Holding Hope in My Arms

Last Tuesday, as the president was getting ready to speak to the cadets at West Point, I was sitting in a store waiting for my one hour photos to be developed. Sitting next to me was a woman with a brand new baby.

“That’s a new lovely one,” I said. “How old is she?”

“She’s ten days old.”

As people do with strangers, we chatted about children and grandchildren. She said she had four other grandchildren but this would be her last. Her daughter was caring for her husband who was badly brain damaged in the war in Afghanistan. And, she was caring for her son ~ changing his diapers after he suffered a catastrophic brain injury in the war.

What do you say, I thought? What I said was, “I’m so very sorry,” as tears filled my eyes. “I hate this war.”

“So, do I,” she whispered, “I have no more tears left.”

We sat together hand in hand for a moment when she said, “Would you like to hold her?”

“Oh, yes, that would be lovely. I can tell you’re the gramma. She looks just like you.” I counted her little fingers and traced the curve of her perfect down-covered ear as she slept unaware.

As I handed her back, I was struck by the thought ~ here was a woman holding hope in her arms and dealing daily with death and destruction.

This appalling war is an agony. I wish the president would declare victory and bring all our troops home. I want our president to put our people first and give Afghanistan back to the Afghans. I'm sick to death of heroic rhetoric about the glories of war. General Sherman was right ~ War is hell.