I remember searching for weeks for just the right journal for him to carry with him on his second tour. Something small, but with bulk, so that he would have lots of room to write. Something simple, yet elegant, to remind him of home. The journal I chose was lime green, engraved with the one simple word, Journal. It’s pages are lined, and the edges are silver. It has been over a year since I quietly presented it to him, and he just as quietly tucked it away, hidden somewhere deep in his gear.
The book that he took and the book he brought home are one and same, but yet, it is very different. The cover, once new, is scratched and water-stained. Little bits of the front appear to have been torn off, perhaps by being jostled by all of his heavy equipment. The pages are no longer clean and crisp, but they are bent and covered with words. That little book has taken a minor beating, but I find its appearance all the more fitting and appropriate, because of what it represents. Deployment changes and reshapes you; the scars on the journal are a small visualization of the deeper scars deployment left on each of us, my husband, my child, and myself. We all were a little battered and bruised, and like the journal, we survived to tell the tale.
And what a revelation those pages hold! I waited until I had just the right opportunity to sit down and read my husband’s journal. I waited until I was strong enough, emotionally and mentally to handle what I would find. I knew it was going to be challenging, and I also knew I needed to give it my full attention. My opportunity came this past March when my spouse was tasked for a short-term t.d.y. (temporary duty). I began my acquaintance with the small green book by taking it and staring at it. I left it out where I could see it, and occasionally, I would pick it up and just as quickly put it down. It took me a week to gather enough nerves to open the first page, take a deep breath, and read.
If you asked me to describe what reading my deployed husband’s first words were like, I can’t describe it. I just can’t. The best I can do is to tell you to close your eyes and imagine slowly being encased in a large ice-cube. And imagine that as you are freezing, a heated sensation spreads from the center of your heart, until your inside is on fire, even as your skin turns to ice. That is what it was like for me. Seeing my husband’s world so vividly described is very painful, very prideful, and very hard. I could not read it all at once, and each time I read it, I cried, I shook, and sometimes, I gasped for air, because I could not breathe.
It has taken me two months to even begin to process the power of his words and the reality of his life in the combat zone. The images and sounds he described are so clear, that they are seared on my mind and my heart. I had nightmares, and actually, sometimes, I still do, because of what I read. My husband lived in a sea of red. You can see a ball of red-orange emotions, volcanic and fiery and blazing. He swam red, breathed red, and even slept red. He was surrounded by it, from broken bodies, shattered limbs, charred skin, and everywhere, blood. It amazes me that the pages are ivory, when I all I see is crimson. The journal drips blood, and I am surprised that my hands aren’t covered from holding it.
But, red is not the only color that the book holds. As you are reading it, you are almost blinded by the glare of pure white. It radiates from beginning to end, and it is so bright that it almost pulsates. The white is with his team, in the operating room, as they work hour after long, hard hour to save and to repair lives. You can follow the white in the stitches, and the needles, and the equipment, flashing here and there, illuminating the room. You can trace it as tears fall, when, despite possible every effort made, their battle was lost. It glistens when compassion and mercy make their presence known, breathing encouragement and support into the room. It shines with a shine that it unique to our service members, a white that is created only when duty, nobility, pride, selflessness, and service are blended together. This white has no name; yet, when you see this particular white, you recognize it immediately.
Finally, the last color that is hidden in the pages is blue. It is subtle and shaded; it blends almost into the far edges of the pages. That blue is there, hidden in the binding, and yet it holds the entire journal together. It is soft and gentle, and like a new-born baby’s cheek, you want to reach out and stroke it. It is in the twinkle of my husband’s eyes, when they crinkle in laughter at the jokes his unit makes. It marks the intensity of a child’s gaze, peering up at him behind his mask of pain. It is the color of joy, tinged with sadness, when recovery is evident and can be quietly celebrated. And, it is the dark depths of unspoken griefs, bottled up emotions, deeply buried. Blue is the silence and longing and all the words that were never written, yet are still there, existing between the lines. It is the language that only he speaks and only I understand; it is how I color love.
Two months have passed since I’ve read my husband’s private gift to me. It has taken me that long to process the words and sift through the various shades that are found on each page. While my spouse was t.d.y., there was a period when I was so overwhelmed by both his experiences and mine that all of the colors blended into a dull grey. It took a month for the grey to clear, but now, I can see each color, vivid, real, and present on the pages. The little, lime-green book has been carefully packed away, with his journal from his first deployment. I don’t know when he will deploy again, but I am prepared to accept it. And, you can be sure that I will send him with a new journal, just as carefully chosen as the last.
