"Bring Him Home"

I attended a local high school production of Les Miserables last night (well done Lizzie!).  And hearing "Bring Him Home" nearly brought tears to my eyes remembering a very heartfelt moment I had with that song nearly ten years ago.  I have since allowed myself to forget it, but I write it here because I feel it needs to be both remembered and written.

I was a Freshman in college, living in the dorms.  And life was pretty good.  I was worried about silly classes, dorm room workout parties, and what was on the cafeteria menu.  Then, late one night, I got a phone call from Kenny.

Kenny was a quiet boy that set next to me in Chemistry class in high school.  I only became friends with him because I would annoy him everyday with "hello"s and "how's it going"s and "what's your favorite color"s. (Such is the way of my persistent obnoxiousness to shy people... which would later catch me an awesome husband.) It took almost an entire month before he said "hello" back.  He was a year older than me and joined the Marines before even graduating.  I remember seeing him downstairs in the high school after he had joined and I noticed that after his first weekend of training, he walked faster, more directly, and looked people in the eye.  During my senior year, the Iraq conflict looked like it was going to turn into a war, and I actually cared.  Kenny had written letters and we had talked on satellite phones a few times.  He was in Kuwait, waiting to invade Iraq.  The troops were there.  Just waiting.  I remember Saint Patrick's Day, 2003 when Bush gave his ultimatum.  It was on in a classroom.  And I remember thinking and praying that the UN would stop us somehow.  I didn't want Kenny to become another casualty of another war.  How many people at the high school would have even remembered him?  He never talked.  Then I remember watching the invasion.

Kenny was with the first troops into the country.  We watched the Saddam statues come down.  He brought me some Iraqi money with Saddam's face on it.  I still have it.  I talked to Kenny about this experience later.  He said that first time they crossed into Iraq was good.  They were bringing water to people that didn't have any.  And they played soccer in the streets with the kids.

He came home and all was well for awhile.  I went to college.  And then, in the dorms, I got a call from Kenny.  I could tell he was crying but was trying to hide it.  He told me he was crossing into Iraq.  The troops were making calls to families before crossing over.  He never said he was scared.   What he said was  that in the battalion that went before them, all the soldiers with his position had been killed.  Kenny was a bomb dismantler.  He was with the team that went ahead of the group, spotted roadside bombs, and dismantled them before the rest of the group came.  I kept wondering why he was calling me.  Then he said: "I can't get ahold of my mom.  Her phone wasn't working when I tried to call.  I need you to call her and tell her I love her."

I think my heart stopped for a minute.  And I tried not to cry.  "Yeah, that's fine.  Just let me know what her name and number is."  I am supposed to call this woman and tell her that her only son (maybe. I never thought to ask before about siblings) was crossing into Iraq, all of the bomb technicians that just crossed over had been killed, and that he loves her...?  More than anything, I did not want to be Kenny's final words to his mother.

Someone else had to use the satellite phone.  I wished him luck (is that what you say?) and said goodbye.

I walked into the quiet, abandoned common area upstairs in the dorm.  I remember looking out the window and only seeing my own reflection.  And then, all I could think of were the lyrics to "Bring Him Home":

"God on High.  Hear my Prayer.  In my need, You have always been there.  He is young.  He's afraid.  Let him rest.  Heaven blessed.  Bring him peace.  Bring him joy.  He is young.  He is only a boy.  You can take.  You can give.  Let him be.  Let him live.  Bring him home.  Bring him home.  Bring him home."  For nearly an hour, all I could do was replay these lyrics over and over in my head.  They became my prayer.  And I honestly couldn't think of any other words to pray.  All I did was cry and plead in a song-lyric prayer that Kenny would come home.

I called his mom the next morning and tried to sound upbeat.  "Hey... my name's Marel.  I'm friends with Kenny.  Yeah.  We went to high school together.  Anyway, Kenny called last night.  They're crossing into Iraq today.  He just wanted me to call you and tell you that he loves you.  He tried to call you, but your phone wasn't working."  I remember her saying something trivial like "dumb phone.  Anyway, thanks for telling me."  And that was that.  I really prayed that wasn't the last time she heard "I love you" from her son... through me.

Kenny did come home.  He wrote me several times and mentioned that if he made it home, I had to let him take me out for steak dinner (I remember he always specifically mentioned steaks... MREs must have really got him dreaming).  The summer after that year in college, I went to pick Kenny up at his house.  Before we left for dinner, I remember his cat jumped off the table.  Immediately, Kenny went for his knife and turned to attack.  The knife wasn't there.  And he realized what he had done.  He looked embarrassed and I remember seeing real fear in his eyes.  Like a child.  We got in the car and drove to the restaurant.  Have you ever noticed how much litter is on the side of the freeway?  Next time, look.  Because Kenny rode in the car very tense.  He told me that roadside bombs were often in plastic cups or paper bags, just like all the ones we were passing.  He told me that the kids he played soccer with in the streets now had guns and were  spying on them.  Things had turned to chaos.

Kenny returned a third time to Iraq.  And when his time with the Marines was over, I asked him what he wanted to do.  He said he only had the skills to become a pyrotechnic or a hit man.  He went to gunsmith school.  And then he joined the Army.

I only check in with Kenny about once a year.  And I always still say a prayer in my mind for him, and for all the other quiet boys that serve our country so we can enjoy our dorm room dance parties and cafeteria lunches.  God on High.  Hear my prayer.  Bring them home.