More than slogans on God, country and family values, lives are stitched together with love and sorrow, expectation and disappointment, joy and regret.

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ZACK AND ELLEN

He’s an old high school buddy of my son’s and he’s stationed in Kuwait in the U.S. Army. I phone his mother to see if she has heard from Zack. As we talk, I can’t get my mind around the idea of him battling in the desert, gripping a weapon and fighting for his life. Zack is 21, but I can only see him as a gangly boy flashing a confident smile as he flips from the diving board into the swimming pool on a steamy summer day. As a kid he had a fast sense of humor, focused on his skateboard tricks more than his school work and was just a bit cocky. He was my son’s best friend from elementary school through high school and, even with the occasional scolding that I leveled on the boys, I liked Zack. After high school my son left for college and Zack joined the Army. The boys usually phoned each other during the holidays, making an effort to keep in touch even as they headed in different directions.

Now, I tell his mother we’re thinking of him and ask for an address where we can write. I don’t really know Ellen, since the only thing we had in common was the time our boys spent together. She says that things are fine and surely Zack will be home soon but her voice doesn’t fit. I ask how she’s doing, how she’s holding up.

“Oh well, it’s been hard,” Ellen says. She’s quiet for a few moments, and then says, “Do you want to know the truth? It’s horrible and I’m having a lot of trouble.” Now her words match her voice. She couldn’t get out of bed the first week Zack was called overseas. Ellen credits the anti-depressants for keeping her functional. When her husband, who served in the military after high school, tries to reassure her, emotions boil over.

“I told my husband unless he can guarantee - if he can promise - that my son will come home unharmed, then he can tell me not to worry.”

She’s glued to the TV for information and comments on how young most of the enlisted men and women are. Zack’s wife is also stationed somewhere in Iraq.

“I know we had to do something to get Hussein out of there, but I don’t want anyone else killed. I want my son to come home.” Ellen won’t sleep through the night or release the fear that grips her heart until Zack is home. I can’t offer her much comfort aside from saying that he’s in our hearts and thoughts. She says that means a lot and promises to invite us to the welcome home party.

CHRIS AND SANDY

Sandy is proud of the Vietnam anti-war demonstrations she attended while in high school. She enjoyed the opportunity to express one of the rights we claimed to be fighting for. Her understanding of history was that forcing our politics and lifestyle on others rarely works for the good of the people. She hated the violence and the loss of so many lives.

Years later, Sandy struggled with her son’s love of guns and all things military. She introduced him to nature and the arts, trying to curb his energies into the endless discoveries that science has to offer. Instead, Chris could pitch a stone with incredible aim and was regularly disciplined for jumping off the shed roof. He was quite a handful for a single mom and some days her frustration was palpable. His father bought him a BB gun and Sandy tried to be understanding about Chris’s urges, laying out some ground rules for use and safety. When Sandy came home from work to discover a perfectly round BB hole in her kitchen floor, Chris was grounded and the gun was sent to his father’s home.

After high school, Chris moved out on his own and his passion for guns flourished. He visited the local shooting range with a commitment that most people apply to attending the gym. Finally, Chris told his mother he was joining the Marine Reserves.

“I felt like a failure that I couldn’t teach my son why I was so against guns and fighting,” says Sandy. She was stuck in a dogmatic wrestling match - how could she be supportive of her son’s interest in something she felt so opposed to? What would her liberal friends think? Would she end up like her sister, whose daily visits to the graveyard kept her own sons death in an Air Force accident an open wound? Pitched into a heavy dose of soul searching, Sandy and Chris had a heart-to-heart talk before he left for basic training.

“I realized you have to love someone for who they are not for the things they do to make you happy,” says Sandy. Chris finished the Marine Reserves with high marks in sharp shooting but an injury during basic training shaped his future toward civilian life.

When war erupted in the Middle East, Sandy again joined the anti-war demonstrations. “I feel angry that people think this war will make them safer when the whole thing is a lie. We will infuriate the rest of the world and make our lives much more dangerous,” Sandy says. Knowing that her son could be overseas, but is home enjoying what he chooses to do with his life, swells a feeling of guilt. Knowing that other people’s sons and daughters are in danger, fighting for a lie blends the guilt and anger.

“If we were defending our own shores, I could understand it, but I think it’s about oil and politics. So many innocent lives will be lost to maintain our lifestyle.” Sandy prepares for an upcoming anti-war rally and her poster reads, No Blood For Oil. “I’m not the only one who feels this way.”

At home, the photo of Chris in his stern Marine uniform, stares from atop Sandy’s bedroom bureau.

MATTHEW AND DARREE

Several years ago, my heartstrings were tested when my son attended the infamous rally against the World Trade Organization in Seattle.

I was glued to the TV, hungry for the slightest bit of news about the WTO rally. The last time I heard my son’s voice was when his group was preparing to leave his college to head west. He had taken non-violent training and was excited about exercising one of his American rights. At first, there was nothing in the news but then, as the struggle escalated and the crowd swelled in size, the situation could not be silenced. The media rushed in, not to give thorough coverage but to watch the lambs go to slaughter. As the evening news panned the Seattle streets, the police in their Darth Vader costumes gassed the crowd of kids in blue jeans and wool sweaters. The media called them protesters, rioters, troublemakers and somewhere in that crowd was my son. MY SON! The baby I pushed from my body and cradled to my breast. The boy whose nose I wiped and whose body I covered with warm blankets. The one who galloped around the house in his Cub Scout uniform and had an ear for music. The son who was now a lean young man with a heart of gold. I stared at the morning programs and consumed the evening news, starved for any crumb of information. Friends stopped me on the street, “Hey, I think I saw Matt on TV. What are they protesting, anyway?” And every night the television showed the police pelting the crowd with tear gas and pepper spray, while the kids crumbled into fetal positions under the swing of billy clubs. “This is America, you bastards, stop it!” I screamed as I watched helplessly. They all looked like my son. A horrible mantra of Neil Young singing,”….four dead in O-hi-o…,” kept playing in my mind.

Finally the phone rang. “Would you accept a collect call from…,” and then,”Mom….” I was never so happy to hear my son’s voice.

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In a mother’s heart, the common thread in our relationships with our children is both endless and infinite, never breaking the bond that forever links us as one. In an open heart, the world becomes the children we love and yearn to protect.

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