What people are
saying about
Jo Anne Allen's
MY
"This
Military Mom could start a new genre."
Bertrice Small, NY
Times author
"Our young
soldiers in
Here's a meaningful gift for
deployed troops."
Tara McPhail, wife of Capt. Charlie McPhail
"I know I couldn't have
made it through deployment in
I recommend this book to all military
families."
Sgt.
Sandra Perry, Medic
"And I
thought two hanky reads had disappeared!"
Cindy Guyer, producer of Oxygen's
"Mr.
Romance" reality series.
"Inspirational reading
is needed for our recovering soldiers.
I hope MY
Chaplain Craig Wiley,
My Son is
a Marine
Based on a true story
Jo Anne
Allen
This story is based
on actual events. Some names and
situations have been altered to protect the privacy of
individuals.
Echelon Press
9735 Country
www.echelonpress.com
All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be
used or reproduced in any m
First Echelon Press
paperback printing: July 2005
Copyright © 2005 by
Jo Anne Allen and
ISBN: 1-59080-448-1
E-Book
Cover Art © Julie and Ken Barnes
ken.julie.barnes@verizon.net
Copyright © All
Technical Design ©
Nathalie Moore
Printed
in
I
dedicate this to every military person serving our country. You deserve the highest honor and respect for
your indomitable spirit in defending our country and keeping our nation
free. May the Lord always have His
special shield covering you to keep you safe and in His light.
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank
my son, A.J., for inspiring me. It could
only come from your precious heart. What
a gift God gave me when you were born.
As a writer, I cannot find the words to express my gratitude.
To Ken and
Julie Barnes, you are true angels, for putting my son’s letter into the right
hands for publication and for designing this awesome book cover that depicts
the story so perfectly.
To Kathryn
Falk, founder
Special
thanks to my devoted friend, Suz
Great
appreciation goes to my family and friends who have always believed in me and
knew, without a doubt, that this book would become a reality.
I also wish
to salute the members of
To my dear
friend and fellow author, Linda Fulkerson, thanks for taking the picture of me
for the back cover.
Introduction
By Kathryn Falk, Lady of Barrow
Founder of Support Our Soldiers
America, Inc.
War makes strange bedfellows and creates a synchronicity we can
only speculate upon.
In February of 2004, I launched Support
Our Soldiers (
Hundreds of RT BOOKclub readers joined me
in writing letters, and shipping books, magazines, food, and toiletries to the
front lines. None of us dreamed this
involvement would lead to shepherding a book into publication. But spirituality joined with patriotism is a
powerful force. Many members were
establishing a close bond with particular Marines and soldiers. Letters and emails flew back and forth. When graphics artist Julie Barnes forwarded a
heart-wrenching letter from one of her pen pals, it was included in our
So far from home, and under great stress,
the young Marine was desperately worried about his ailing father who was looked
after full-time by his mother. He asked
if we could help his mother in
Ten days later, I received the first
draft of MY
Of course, the accompanying box of
homemade peanut butter cookies were melt-in-your mouth delicious. It was almost enough for me to run out and
follow her recipe. I gave a sample to
friends who agreed they were fabuloso.
Fortunately,
I thank all of our
Semper Fi,
Kathryn Falk,
Lady of Barrow
Email:
barrowlady@aol.com
A
note to the reader…
Before
sitting down with this book, it is highly recommended that you bake a batch of
the incredible peanut butter cookies (recipe is located on page 190) and enjoy
them as you savor every word.
e
f
"I can't believe it's not butter in those fabuloso
peanut butter cookies."
–Fabio
"Hello?" I asked hesitantly as I picked up the ringing telephone.
"Mom?"
My heart dropped. This was the phone call I had expected, yet dreaded, from my eighteen-year-old son, A.J.
"Hi, A.J."
"I told you I'd call to
say good-bye. We leave for
My eyes welled up with tears, but I swallowed the big lump in my throat and asked, "What do you want in your first care package?"
"Can you make me those peanut butter cookies I like so much?" he asked.
"You bet," I said enthusiastically, as if he were heading off to college.
"I was told I'll be over there a whole year. Write often…okay, Mom?"
"Of course, I will. And I'll be praying very hard. I love you, A.J."
"Thanks, Mom. I love you, too. I have to go now."
I hung up the phone and sat quietly at the kitchen table.
It was really happening–it wasn't just rumors anymore. The country was about to go to war. And my son would be on the front lines.
A.J. was just a boy. My boy. What if I never saw him again?
"Do you know how much I love you, A.J.? Do you have any Earthly idea what you mean to me?" I said aloud, as tears streamed down my face.
Then, knowing it would be all too easy to let myself become hysterical, I grabbed my head with both hands, closed my eyes, clenched my teeth together, and prayed for the strength to make the negative thoughts go away.
What God gave me instead was a barrage of memories.
Eighteen years go by fast. Had I thought I could protect A.J. his whole life? Like a mother hen who shields her chicks from danger by having them hide under her, I wanted to whisk my son out of harm's way.
But a mother hen knows an unprotected chick is vulnerable and easily snared. A.J. was neither. He was a United States Marine. He had completed thirteen weeks of grueling boot camp. How many people could say they'd made it through that hell?
Now he was headed to
I was scared. War is a terrifying word. And so I did the only thing I could do to protect both my sanity and my son. I prayed.
"Oh, God, please...I know you've heard these same prayers over and over from thousands of mothers just like me. But it's unnatural for parents to outlive their children. You tell us that we're given only what we can handle. I couldn't handle losing A.J. Look at my life, Lord. I've tried to be strong through all the other heartaches. Please, take care of Your child and mine. Please...please...take care of all of them."
My name is Jo Anne
Allen. I am the mother of a Marine
stationed in
We all have a story. I would like to tell you mine. I want to share with you how very special my son is. Most people never know how much of an impact their existence makes on others. With A.J., though, it's clear that there would be a big hole in the universe if he had never been born. Maternal bias and pride aside, I can tell you, he's done a lot in his short years upon the Earth.
So let's start at the beginning.
We lived in
At the age of three, A.J. was always busy creating chaos in the family. His two brothers–Bo, three years older, and Darin, two years younger–were on the quiet side and enjoyed the swing set, kiddie swimming pools, and cartoons. A.J. dangled from the monkey bars, splashed all the water out of the kiddie pool, and stood in front of the television, bouncing on his feet, to watch Inspector Gadget. If my backyard was quiet, I knew A.J. wasn't outside. If my house was quiet, I knew A.J. wasn't inside.
He was my social butterfly. He loved saying hello to everyone in the neighborhood. At his tender age, he befriended two young girls who lived across the street. Many times, with supervision, he rode his little bike–his favorite toy, with its mini-training wheels–to their house to play. The girls' father often sat outside and supervised them.
One particular day, A.J. was playing with the girls. My husband, Randy, and I had company, and I had prepared a steak and shrimp dinner. Everything was ready, and I went to the front door to ask my neighbor to send A.J. home to eat.
I went back to the kitchen and within seconds heard a sickening sound that made my stomach turn over, then instantly tie itself in knots: screeching tires followed by ear-piercing screams. No one had to tell me what had happened. I knew A.J. had been hit by a car.
I ran to the front door but
didn't see A.J. anywhere. His small
crumpled bike was tangled under the front bumper of a car stopped in the middle
of the street. My heart pounded as hard
as it ever had as my gaze sc
There he was–lying in the middle of the road, folded up like an accordion.
I raced toward him, oblivious of the gathering crowd. Vaguely, I heard someone say they'd called 911 and that the MedEvac helicopter was on its way. But I had no attention for anything but A.J. Instinct took over as I fell to my knees beside him. The few seconds it took me to determine that he was unconscious, but not dead were, without a doubt, the worst moments of my life.
I realize now how foolish it was to ignore the helpful advice of my neighbors not to move, or even touch, him. Looking back, I guess I thought he needed to be out of the street. So I gently slid my hands under his tiny frame, lifted him in my arms, and took him to my driveway, where I lay him down and hovered over him.
At that point, I became aware that Randy was speaking angrily to a bunch of teenagers–the ones who'd been in the car. The driver, who couldn't have been more than sixteen, was muttering that he hadn't seen A.J. crossing the road on his bike. Our neighbor, who'd been watching, was yelling back at the boy, saying that he'd seen the car come screeching around the corner and tear down the street as if it were a NASCAR speedway–and it was just "damned lucky" the car wasn't very powerful and that there hadn't been time after turning the corner to pick up much speed.
The argument ended when Flight for Life–the MedEvac team from Aurora–arrived, at the same time a police car rolled to a stop and the officers in it herded the teenagers and our neighbor off to talk to them.
Randy and I watched, arms around each other, as the paramedics examined A.J. and prepared him for transport. As they worked, they tossed around terms I didn't understand and said things that served to heighten my nearly out-of-control anxiety: internal bleeding...broken femur that could have severed the femoral artery when he'd been moved...concussion and swelling as a result of an obvious blow to the head. I'd noticed the bump on A.J.'s head when I'd–wrongly–moved him, but by this time, his head had swelled to twice its normal size.
The paramedics strapped A.J. to a backboard and whisked him away. We left our dinner guests in charge of our other two children and drove frantically to the hospital where A.J. had been taken.
When we arrived at the emergency room, we asked for A.J., and the nurse pointed to the surgical area and told us that the ER doctors were examining him.
Again, at that point, maternal instinct took over, and I did something I would never have done under normal circumstances. I simply had to know my son's condition, so I burst into the trauma room, uninvited. What I saw nearly made me faint–the heart monitor displaying a single unbroken line. I knew what that meant. A.J.'s heart had stopped.
I slapped both hands over my mouth, but that did little to muffle my scream. "No! Oh, God! A.J., no!"
"Get her out of here!" one of the doctors said abruptly.
The last thing I remember as a nurse ushered me out of the trauma room were the faces of several people working furiously to get A.J.'s heart re-started.
Randy and I were taken to a private waiting room with only a clock on the wall, several chairs, and a coffee table strewn with old magazines.
We sat down, and a minute later, he admitted to me he was worried that A.J. would have brain damage, that, after all, he'd been thrown twenty feet and landed on his head. I was worried A.J. was dead. I couldn't begin to process what it would mean if he weren't dead but that he would have to face life as a vegetable.
Randy and I held hands and prayed together. I tried my best to have faith, to feel optimistic, but sitting there in that impersonal, dingy room, I couldn't help but fear the worst.
A little over an hour passed before the doctor came. Randy and I stood and clutched each other's hand, waiting for him to tell us the news–waiting to hear whether or not our son was alive.
The doctor–a short, dark-haired man of about forty–gave us a brief, tired smile. "Your son has a concussion."
Has. Present tense. My heart started beating again.
"He had a very serious
blow to his head," the doctor continued.
"We did an
At that, I couldn't entirely stifle the sob that escaped me. Randy's grip tightened on my hand.
Then the doctor shook his head. "His heart did stop once, but we were able to resuscitate him. He's been in and out of consciousness, but his vital signs are stable."
At that, I began crying so hard I barely heard the rest of what the doctor had to say.
"He's on his way into surgery right now. He has a ruptured spleen that's causing a lot of internal bleeding, and it has to be removed. And his broken femur will also be set."
A broken leg seemed inconsequential. Bones mended. But...spleens–what did I know about them? Not much. Something vague about football players losing theirs a lot and being perfectly fine afterward.
"Also," the doctor continued, "you need to know that part of A.J.'s optical nerve was severed. We think it will repair itself in time, but he might need glasses when he gets older."
Beside me, I felt more than heard Randy heave in a great gulp of air and let it out. "Thank you, doctor. When can we see him?"
"When he comes out of recovery and we take him to his room, I'll have someone show you where it is." He gave an encouraging smile. "I'd say you both are mighty lucky parents. This could have been so much worse."
If the doctor said anything after that, I didn't hear it. I was crying again and thanking God, and all I could think about was seeing A.J.
It was several hours before we were taken to A.J.'s room. We found him asleep. Although bruised and swollen, his sedated body looked peaceful.
We decided that I would spend the night with A.J. while Randy went home. I sat in the chair all night, watching my son sleep, thinking about all the joy he had brought us...and praying.
Around
I had no idea what they were talking about, but knowing A.J., I thought I could imagine. My always enthusiastic son was entertaining the doctor. I wondered which of his childhood experiences he was relating in his inimitable excited and dramatic tones.
After waiting outside for what seemed like forever, I was finally allowed to enter the room. A.J. was sitting up in bed, broken leg elevated, and grinning from ear to ear.
"Mama!" he exclaimed with a note of joy I'd never heard before. "I saw God!"
I looked at the others in the room–a female nurse and three young male interns. They were all smiling at me.
One of the interns must have realized–probably because of my baffled expression–that I was waiting for an explanation. "Your son had an out-of-body experience," he announced as he stood next to A.J. "Apparently, it happens sometimes to people who've clinically died, then been resuscitated. Your son's chart says his heart stopped yesterday, and it took several tries with the defibrillator to get him back. In a technical sense, he was dead for over two minutes. So it seems that during those two minutes, A.J. got a little glimpse of Heaven."
By this time, my eyebrows were stretched upward as far as they would go.
Reading my skepticism correctly, the nurse took over the conversation. "A.J. has told each of us exactly the same story. He's not imagining things or fibbing. We're trained to know when someone is fabricating a story, and I'm as certain as I can be that A.J. is telling the truth."
"Yeah, Mama!" A.J. chimed in. "And Grandma isn't dead like you think. She's just fine! I saw her first."
I believed him. Even without the nurse's testimony, I didn't have a bit of doubt that, somehow, A.J. had seen my mother.
I wanted to be alone with
him. I had a million questions. Tell me about Grandma! What does God look like? Did you see other people, too? What did the angels look like? Were they really huge? Did they have wings? Tell me everything!
After the hospital staff left the room, I tried to keep the tears welling in my eyes from spilling over, but it was impossible. I sat down next to A.J. on the bed and held his small little hands in mine.
"Don't cry, Mama," he said.
I swiped at the tears on my cheeks, then brought his forehead to rest against mine. "Thank you, God," I whispered.
"Mama! I have to tell you about God!"
I smiled, but the tears came even harder. What had that intern said? "Your son had an out- of-body experience." How many three-year-olds could say that? For that matter, how many people could say that? Very few, I guessed.
"That's incredible, sweetheart," I said. "Tell me all about it."
"Well," he began as the light sparkled in his eyes. "First I saw you crying when you were holding me on our driveway. Then, the helicopter came, and they put me inside. Grandma was with me the whole time. Then I got to a big room, and that's when I found out I could fly. Me and Grandma were way up in the clouds!"
I paid close attention, as I knew A.J. had been unconscious and could not possibly have known about my holding him or the trip to the hospital in the helicopter.
"Then–" he nearly bounced on the bed with excitement– "I saw lots of other angels, all flying around me. I wanted to hold their hands, but they wouldn't let me, not even Grandma. They said the rule was I would have to stay if I touched them. So I didn't."
I shook my head. "Really?"
"Nope. I didn't touch them. And I wanted to 'cause they were soooo pretty! They had giant feathers on their wings, and they smiled at me, and we were all floating in the clouds! And then they said I could wish for anything I wanted to eat and pull a piece of the cloud off, and when I put it in my mouth, it would taste like my favorite thing!"
A.J.'s excitement was contagious. I was smiling and crying and watching his face as he told me the story. It was almost too much for me to take. I wanted to let each word sink in slowly. I still couldn't get over the fact that he was just fine. No brain damage whatsoever. How blessed I felt then, to have been given this precious little boy–twice, it seemed.
"Can I guess what you wished the cloud tasted like?" I asked, trying to involve myself in his unbelievable experience.
"You know," he said, grinning.
"Tell me anyway."
"Peanut butter cookies!" he said. "And I did pull off a piece of cloud, Mama! I did what they told me to do. I stuck it in my mouth, and it tasted just like your peanut butter cookies!"
"Wow," I said. What else was there to say?
"Wait till I tell you the best part! After that, they said God wanted to see me. So they took me to God, and He said–"
"Whoa!" I held up my hand. "A.J., slow down. Tell me this part real slowly. How did they take you to God? Where was God? God wanted to see you?"
"Mama! I'm telling you the story. All the angels and Grandma were there. Then I was alone with God. He wears the whitest clothes you ever saw, and He has real long white hair, and He doesn't laugh, but He smiles a lot. He folded His arms like this." A.J. crossed his little arms across his chest. "He said 'A.J., you go home.' So I came home."
I waited for more. So much more. I wanted him to tell me the story over and over again. It was so incredible. My mother had passed away the year before from cancer. She and A.J. had been very close, and when she died, he hadn't truly understood what death meant. What two-year-old would?
It seemed, however, that his experience had given him an understanding far beyond his years.
"Is that all God told you?" I prompted.
A.J. was hesitant. "He...well, He said another thing, Mama. He said I had to come back because I needed to do something real important for Him when I get older."
"What?" I asked, both curious and a little wary.
A.J. shrugged his small shoulders. "I don't know. He just said it would be something real important."
"What do you think it is? He didn't give you any idea?"
A.J. shrugged again. "Nope. I think...I think He's keeping it a secret."
I stared at my son, my heart beating fast. A secret? What kind of secret purpose did God have in mind for my son?
I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
During the months his leg was in a cast, A.J. couldn't romp and play as he normally did. His brothers kept him company some of the time. But Bo had his own, older friends, and Darin, at two, was still too much a baby to keep A.J. occupied for long.
Most often it fell to me to help A.J. pass the time. I told him stories and read to him from books that I remembered fondly from my own childhood. A.J. loved those stories and asked to hear them over and over. Although it was tedious for me to repeat them for the twentieth time, I did it–anything to keep him from becoming bored and depressed in his forced confinement.
"The three trees, Mama! Tell me the story about the three trees again!"
I rolled my eyes and relaxed my shoulders in exasperation. "A.J., you've heard that story so many times! How about if I read The Big Hungry Bear instead? Then we can look at the pictures."
"No! I like the Three Trees. It's my favorite. Please...."
"Your dad tells it better than I do," I tried to negotiate.
"I like your way," A.J. insisted.
His brown eyes melted my heart. They always did. And so I began....
"Once upon a time there were three trees on a hill, in the woods," I said.
"You forgot to say 'long, long ago,'" A.J. reminded me.
I closed my eyes and sighed. My son did not miss a trick.
"Once upon a time, long, long ago...there were three trees on a hill, in the woods."
A.J. giggled with delight and put his head on my chest.
I smiled. "These three trees were all discussing their number-one dreams and hopes for the future. The first tree said, 'Someday I want to be a treasure chest. I want to be filled with gold and silver and all the precious jewels of the Earth. I want to have intricate carvings and beautiful decorations for all the world to see.' Then the second tree said, "My wish is to..."
"No!" A.J. interrupted. "You need to have a different voice to be the other tree."
"Sorry, I forgot," I whispered, then continued. "The second tree said, 'My wish is to be a mighty ship. I could take kings and queens across the seas and sail across all the waters to the farthest corners of the world. I will be a very powerful and strong ship, and all who ride on me will be safe.'
"Now, the third tree was different. He was happy being a tree. He said," my voice dropped to its lowest register, "'I just want to be a tree–a tall, straight tree. And all who look up to see me on top of this hill will be looking toward Heaven, and it will make them think of God.'"
I paused to glance at A.J.'s face. He seemed so peaceful, so serene. I wondered if the reason he wanted to hear this story so often was because it reminded him of how close he'd once been to God.
Returning to the story, I said, "Over the next few years, the trees spent all their time praying that their dreams would come true. Then one day, a group of woodsmen came out of the forest at the foot of the hill, saw the three trees at the top, and climbed the hill to look at them. One man went up to the first tree and said, 'Hey! I think I'll cut this tree down and sell it to a carpenter.'
"That made the first tree very happy, because it just knew its fondest wish was about to be granted. The carpenter would turn it into a treasure chest.
"The second woodsman looked at the second tree and said," I pitched my voice higher, "'Just look at this tree! It's so tall and straight, it would make a perfect mast for a sailing ship. I'll cut it down and sell it to a shipyard.' And so he began chopping, which made the second tree very happy, because he, too, knew that his prayers had been answered. He would become part of a mighty ship, sailing before the wind."
A.J. was playing with his toes that stuck out of his cast, but I knew he was totally engrossed in the story.
"The last woodsman approached the third tree, making the tree quake with fright. Remember, it wanted to grow tall and straight, high on the hill, so that people who looked up at it would think of God. If the woodsman cut it down, its dream would be lost forever. And that's exactly what happened. The woodsman said, 'I don't need this tree for anything special, but I'll cut it down anyway.' And he chopped with his axe until the great tree fell, then hauled it away, taking the tree's dream with him."
When I paused, A.J.'s head came up, and his gaze shot toward me. "But that's not the end!" he exclaimed.
"I know." I chuckled as I rubbed the natural curls on his head. Then, after he'd settled back against me again, I went on.
"As it turned out, the first tree was sold to the carpenter and made into a feed box for animals. He was put into a barn and filled with hay, which made him very sad because that wasn't what he had prayed for at all.
"The second tree was sad, too, when he was cut up and made into a small fishing boat. He had wanted to carry kings and queens across the high seas, but the only person who ever used him was a lowly fisherman, and he never got out of sight of the shore.
"The third tree was cut into large pieces and stacked in a dark place that never saw the light of the sun. And so the years went slowly by, and the three trees forgot all about their dreams."
I paused for effect, and, right on cue, A.J. drew a quick breath and blurted out, "Don't stop! Something else happens then."
I had to laugh. "Yes, something happens. One day, a man and woman came into the barn where the first tree had been placed as a feed box for animals. The woman gave birth to a baby boy. Her husband wanted to make a crib for the baby, but they were traveling, and he had no tools or wood with him. So he filled the manger with clean hay and placed the baby in it. It would have to do.
"Somehow, the first tree felt the importance of the moment. It knew the baby lying in it was special–and it knew its dream had come true. It was holding the greatest treasure of all time!"
"The baby Jesus," A.J. exclaimed.
"Yes, it was holding baby Jesus," I said. "Then, some years later, a group of men got into the small fishing boat made from the second tree. One of these men was tired and went to sleep. While they were out on the water, a great storm came and rocked the boat back and forth, back and forth. It rocked it so hard that the boat didn't think it was strong enough to keep the men safe. The frightened men woke up the sleeping man.
"The sleeping man stood inside the boat and said, 'Be still!' And all at once, the storm stopped, as if it had never happened.
"At that moment, the second tree felt its ultimate wish had come true. It knew it was carrying the King of Kings in the boat it had become.
"It was carrying Jesus!" A.J. declared.
"Yes," I agreed. "Now, soon afterward, a group of men went into the dark place where the third tree lay cut up in large pieces, and they took one long chunk from the stack. The tree was given to one man to carry, and as he lugged its heavy weight through the streets, it listened as people mocked the man.
"The man dragged the tree all the way up to the top of the hill where it had grown. There, on that Friday morning, the man was nailed to the tree, which was then raised and staked so it stood pointing toward Heaven. And the other people left the man there until he died. Then they cut him down and carried him away, leaving the tree standing at the top of the hill. The tree was very, very sad about what it had witnessed and the part it had played. It wondered how God could have let it be used for such a wicked purpose.
"It rained all the rest of that day, and the next. Then, on Sunday morning, the sun rose brighter than the tree had ever seen it. And, suddenly, somehow, it realized that its ultimate dream had come true. It knew that all the people who'd stood watching the man die had been thinking about God. And it knew that, for that short time, it had been closer to God than anyone had ever been before."
Knowing A.J. loved to finish the story himself, I smiled down at him. "Why was that, do you think?"
"Because Jesus was crucified on it," he said.
"And were the three trees all happy?"
"Yes! They were very happy!"
"But why did they ever doubt that their wishes would come true?"
"Because," A.J. said, grinning, "God has lots of secrets. He knew they'd all get what they wanted. He just gave it to them in different ways than they thought they'd get it. We think God should do things our way, but He almost never does. He has His own way. And it's always better."
Hearing the certain knowledge in A.J.'s childish voice, I was struck–as I had been many times since his accident–by his utter conviction. His faith. Guiltily, I wished my own faith, strong as it was, were as unwavering as my young son's.
But then, I hadn't met God. And I hadn't a single doubt that A.J.'s wisdom and understanding–his spiritual maturity–was the direct result of his near-death experience. It stunned me slightly to realize that I was changing, too, because of A.J.'s experience. His faith was strengthening mine. God had given A.J. a tiny glimpse of Heaven, then had sent him back to teach me what it meant truly to believe.
In the dark days that lay far
ahead in our future, unforeseen and completely unpl