Welcome to Right Line Editing & Design ~
Thoughts from a Marine Mom by Christine Hunt

2: My Marine’s training has been intense:

• He now knows how to assemble his assault rifle in seconds then acquire an appropriate target with deadly accuracy—up close or 100s of yards away—in the desert, a small town, around the corner of a city street, or anywhere in between, under, over, or behind.
• He’s learned to assess a situation in a split-second, act decisively in the most appropriate manner, and persist with intensity until the situation is secure.
• He can evaluate a wounded Marine’s condition, tourniquet a burst femoral artery, perform an emergency tracheotomy, seal-off a sucking chest wound, and precisely insert a plastic tube through the chest wall so his buddy won’t suffocate on his own oxygen—all in under 2 minutes and while retaining enough blood in his buddy’s body for his fellow Marine to survive.
• And he’s learned how to clean up a buddy who’s passed-out drunk and has thrown up all over himself, then get that Marine squared away in his rack and never mention it again.
• He now understands hierarchy of authority—and that it’s okay to appeal to a higher one.
• He can successfully defend himself against an attack from any direction by an opponent twice his size, then take the offensive, put the guy face-down in the dirt, and cuff him.
• He’s learned how to survive on nothing in a hostile environment—and that’s just in garrison; imagine how well-prepared he is to survive in the field.
• He’s learned to speak and read a modicum of Arabic—even though most of his previous language-learning attempts never completely clicked.
• All this while becoming proficient at cleaning the bathroom, keeping his bed made and uniforms laundered, preparing his own meals, showering and shaving at least once a day, and keeping his hair cut.

Thank you, Marine Corps. You’ve done an amazing job in a very short period of time and with fewer-than-needed resources.

And I’m very proud of you, son. You’ve learned well.

Now, please stay safe.

1: My Son the Marine

My 19-year-old is living his dream life, he says. “Free food, free rent, and you get to spend the day blowing stuff up.” Don’t get me wrong: he definitely knows it’s not all fun and games—it is the Marine Corps, and there are plenty of ne’er-do-wells who even make it through USMC boot camp [though only the Lord knows how!].

But my son’s always been pretty good at focusing on the good and letting the rest go. “Hope for the best, expect the worst, and you’ll never be disappointed,” has been his adopted philosophy for the last few years.

And he truly sees the Service as his “service”: service to God, service to country, service due for the incalculable benefits he and our family enjoy because we were blessed to be born citizens of the U.S.A.

The end of January he graduated from the School of Infantry–Weapons Platoon, a TOW gunner—“52s” they call them, a reference to the Occupational Specialty number 0352 which distinguishes them from riflemen or mortar men or another in the smorgasbord of infantry positions within the Corps.

Many adults, when they learn that my son is in the Corps, quickly adopt an expression of mingled sorrow and confusion, as though they can instantly foretell the dire consequences he faces. These adults are usually ones who have no military experience—they’ve only lived vicariously through the eyes of another or, more probable, have absorbed the bunk spurted by most of today's American media and can only picture that abounding horrors and horrific boredom await him in some desolate, primitive land.

That, to me, is an interesting response. I know that what he faces is hard, and please hear me when I say that I appreciate their care and their concern for him and for us—but I wish they could see, no, could experience the reactions I receive from those I have met who have been in the military during the 1980s and ’90s and even earlier.

Those adults I know who served seem to almost brim with pride. Invariably they stand straighter and their eyes brighten. You can hear excitement when they say, “Really? Where's he stationed?”

I pray that when my son is discharged, he looks back on his service time with pride, knows he performed well for a noble exercise in the preservation of freedoms known nowhere else in the world.

And if his time in the service ends in his death, I and the rest of his family will know deep sorrow but not regret, true heartache but not woe, lamentation but not anguish. Our grief will be real, but it will not be lasting for we will see him again. And that is a not an empty hope, an “Oh, well if that makes them feel better”–type wishful thinking.

Picture it this way: Bill Gates is the loving uncle you’ve known all your life and he calls you one day to tell you that he set up a bank account in your name that would always have a $10,000,000 balance for use at your discretion. Would you tell him “Thank you” by being hourly concerned about whether or not you were going to be able to buy tomorrow’s groceries? Or would you pay off the house, buy a new car, and throw a huge dinner party in his honor?

Why can we believe the promises of a man, even a wealthy and powerful one, whose life and fortunes are tenuous at best yet not believe the solid promises of the Almighty Creator of all that is?