Its NOT about the oil Posted on Saturday, November 13, 2004 > >GOT THIS FROM A FRIEND....................... > > > > ITS NOT ABOUT THE OIL > > (The following story was written by Lori Kimble, a 31 year old > >teacher > > and proud military wife. Mrs. Kimble, a California native, currently > > lives in Alabama.) > > > > I was sitting alone in one of those loud, casual steak houses that > >you > > find all over the country. You know the type--a bucket of peanuts > >on > > every table, shells littering the floor, and a bunch of perky > >college > > kids racing around with longneck beers and sizzling platters. Taking > >a sip of > > my iced tea, I studied the crowd over the rim of my glass. My gaze > >lingered > > on a group enjoying their meal. > > > > They wore no uniform to identify their branch of service, but they > > were definitely "military:" clean shaven, cropped haircut, and that > > "squared away" look that comes with pride. Smiling sadly, I glanced > >across > > my table to the empty seat where my husband usually sat. It had > >only been > > a few months since we sat in this very booth, talking about his > >upcoming > > deployment to the Middle East. That was when he made me promise to > > get a sitter for the kids, come back to this restaurant once a month > >and > > treat myself to a nice steak. In turn he would treasure the thought > >of me > > being here, thinking about him until he returned home I fingered > >the > > little flag pin I constantly wear and wondered where he was at this > >very > > moment. Was he safe and warm? Was his cold any better? Were my > >letters getting > > through to him? As I pondered these thoughts, high pitched female > >voices from > > the next booth broke into my thoughts. "I don't know what Bush is > >thinking > > about. Invading Iraq. You'd think that man would learn from his old > >man's > > mistakes. Good lord. What an idiot! I can't believe he is! even in > >office. > > > > You do know, he stole the election." I cut into my steak and tried > >to > > ignore them, as they began an endless tirade running down our > > president. I thought about the last night I spent with my husband, > >as he prepared > > to deploy. He had just returned from getting his smallpox and > >anthrax > > shots. The image of him standing in our kitchen packing his gas > >mask still > > gives me chills. Once again the women's voices invaded my thoughts. > > "It is all about oil, you know. Our soldiers will go in and rape > >and steal all > > the oil they can in the name of 'freedom.' Humph! I wonder how many > > innocent people they'll kill without giving it a thought? It's pure > >greed, you > > know." > > My chest tightened as I stared at my wedding ring. I could still see > >how > > handsome my husband looked in his "mess dress" the day he slipped > >it > > on my finger. I wondered what he was wearing now. Probably his > >desert > > uniform, affectionately dubbed "coffee stains" with a heavy > >bulletproof vest > > over it. "You know, we should just leave Iraq alone. I don't think > >they are > > hiding any weapons. In fact, I bet it's all a big act just to > >increase > > the president's popularity. That's all it is, padding the military > > budget at the expense of our social security and education. And, > >you know what > > else? > > > > We're just asking for another 9-ll. I can't say when it happens > >again > > that we didn't deserve it." Their words brought to mind the war > > protesters I had watched gathering outside our base. Did no one > >appreciate the > > sacrifice of brave men and women, who leave their homes and family > >to ensure our > > freedom? Do they even know what "freedom" is? I glanced at the table > > where the young men were sitting, and saw their courageous faces > >change. > > They had stopped eating and looked at each other dejectedly, > >listening to the women talking. > > "Well, I, for one, think it's just deplorable to invade Iraq, > > and I am certainly sick of our tax dollars going to train > >professional > > baby-killers we call a military." Professional baby-killers? I > >thought > > about what a wonderful father my husband is, and of how long it > >would > > be before he would see our children again. > > > > That's it! Indignation rose up inside me. Normally reserved, pride > >in > > my husband gave me a brassy boldness I never realized I had. > >Tonight one > > voice will answer on behalf of our military, and let her pride in > >our > > troops be known. Sliding out of my booth, I walked around to the > >adjoining > > booth and placed my hands flat on their table. Lowering myself to > >eye level > > with them, smilingly said, "I couldn't help overhearing your > >conversation. > > You see, I'm sitting here trying to enjoy my dinner alone. And, do > >you > > know wh y? Because my husband, whom I love with all my heart, is > >halfway > > around the world defending your right to say rotten things about > >him." > > "Yes, you have the right to your opinion, and what you think is > >none of my > > business. > > However, what you say in public is something else, and I will not > >sit > > by and listen to you ridicule MY country, MY president, MY husband, > >and > > all the other fine American men and women who put their lives on > >the line, > > just so you can have the "freedom" to complain. Freedom is an > > expensive commodity, ladies. Don't let your actions cheapen it." I > >must have > > been louder that I meant to be, because the manager came over to > >inquire if > > everything was all right. "Yes, thank you," I replied. Then, > >turning > > back to the women, I said, "Enjoy the rest of your meal." As I > > returned to my booth applause broke out. I was embarrassed for > >making a scene, and > > went back to my half eaten steak. The women pi! cked up their check > >and > > scurried away. After finishing my meal, and while waiting for my > >check, the > > manager returned with a huge apple cobbler ala mode. "Compliments of > >those > > soldiers," he said. He also smiled and said the ladies tried to pay > >for my dinner, > > but that another couple had beaten them to it. When I asked who, the > >manager > > said they had already left, but that the gentleman was a veteran, > >and wanted > > to take care of the wife of "one of our boys." With a lump in my > >throat, I > > gratefully turned to the soldiers and thanked them for the cobbler. > > Grinning from ear to ear, they came over and surrounded the booth. > >"We just > > wanted to thank you, ma'am. You know we can't get into > >confrontations with > > civilians, so we appreciate what you did." As I drove home, for the > >first time > > since my husband's deployment, I didn't feel quite so alone. My > >heart was filled > > with the warmth of the other diners who stopped by my table, to > >relate how > > they, too, were proud of my husband, and would keep him in their > >prayers. I > > knew their flags would fly a little higher the next day. > > > > Perhaps they would look for more tangible ways to show their pride > >in > > our country, and the military who protect her. And maybe, just > >maybe, > > the two women who were railing against our country, would pause for > >a minute > > to appreciate all the freedom America offers, and the price it pays > >to > > maintain it's freedom. As for me, I have learned that one voice CAN > >make > > a difference. Maybe the next time protesters gather outside the > >gates > > of the base where I live, I will proudly stand on the opposite side > >with > > a sign of my own. It will simply say, "Thank You!" To those who > >fought for > > our Nation: Freedom has a flavor the protected will never know. GOD > >BLESS > > AMERICA! Please pray f or God's protection of our troops and HIS > >wisdom > > for their commanders