The Man Behind the Girl

As of today, I am officially the wife of a retired Air Force colonel.

When I married the man twenty-one years ago, he was a lowly, albeit handsome, first lieutenant. At that point, we intended to fulfill his ROTC commitment in a few years and then join the real world. A twenty year career seemed impossibly, eternally long, and, honestly, inconceivable to two twenty-something dreamers. But at the end of the four year point, the Air Force offered a promotion and a new opportunity and we kept going. And so it went...for twenty-four years.

At the ten year point, we seriously considered separating from the military to buy a small business and plant some roots. When we discussed this with anyone under thirty years of age, the response was always the same, "Ten more years? That's a lifetime, way too long to sacrifice for a retirement. Get out and do what you really want to do." Anyone over forty years, however, would say, "Stay in. Ten years will pass in the blink of an eye and then you'll be sitting pretty with that retirement and still young enough to begin a new career." In the end, Jim's natural bent for security and his aversion to risk made the decision for us, and we spent fourteen more years earning that retirement.

You know what? The older were wiser. It did pass in a blink.

Tuesday, August 31st, was the final official day of my husband's life-changing career in the Air Force. He had three months of terminal leave saved (yes, that's what they call it), and he spent two of the months by my side, day and night...oh, blessed, blessed terminal leave. His retirement ceremony actually took place on his last day of work, June 1st. It was utterly meaningful and memorable and emotional. The ending of one long leg of our journey and the beginning of the next. I meant to write about it all but somehow never quite made it to the keyboard. Too busy packing for Hawaii (his retirement gift to me!), I guess.

And so, today, the first official day of our new life outside of the Air Force, I want to share with you some of the remarks he made there. I may be the writer, but he is definitely the public speaker. I hope that you can hear him as you read it, with just the right mix of depth, humor, and heart-tugging pulls. Oh, how I love this man and all that he is.

I have always tried to downplay significant changes or milestones in life. They are always bittersweet, and I have always felt that if you made too big of a deal about them, it was an admission that it may be the last significant milestone you expected to reach. I remember my high school graduation, listening to some families go absolutely berserk when their kids' names were called. I thought, "What? Didn't you think he'd make it? Has he peaked out at eighteen years old? For me, I just wanted to quietly move on. It was the same for college---although at least then there were so many people that unless you were the valedictorian (I wasn't), it was easy to fade into anonymity.

So, now I find myself at another milestone, and, frankly, just wanting to quietly slip out the door. Like other milestones, this is bittersweet. You see, I accomplished very little of what I thought I would accomplish in the Air Force. Perhaps these dreams were a little juvenile, but they were dreams nonetheless. I wanted to fly. I wanted to experience combat. I wanted to deploy. I wanted to command. I did none of these things. Some of these disappointments were terrible blows to me; most were so gradual in not happening that it's only at this stage of finality that it's clearer they never will. Isn't someone going to storm through the door at the last second here and say, "Wait, Colonel Luke, we need your technical and political-military skills to help defeat the insurgency in Afghanistan?" Well, of course, no one is.

I was inspired to join the military by reading about World War II: the exploits of the Navy at Guadalcanal and Midway; the Marines at Tarawa, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa; the Army at Normandy and Bastogne; and of course, the Army Air Corps in the skies over Europe and the Pacific. P-51s, P-38s, P-47s, Liberators, and Flying Fortresses. I loved it. Men like Joe Foss and Gabby Gabreski were my heroes. Lesser know men like Sarge Liska who landed at Utah Beach and fought across Europe. Men like Chuck Cannon and my Great Uncle Joe---crew members in B-17s over Ploesti and Remagen. As a boy, these events, these machines, these men were glamorous. As I grew older, I realized there was very little glamorous about it. How did a man get in a machine that would carry him aloft to forty thousand feet and forty degrees below zero with less than a ten percent chance he would survive the twenty-five trips he was required to make? How do you walk out to the plane every day? This kind of reality tempered the glamour but only strengthened the inspiration. I wanted to be one of those men.

Now, whether it's because of a lack of initiative, a lack of opportunity, cowardice, or Divine intervention, I am not one of those men. That's the bitter part of my Air Force career, and I share it with you as I would and have shared it with other friends.

But it's only part of the story. There's the sweet part. If you've scanned my bio on the back of your program, I suspect there's one or two experiences there that make you say, "Wow, that must have been pretty cool." I've had that reaction to nearly every Air Force biography I've read. It's hard for someone in the military to go back to their high school reunion and talk about what they've been doing---it can't help but sound like they're bragging. Working with the greatest technology in the world, being involved in world-shaping events, maybe even interfacing with national or international leaders. Pretty heady stuff for someone from Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Pretty heady stuff no matter where you're from. The Air Force has given me incredible experiences, truly priceless experiences.

Let me rewind to Memorial Day, five years ago yesterday. We were assigned to NATO in Belgium, and on that day we traveled to Henri Chapelle American Cemetery. It's on the border of Belgium, and it's where the United States buried its dead before the final strike into Germany. Many of the graves are from the late fall and early winter of 1944---Bastogne and the Battle of the Bulge. My little Jacinta here was three years old. She was wearing a red, white, and blue sundress and had her hair braided in pigtails. As we walked solemnly among the graves on the beautiful, sunny day, I looked behind to see Jacinta with her arms spread out as wings, running and weaving among the brilliant white stone crosses on that manicured green grass. My immediate reaction was to stop her---at first glance, I thought it might seem disrespectful. But then it occurred to me that the young men whose bodies were buried six feet below might have a different reaction. If I were in their place, wouldn't I be smiling, watching this little girl enjoy a day like this, not even realizing that there is such a thing as war?

That memory has helped me to put my life and my career in perspective. My regrets of not deploying, not flying, not fighting in combat meant that I was home. I was with my kids most nights. I was with Diane. Wouldn't every one of those young men have traded places with me in an instant? What would they think of me, pining for the brutal experiences they endured, the sacrifices they made? They'd probably laugh. They'd probably tell me to get a life. Except that I've got one---thanks to them and those who have followed them and follow them today. I hope the work I have done during my Air Force career has been worthy of their approval, even if it has fallen far short of their standard of sacrifice.

Several have told me that I HAD to have a ceremony. That I owed it to myself. Or I owed it to the organization. That it was bigger than me. It probably is bigger than me. But it was when my recently retired friend Alan said that I should have the ceremony for my family that I began to consider it. Now, to be honest, I'm not sure this milestone is all that monumental for my family, except perhaps Diane. They know I get up early, go to work, and get home later than Diane would like. That probably won't change a whole lot.

But I want them to know, I want them to remember that I was in some small way affiliated with those heroes of the past, those heroes of today, and with those of you here today. I want them to remember that I was in the United States Air Force. I want them to see the Honor Guard, so that they will one day think about that word "honor" and why these young airmen---the best our country has to offer---perform this duty. I want them one last time to see our uniforms, our traditions, the respect we have for the flag---and to see that their dad was grateful to be a part of it all.