How many of you can relate to the emotions expressed in this column?
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By Frank Schaeffer
THE UNTHINKABLE: My youngest son, my friend, my fishing partner, the little boy I had patted to sleep, was at war. The traditional father-son roles were reversed. My child risked his life to protect me. And I was powerless to help him. I had unwittingly joined the ranks of the tens of thousands of family members for whom sick dread has been a way of life since we went to war in Afghanistan and Iraq.
From March through December 2003, my son John, a corporal in the Marines, was facing roadside bombs and random bullets in Afghanistan. I was proud of his service - and terrified. I was also confronted by the reality that, except for families of our military men and women, few Americans, from my own circle of friends to our nation's leaders, seemed to be sharing my stomach-churning anxiety. Meanwhile, my heart was protected by nothing more than providence and John's Kevlar helmet and flak jacket.
Soon after John was deployed, and before I knew where he was located, I half-heard a snippet of news on a TV in a restaurant. "Three Marines died in a chopper crash." My gut cramped up too much to finish my meal. What three Marines? Where? From then on, every war-related bulletin cut like a knife.
Make sure you read the rest. Here's the book he wrote about his experience.