Keeping the peace

One of Sam's favourite pop songs is "All These Things that I Have Done". We often dance to it in the kitchen, holding hands through the early verses, but he always breaks away at the entrancing refrain: "I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier". This he sings alone, standing almost still but with his knees jiggling the rhythm. He loves the beat and the rising inflection of the gospel-like voices as they repeat the line over and over. The lyrics, however, are lost on him. He belts out "I got sold, but I'm not a soldier!", which always brings a smile. I never make it through the whole moment, however, without also feeling the cold pinch of fear in my heart at the thought of Sam as a soldier. The thought of being mother to a child on active duty.

The roadside bombing deaths of six Canadian soldiers in Afghanistan this past weekend had me thinking again about the steely strength it must take to live out months and years in relentless prayer. And when the worst news breaks, I do feel for the widowed and the orphaned, but my heart goes out to the mothers, because I just can't believe they ever really came to grips with the sight of their grown-up babies in fatigues. Myself, I can't twist the image of Private Arnold into clarity: the brain won't allow. He's soundly asleep in his spaceship pajamas.

I am immensely proud of our nation's response to international conflict, both in war efforts and in peacekeeping. And I can only imagine that there is a deeper pride to be found in the knowledge of a son's or daughter's bravery, commitment and final sacrifice. They have given everything in the promotion and protection of peace and democracy. So I silently thank Aaron's mom, and Brent's, and Christopher's and David's and Donald's and Kevin's moms. But I do it somewhat selfishly. My naive wish to see these and all other conflicts resolved is soaked in the self-protective desire to keep from ever feeling the pride that comes from having raised a fallen soldier. Yet, because of them, perhaps, my son sleeps peacefully, my son dances in the kitchen.