and war.  I made separate compartments in my mind for the military as away of maintaining peace and for the military as a ward machine.

From the time Bush started sending American troops in the Middle East, I knew that Dan would have to go.  I did not like the idea but accepted his deployment as a given:  He is a career Marine and a weapons specialist.  Jim had been out of the Marines for several months and was living in Arizona with his wife and daughter; I wouldn’t have to worry about him.  Jon Paul was stationed in Germany, working in communications with the MPs; so I felt he was safe, too.  On November 11, the whole situation changed.  Jon Paul called to say that he was being sent to Saudi, and I was scared.

As more and more troops were sent in and the rumblings of war grew louder, the UN chose an ominous deadline for Iraq’s withdrawal—January 15, Jon Paul’s twenty-third birthday.  I somehow muddled through the holidays; no Christmas spirit prevailed in our house, just a heavy feeling of impending doom.  AS the 15th drew near, I struggled with my fears, fears that Jon Paul would never get past his birthday.  We talked several times as we was installing phones in bunkers and needed to test the lines.  He laughed and teased me but let me know that he, too, was concerned.  He said that he had two prayers: One was that he would come home safely, and the second was that he would not have to fire his weapon at anyone.  The 15th passed quietly, but tension mounted as I waited for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

The evening of January 16 brought the news that the war was raging.  The phone rang: It was Jim calling to say that he was going to re-enlist; he felt that he could not sit back while his two brothers were putting their lives on the line.  I spent the night in front of the TV, crying and praying.  Never had I felt so alone. Over the next few days, I lived with nightmares, afraid to watch TV, but also afraid not to.  When I slept, it was with the lights on.  The phone rang constantly, friends from across the country wanting to know if we had heard from the boys and to let us know that they cared.

The war wasn’t even mentioned in the opening prayer of our sacrament meeting on Sunday, and when the high councilor spoke about how hard it is to have your children go off to college or on a mission, I had to leave the chapel.  I felt that “alone” feeling all over again.  AS the ward progressed, however, I found a wonderful network of support.  There was a group of eight Quaker men and women who stood out on a corner in Newton, a town near where I work, every evening with their candles lit in prayer for peace.  It did not matter what the weather was; their only concession was to change from candles to flashlights if it were raining.  Several times, I stopped and talked with them; these eight caring people prayed for my sons while they stood out in the sleet, rain, and snow.  There were the staff and students at the school where I work—yellow ribbons abounded and notes and calls reminded me how much they cared.  There was my family who surrounded me with love.

But, there were some big silences that hurt—from my husband’s family and our ward.  One ward family called on a regular basis; my best friend in the ward also called, listened to my fears, and made sure that I did not sit around wallowing in self-pity.  Other than that, silence.

A month after the ward started, I was asked to speak in sacrament meeting and to talk about how I felt with two sons in Saudi.  I interrupted a weekend retreat with my Exponent sisters in Maine to tell my ward of my fears, my faith, and my network of support that was so important.  After the service, several people spoke with me or with Tom about the boys.  Then, once again, absolute silence.

One of the worst times for me came when the eleven young Marines were killed near Khafji by “friendly fire.”  The uncertainty was horrible.  About 3:30 A.M. the following morning, I stood in front of the TV as a CNN newscaster read off the names, finished with “…and Daniel Walker,” my oldest son’s name.  I thought my heart would stop.  I managed to yell for Tom,. And then the newscast cut to Dan’s mother.  The young Marine was Daniel B., not Daniel G.  I felt as though a scud had landed in my back yard; this was much too close.  AS the day went on, many people called to see if I was O.K., to see how I was feeling.  There was no sense of relief; I was glad it wasn’t my Dan, but my heart ached for the other mother.

On the Wednesday before the ground war started, I got a call from Jon Paul.  “Mom, they said I need to make final arrangements, I don’t want to be in Arlington or Massachusetts; will you take me home to Idaho?  I want to be buried by Pop.”  Stark reality.  Later that evening, Jim called.  He had received a telegram telling him to report the next day to Camp Lejuene.  All three boys were now involved.  The ground war moved swiftly and, in just three days, was declared a success.

For several weeks, we heard nothing from any of them.  Then one by one the calls came; they were all O.K.  Jon Paul said his prayers had been answered; he was dirty and tired but didn’t get a scratch.  Much more importantly, he had not had to aim his weapon at anyone.  What a contrast to Dan who told of no longer seeing enemy targets but of seeing the faces of those that were his targets.

Looking back over the past few months, I see that many changes that this war has brought into our lives.  Jim and his wife Crissy have separated over his decision to re-enlist.  Dan says that he feels much older than his twenty-seven years.  I have some real resentment over a bishop, a home teacher, almost an entire ward that did not care enough to even call.  I have put walls up with Tom’s family.

But I have rediscovered old friends, developed new friendships, and realized how very precious my children are to me.  I get a bit impatient with people who keep telling met hat the war is over, that I need to put it behind me and get on with my life.  Yes, Dan and Jim are home…for that I am extremely grateful, but…Jon Paul, haven’t you heard that the war is over…it is time to come home.  I’m leaving the light on for you.