June 1st: self-imposed deadline to get a life

I made the decision that June 1^st I’m coming home!  I originally signed up for 1 year and said okay friends and family see you in September!  Then, umm alright see you by Christmas!  Definitely by my year and half in March!  And…I’m still here.  So, I knew I had to make it official with a date or else I’d never leave. 

When I told my mother that I was coming home by June 1^st her response was, “oh.”  Not exactly the response I was looking for.  While my parents’ completely chill persona was awesome in my rebellious teenage years (okay so I really didn’t have those minus that one freshman year birthday incident), now it left a little something to be desired.  In one word, I was underwhelmed.

“Your baby is coming home from war and your response is just oh!” - (my reaction to my mother's chillness if of course to over react in a dramatic fashion to hopefully warrant a more spirited response, this has mostly never worked)

 “I’ll believe it when I see it.” - my mother still completely chill

 Touche, mother.  I’m guess I am the little boy that cried wolf/I'm coming home.

Anyway June 1^st is quickly approaching and after applying for 7 jobs, I have heard a rejection from a whopping 1 and a lack of response from the other 6.  I feel like I’ve found my niche working with troops, and I want to use my public relations knowledge.  I’d like to live somewhere on the coast in VA or NC (close enough to home, but not too far).  There’s just this one nagging feeling, what about writing?  I love writing.  Right now I’m in a horrible mood because of some rude people, so after some impulse Amazon purchases, I started writing.  It’s what I like to do, and I think I'm pretty good at it.  I mean I chuckle when I read it back to myself, and I'm pretty uptight about grammar.  (The fact that I typed the number instead of spelling it out when these numbers are under 10 is secretly annoying me right now).  People have offered me advice to getting started in a writing career.  I even bought 4 books about getting published from another Amazon spree a few months ago that sit untouched on my Rubbermaid container.  What am I so afraid of? (ahhhh dangling preposition!)

Here’s an abridged version: embarrassment, failure, becoming penniless, having people tell me I’m not good enough, and being slapped in the face with the harsh realization that this is just a hobby and will never be a career

I’ve been watching this show, Surviving the Cut.  It is a show about the different military schools and how difficult they are.  So far I’ve watched 6 episodes, and I’ve concluded I wouldn’t survive more than 5 minutes at Sapper School, Ranger School, Combat Diver School, Special Forces Selection, and Air Force Pararescue Extended Training Day.  What they emphasize in all of these schools is: it’s mind over matter.  Sheer determination and force of will is the only way to survive and ultimately succeed.  You have to have confidence in yourself because out there in the cold harsh world no one else will do it for you. 

Well not only can I not complete a single push up, I do the struggle dance with the whole mind over matter ordeal.  Yeah, friends and family have encouraged my writing and I’m extremely grateful for that.  But all it takes is an episode of American Idol to shake me to my core.  I’m that girl.  I’m the girl whose whole family is there, and a few friends saying that I’m the best singer since Celine Dion, but then I open up my big ol’ mouth and sound like a cat that is suffering a painful and slow death.  (I’m trying to make an analogy about my writing ability, but if you didn’t get that without this parenthetical notation, then I’m just about as horrible of a writer as I worry that I am).

There’s also this one other little worry that all single ladies my age have…what if I move to a new city and have no friends?  Once you reach a certain age at all the places you could meet possible new friends – gym, church, work, they are married and/or have children meaning they have next to no time for “hanging out.”  Sitcoms lie people!  There are no groups of late twenty-somethings who meet up every day at a coffee shop to hang out.  There are married late twenty-somethings who are busy with work, and houses and children, and their lonely single friends.

I currently live with 2 other females (4 others if Army billeting asks) in a room, in a building with approximately 30 others who all share a bathroom, and I share an office with 8 others, and work at a place where 1,000 people walk through a day.  I’m NEVER alone.  The thought of living alone both excites me and terrifies me.  I’m currently helping out at a FOB in northern Afghanistan, and I hate that I don’t know anyone.  I eat alone; I work out alone; I hang out alone.  If it’s this sucky for just a week, what about when this is my new life?! 

I’m also going to attempt a Tough Mudder on June 9^th in Colorado with some of my USO crew.  So there is some major worry going on there as well, what if I suck, what if I let down my team because I have zero upper body strength?

Basically, I’m a big ol’ ball of worry right now.  I just try to keep one thing in mind, the only reason I have this much worry is because I have this much opportunity.  I live in a time where as long as I’m awesome at what I’m doing I can pursue whatever job I want, and live wherever I want.  I’ve been given a blessed life, and it’s my turn to live up to it.  We’ll see what happens.  First step, keep working on that push up.

Kony 2012

What if one evil man could be brought to justice not with years of war and thousands of dead, but with one year, and thousands of outspoken people that donate a few dollars?

I watched the Kony 2012 video like many others, only I already knew his name.  I already know his children.  I already have seen the crimes he has committed in the faces of women and children who have been raped, had their families murdered in front of them, and forced to live in the wild or fear capture.  I visited northern Uganda in January/February 2011, and I will never be the same.

Me with one of the children from ChildVoice

I visited my friend Natalie (her blog) who volunteered for an organization, Child Voice International that hosts a center for young women and their children to attend to learn life skills so they may provide for their families.  They stay for a year or so and then return to their villages where they can hopefully get a small loan and start their businesses.  (At the time I visited they were working on the last part).  These women and children were all so happy and joyful, it’s hard to believe that they had been tortured just a few years prior.

The “mother” of the center told me a story of how she had to run from her village with just her twins and no supplies because the Lord Resistance’s Army was coming to kill everyone.  She saw many murdered.  She told me of not knowing who of her family and friends survived and who died.  They lived in the bush for years wondering if tonight would be the night they were discovered and killed, or kidnapped to become a sex slave. 

Many of the women have children, not because they are promiscuous, but because of rampant rape in the bush.  I could write for hours about these women’s absolutely horrific stories, you could fill pages with their suffering, but what I want to talk about is their hope.  They WANT a better life for their children.  That’s why they are at the Child Voice center, to work hard for a way to provide for their families.  But Joseph Kony and his LRA are still a threat.  What if everything they have worked so hard for is destroyed and taken from them over night?  This is why Kony needs to be stopped.

Some of the kids from ChildVoice

What’s the best way to stop Kony?  I’m not sure.  I honestly don’t know if blanketing cities in posters is the best idea (sounds like an environmental hazard actually), but it’s the first idea I’ve heard that puts the power in the hands of the citizens of the world. 

Not everyone can afford to fly to Uganda and volunteer at Child Voice, but everyone can afford to post a video to Facebook to raise awareness.

There have been many critics to the Kony 2012 movement, but what good movement hasn’t?  People have issues with Tom’s Shoes and even the Red Cross, but for me all three of these organizations do enough good to justify my donation.

I’d like to imagine a world where an evil dictator can be imprisoned with the power of millions demanding it and a few highly trained people executing it.  No need for massive wars, bombs, or deaths, just a couple hundred troops of the country where the evil man is residing with some additional training and help from others to capture a man that has spent his life capturing others.  This world I imagine can be real.  I’m going to at least try to help make it happen.

  

Sister Chaplain Husband Hunter One of the Boys Friend

In my 17 months in Afghanistan I have been called a lot of things.

In this land instead of wearing your heart on your sleeve you wear your rank on your blouse and immediately this signifies which box you belong in.  The box is your stereotype that you fit neatly in and there is no use on trying to punch your way out because this is no hypothetical cardboard box, this is more a gorilla box with a padlock that you got no chance escaping from.

1. Sister

I started with this one, because it is one of my favorites.  I am one of three daughters, and one of 11 female cousins on my mom’s side, so I never had any brother types growing up.  Now, I have plenty of people to give me a hard time, punch me, teach me how to do a choke hold properly, make fun of my girly attire, tell me I look tired, and threaten to tattle on me to my boss, or to my own mother via Facebook.  I jokingly say that being out here with about 20,000 men is God’s way of punishing me for never having brothers.

2. Chaplain

Men, especially those paid to carry weapons around all day, are macho.  They are taught to be strong and overcome weakness.  To show other men your worries, hopes, dreams, nightmares and fears seems to be admitting you are weak.  (I do not believe this, but I’ve had this told to me and shown to me numerous times).  They need someone to tell, and sometimes that someone is me.  I have heard in graphically horrifying detail about numerous IED explosions, gunfights, and tragically, deaths.  They usually start by saying it’s things they can’t tell their loved ones back home, because they don’t want them to have to know how bad it is.  It’s a picture you can’t un-see in your head, it’s stories you can’t un-hear.  But, I came here to support our troops.  That is my mission, and if what they need is for me to listen to them, then I’ll do it.  They made their sacrifice, one I’ll never have to make, so I can take the tiny moment of time to listen to their story.

3. Husband Hunter

This is about the nicest term to label this category.  I’ve heard many other versions.  Let’s just put it this way, if my choices are old maid: living my life tending to my ever increasing population of cats, while hoarding Rubbermaid containers that have lost their lids, and using a broom to the ceiling because I’m trying to watch my game shows OR husband hunter: working in an active warzone with incoming mortar rounds averaging twice a week, with disgusting food, no privacy, and separation from every family member and friend I have ever known for 17 months because those are my only two options as a woman in this world, well then yeah I’m gonna start deciding if Pat Sajack or Alex Trebek is hotter now.

4. One of the Boys

The insight into a military man’s psyche can be interesting, humorous, disgusting, perverted, and shocking, but mostly just disgusting.  After watching one of my female coworkers walk by one soldier elbows his buddy, “Dammmmmmmn Dude, my team.”  “No man!  I saw her first, I came to the USO 2 days ago and dibbed that shit.”  “You can’t dibs with no witnesses!  It’s like padiddle you gotta have the car in sight first.”   I’ve been told stories that I have repeated to grown men of other military branches that have made them gag.  That’s me one of the boys in my camo ballet flats.

5. Friend

This one’s my favorite.  This is the one where I get to embrace a soldier I haven’t seen in 3 months since he went on leave.  This is the part where I get to race to Role 3 to see a soldier who has just been blown up get awarded his purple heart by a 2 star general.  This is when I laugh so hard I double over and begin snorting on nearly a daily basis.  This is how I get through every day thousands of miles from home… because they are my home.

Perfect choke hold

Time for the Big Girl Pants

It feels like it is time to move on…but moving on is such a scary thing.  In a world where death can come at an instant, to you, your friends, your friends’ friends, life is in some ways easier.  Events aren’t overwrought with “he said/she said” discussions, work is work, food is food, and working out is my way to sweat out the toxins that want to scream I hate you Taliban!  Every aspect of life from what we wear to what we eat, watch, and do, has restrictions.  Life is simple.  When you are living on a military base in a war zone it seems that the rule of thumb is don’t color outside the lines, and you’ll be fine. 

When the biggest decision of my day currently is – which one of the 6 DFACs do I want to eat dinner in, how do I go from that to – what country, state, city do I want to live in, what industry do I want to work for, and what goals do I need to work hard at to achieve what I want for the rest of my life?

It’s daunting.  Although no one has placed it on me, I feel a pressure that I have to live up to my experience in Afghanistan.  I can’t go from living in a war zone for 16 months to filing paperwork for the corporate offices of a paper supply company.  What if I get bored?  What if I get restless?  What if I become one of those SUPER annoying people who constantly says, “Well when I was in Afghanistan blahblahblahblah.” 

This job has ruined me, in the absolute best sense of the term.  Every single day I get instantaneous feedback and satisfaction from the work I do.  I don’t have to work on a project for months pounding away at excels to maybe get a pat on the back, I get to hand a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to the troops who work at mortuary affairs and see how excited they get and give them a hard time for not liking strawberry jelly.  They are the ones who no one wants to remember they are there.  They are the ones who do what no one else wants to do.  They are the ones who I made a PB&J for to say thank you from every mother, brother, wife, friend, and loved one of every fallen hero who they served with dignity.  All of that from a PB&J!

When I have something this good, I’d be a fool to leave.  To borrow from Carrie in every episode of Sex and the City, “I couldn’t help but wonder…” what more is there out there for me?  I can’t live in a war zone forever (well hopefully that’s not possible).  It’s time to put on my big girl pants and figure it out.

The Sweater That Saved Christmas

It seems every Christmas story involves the following ingredients:

- 1 widow/widower

- 1 child who has lost belief in Santa

- 1 very superficial businessman/woman

-  1 reason for them to be stuck together over the holidays – usually involving weather

Mix it together and the end product is they fall in love and realize the true meaning of Christmas.

Well our Christmas here in Kandahar had none of the above.  But we did have a sweater that saved Christmas!

It all began on a rainy day in November while I was on vacation visiting home and running a marathon.  In Kandahar, the USO center was ravaged by a flash flood.  I was busy sipping margaritas by the pool with my Grams while our center was about 6 inches under muddy water that to put nicely was not hygienic.  The floors floated up, and washed away, and the connexes that had all of our decorations flooded as well.  While the quick thinking staff managed to save most of the furniture and spent countless hours mopping up and cleaning up the entire center, it still didn’t quite have that “home away from home” feeling when I returned. 

Erin, my roomie/friend/coworker has the most unbreakable, relentless spirit I have ever met.  She immediately had her parents send her Christmas decorations and she transformed our center into a Winter Wonderland.  Randy, my other roomie/friend/coworker took something as simple as empty priority mail boxes and began wrapping them to assemble a HUGE present tree.  Now our center had the look of Christmas, but still not the feel.

I felt the Christmas spirit for about 15 minutes every day when we would pile up the car with stockings stuffed with goodies and knock on MRAP and Stryker doors giving out the stockings to soldiers preparing for convoys.  They were always so appreciative – I’m not sure if was actually for goods in the stockings, for the sight of the first females in months, or that someone remembered them on Christmas.  They would grin from ear to ear and then immediately begin trading candy like it was 2^nd grade lunch.  I loved that when we looked at the boxes that some of the stockings came in, they were from Boatsies Boxes operating out of Wheeling, WV!  My hometown made Christmas possible out here.  But besides those few moments, Christmas was largely absent from our lives.  Even a Christmas party for Role 3 that promised to be fun, was interrupted by a rocket attack.  Who invited the Taliban to Christmas anyway?!

With convoys going out every day to take Christmas to the troops at forward operating bases the back of our center became a storage facility of large cardboard boxes and endless care packages.  Upstairs was a virtual Santa’s workshop with boxes everywhere that were sorted with care package items in them, and an never ending stack that needed to be sorted.  It was a good problem to have though, because the amazingly generous people back home sent $83,445 worth of goods!  Although we were super excited about all the goodies coming in, the work involved to organize and pack the items was stressful and time consuming.  Christmas was slipping through our fingertips and it seemed no one cared to mind.

Months before Christmas our boss came up with the idea to have an Ugly Christmas Sweater party, and had USO Fort Riley back in the states send some.  We put them out on Christmas eve thinking oh haha it’d be funny.  After some gentle encouragement from the USO gals soldiers began donning the hideously tacky sweaters.  It looked like Bill Cosby’s closet from 1985 was on the back of every soldier.  They were wearing sweaters that were 2 sizes too big, or 2 sizes too small, sweaters that were obviously made for females, sweaters that had color combinations straight from the 80s…and they were rocking it out.  What began as us begging one soldier to put on a sweater spread into every soldier in the center searching the table for just the right one. 

Our winner for his sweet moves

Justin, my coworker came up with the idea to have a fashion show.  We scrounged up some gift cards and announced the competition.  What unfurled was the single most hilarious event I have ever seen.  Randy, Erin, Jillian and I sat up stools at the end of the catwalk to judge our competitors.  The Airforce band that came to play a live set later in the night immediately took their places and began playing songs like “Walk This Way” and “Dude Looks Like a Lady.”  The first soldier “model” set the stage by doing what can only be explained as sashaying down the catwalk and striking a fierce pose.  What followed included the moonwalk, soldiers blowing us kisses, giving us presents, skipping hand in hand, shaking their bootys, and breakdancing.  Everyone was doubled over laughing.  We crowned two winners, one for his smooth moves, and one for how awesomely hideous his sweater was.  After the competition, they didn’t take them off.  They continued to wear the sweaters as the Role 3 (the trauma hospital on base) choir sang, one of our amazing volunteers JD spread Christmas cheer as Santa, desserts were eaten, garland relays were conducted and Christmas movies were played.  When a troop walked in the front door their face would instantly light up as you saw them trying to figure out why everyone had hideous sweaters on over their camis.  Christmas Day was delightfully awesome too with us handing out gifts to every troop that walked through our doors.  We also stalked the boardwalk and gave out stockings to everyone there.  It concluded with a Skype session with my parents and sister to open up the presents they sent, and the ones I sent them.

The soldier far right won for picking the most hideous sweater

My new recipe for a Christmas story:

-       1 team of dedicated morale boosters

-       Countless people back home who love and care about us enough to send numerous care packages

-       Hundreds of funny troops

-       Some ugly sweaters

-       1 reason for them to be stuck together over the holidays - war

Mix it together and the end product is they have a good time and realize the true meaning of Christmas.

Santa making them earn their presents

That butter container is for me to WHAT?!?!

Everyone is called to do something in this life – using their talents for others.  Helping Africans in Uganda is not mine. 

These are the words I wrote in my journal while I spent two weeks in Uganda in February visiting my friend Natalie Committee.  Don’t get me wrong, I LOVED the experience and am so glad I went; it just felt so weird that I actually missed Afghanistan.  I was on vacation in a beautiful country, and I missed my warzone.  I needed to rid myself of guilt and realize that discovering what I’m not meant to do is a vital step in figuring out what I am meant to do.

Natalie and I knew each other since she was about 3 because I grew up with her big sister, Christina.  We were in her sister, Christina’s wedding in the summer of 2010.  Natalie had just decided to move to Uganda for a year and I had just had my first interview for a position in Afghanistan.  To most of our friends and family we were either mentally unstable or living a dream that they wished they could.  We held strong to each other and supported one another in our “crazy” adventure.  When Natalie first told me about her idea to volunteer in Uganda I promised her I would visit.  At that point I was still working at Marshall and would need to save for years to afford that trip, but I knew somehow I would make it happen.  After all, how often do you have a friend to show you around Africa?  Thankfully fate stepped in and I got a job in Afghanistan and could save the money to see Natalie.

We met up in Kampala, the capital city.  It is bustling and quite intimidating.  We rode “boda bodas” everywhere.  These are dilapidated motorcycles that you have to hold onto the back bar and balance on (you never hold the driver) while the driver weaves in and out of traffic so close to the other vehicles that your knees literally brush the sides of vans that are whizzing by.  Natalie and Jess Blackwell (Natalie’s friend who was visiting and helping out for a month) greeted me with huge smiles.  I brought them icing and hot sauce! (delicacies they couldn't find in Africa).  We stayed at the Red Chili Hideaway.  If you ever find yourself in Kampala, this is the place to stay.  There were people there from all over the world.  At night we each got a beer and just relaxed outside talking to Australians, Brits, Macedonians, Germans and whoever else waltzed by.  We then took a 3 day safari around Murchison Falls.

Jess, Me and Natalie in front of some murderous hippos

The safari was absolutely incredible.  We saw all the “biggies” elephants, lions, hippos, crocodiles, wildebeests, warthogs, and meerkats.  The whole cast of The Lion King was there.  At night we stayed in tents with warnings to not venture outside because you might get run over by a hippo.  They kill more people than any other animal in Africa!  After the safari was one of the most nervous times I have ever been in my entire life.  We needed to go north to Gulu, but our safari was returning the 3 hours back south to Kampala.  Natalie decided we could just hop out at the next big town and jump on the next bus that was going to Gulu.  Fool proof plan.  I wasn’t a big fan to begin with.  It all sounded too up in the air.  There might be a bus at this time, hopefully it’s not too full, we should be able to find a place to wait.  Well then our safari van broke down, in front of a military compound so Ugandans came chasing after us with M4s to move.  As we waited at a restaurant for the van to be fixed and the minutes ticked by, decreasing our chances of catching the last bus to Gulu which came some time in the afternoon, I went from being not a big fan, to downright obstinate about Natalie’s “plan.”  But she was the Africa expert after all, so we went with it.  At the stop, the van dropped us off and our only American friends – a 7 month pregnant woman and her husband, wished us well and gave us a look like "I really hope I’m not going to be interviewed by Nancy Grace about what happened to those cute American girls we went on safari with."  We got to the stop where the busses fly by and there were Ugandans all around trying to sell us goods and shoving meat on sticks in our faces.  We had no idea if a bus to Gulu had passed by or not, and there are no hotels or anywhere else to stay for literally hundreds of miles.  Also of course we are the only, Mzungus – Whiteys, for hundreds of miles as well.  Thankfully a bus pulled up marked Gulu and we hopped on.  It was the most relieving feeling ever, until I smelled the live chicken in a cage next to me.

We arrived in Gulu and then took boda bodas back to Lukodi where Natalie lived.  She worked for Child Voice International.  They are an organization that rehabilitates women who were former child soldiers or ravaged by the war.  The Lord’s Resistance Army ravaged northern Uganda for years raping women and killing men.  Many of the women at the center were forced “into the bush” where they lived for years off the land in the forest to escape the murdering and raping that was occurring in their villages.  They are the strongest women I have ever met.  Through all this tragedy, watching their family be murdered in front of them, having children from rape, instead of wallowing, they want to make their life better.  They came to the center to learn a trade, so they can provide for their children.

Natalie's mud hut home

Our hammocks, bath tub, water jugs, dishes, and pee cups

One of the women braiding Jess' hair

I thought I understood “poor.”  I had no idea.  All of these women and children have one, just one outfit.  It usually includes a shirt with holes in it, ratty pants, and a pair of incredibly thin and worn flip flops.  We all ate the same meal twice a day, everyday.  Rice and beans.  Natalie had commandeered some spice packets from the last girl that volunteered, so every night we chose to convince ourselves we were either eating chili, enchiladas, or anything with hot sauce on it.  Although these women had little to nothing, they were always trying to do things for us, give to us.  It was amazing.

We lived in a mud hut with no running water and electricity for only a couple hours per night.  It was February and sweltering hot.  We slept in hammocks with mosquito nets to prevent disease.  The first morning I awoke to Jess’ alarm clock tone which sounded eerily similar to the mass casualty alarm on KAF.  I freaked out trying to get out of the net I was zipped in to jump to the floor, then I remembered I was in Africa.  Natalie was incredibly proud of the fact that she managed to get me my very own…pee bucket!  A lovely used butter container.  For any other matters, there was  literally a hole in the ground (no seat of any kind) with a wooden shed around it.  When I first took a tour of the grounds I saw a cage of rabbits and thought they were adorable pets for the children, I was quickly corrected that they were delicious special holiday treats for the children. 

The kids were my favorite part of the entire trip.  They don’t understand a word I am saying but they laugh and play just the same.  When we would go for our evening walk and come back they would all rush the gate screaming, “MZUNGUS!!!” and leap into our arms.  We felt like rockstars.  When we were on our walk, Ugandans would stop us and ask in their language that only Natalie understood, “What are you doing?!”  It was such a foreign concept to them that someone would walk for no reason other than to walk.  They get so much exercise from doing all their daily tasks of preparing meals by beating grain with a large bat, doing laundry by scrubbing clothes against a metal plate, fetching water in huge containers from the well that is far away, that one would never need to talk a “walk.”  

The kids watching Natalie and I paint a hopscotch

They were all so sweet and so welcoming even after all they had endured.  Natalie and I talked about how much guilt we felt.  Guilt that we were born into a life of such luxury in West Virginia while these children in our eyes were born into despair.  To them though, it's not despair.  They thank God everyday in beautiful hymns that they were so blessed to be spared.  They lived another day, and that was something to thank God for.

In Uganda to say Good Morning you say, Apwoyo Matek which literally translates as, “Thank you for waking.”  I was dirty, stinky, without caffeine, hot and cranky, and yet every single Ugandan I pass is thanking me for being alive.  What a simply beautiful way to live.

Team Daren

I ran a marathon.  But this is not a marathon blog.  While yes, mile 18 was my big fat brick wall and by mile 20 my knees were screaming noooooooooo, stop the horror!  Nonethless, I ran, I walked, and I ran and with my sister’s encouragement, lots of water, and lots of sports beans later we crossed the finish line.  But, like I promised that is not what this is about.  This is about a boy, like many great writings have been.  A boy who through his passion for life inspired couch potatoes and military super athletes alike to run a race in his honor.  This blog is about Team Daren.

Have you ever met someone’s family and thought to yourself, okay that explains it.  I’d be a wackjob too if they were responsible for my raising.  Well upon meeting Daren's family, it was the exact opposite experience.  Daren Hidalgo’s parents, brothers and sister are exactly the reason why we all loved that boy.  I had spoken with friends and family of Daren’s in the months after his death, but had never met any of them face to face.  Well minus the one time in a DFAC I saw Miles across the room and recognized him from Daren’s Facebook but didn’t want to be a creeper so instead I chose to just awkwardly stare at him while whispering and pointing to my friends that I thought that was Daren’s brother.  (because just introducing myself and saying hi would’ve been the embarrassing alternative, riiiiiight).  Miles later told me, he definitely did notice the table of girls in civys that said USO and knew it was me. 

Anyway, first time meeting Jorge, Daren’s father, and upon seeing me he says, “SARAH!” and embraces me in one of those awesome bear hugs!  You can literally feel the love this family exudes.  In Jorge, Andrea, Jared, Miles and Carmen, you can see his radiant smile in theirs.  

The day before the race there was a marathon expo  and you picked up your registration packets from The National Infantry Museum.  You could choose to run in memory of a fallen hero.  They had small bibs to place under your race bib with the fallen hero's name.  We already had ours, 1LT Daren M. Hidalgo, but they had a table set up if you didn’t personally know a fallen hero, so you could pick one to honor.  As I perused the table one name jumped out at me, “PFC Jesse Dietrich.”  I attended his ramp ceremony.  I was there when he was loaded into a plane in Afghanistan to start his final journey home.  I read the brief synopsis and he was 20 years old from Venus, Texas and killed August 25^th in Kandahar Province, Afghanistan by small arms fire.  I thought about how this race was bigger than me, bigger than one girl hoping to finish 26.2 miles.  It was a race to honor those men and women who fight a war, so we don’t have to.  It was the Soldier Marathon.

People came from all across the country to run in Daren’s honor.  Some knew Daren from Pennsylvania or Wisconsin, others from West Point or 3/2SCR, others were there as friends of one of Daren’s family.  While waiting in line for the spaghetti dinner I overheard an older gentleman behind me say, “Well look at that, they know my grandson.”  My sister and I had the race bibs with Daren's name attached to our bags.  We turned around to introduce ourselves to Daren's grandparents.  It seems it doesn’t matter who you meet through Daren, every single person is going to be overwhelmingly nice.  

Overall there were more than 50 runners gathered on a FREEZING 40 degree morning huddled together in heather gray shirts emblazoned with “TEAM DAREN” across the front to run for our fallen hero.  Some ran the marathon relay, the half marathon, or the full.  My sister and I chose the full.  By mile 15 I was saying, “Okay Daren, why couldn’t you have sponsored a 5K, really?!”  But his motto was always, “You only have one life to live, so go big!” and that we did.  I just tried to stay focused and remember who I was running for.  I remembered messaging Daren while he was back at the COP about one of his soldiers telling me a story that he had to wake Daren up one morning so he looked for the smallest dude in a sleeping bag and told him to wake up.  Daren immediately woke up and karate chopped his way out of his sleeping bag.  Daren’s response to this story was, “F yeah I karate chopped my way out of the sleeping bag, I hate those people that don’t start moving.”  So I kept moving!

At mile 6 there was a hill with Drill Sergeants "encouraging" us.  "YOU THINK THIS IS A HILL?!  YOU HAVEN'T SEEN A HILL!  OH YOU BEST NOT BE SLOWING DOWN NOW, KEEP IT UP, KEEP IT UP!"  It was hilarious and helped push us to the top.  Also thankfully, it was the last of the hills.  The scenery was gorgeous and people were sweet along the route yelling, "Go Team Daren!"  The route also looped around itself so we got to see other Team Daren runners and yell at them along the way too.  There were soldiers stationed all along the route to support us.  I did feel a little out of my element, wait a minute, I'm the one supposed to be supporting you.  At mile 25 we passed a man waving a Steelers "Terrible Towel" announcing to each of us, “You’re a marathoner!”  Those are words I never planned on hearing in my life, but was ecstatic to hear.  Because of one boy's presence in my life, I’m completing something I never dreamed I could.  Before this marathon I had ran one 5K.  ONE!  Now I’m running 26.2 miles.  Gretchen and I came around the bend toward the Avenue of Flags at Fort Benning 5 ½ hours after the race began.  I knew we’d see our parents waiting at the finish line.  What I didn’t plan on seeing was an entire crew of Team Daren fans shouting and clapping for us - probably the last Team Daren team members to cross the finish line.  As we neared the finish, the announcer said, “And now crossing the line are Number 255 Gretchen Kemp from Martinsburg, WV and Number 256 Sarah Kemp who took leave from Afghanistan to come here and run this race.”  (Turns out Daren's father, Jorge, had told the announcer the last bit as we were jogging up the avenue.)  I swelled with pride and jogged through the pain as Gretchen and I lept across the finish line in full cheesy fashion.  Then soldiers coined us and placed a dog tag medal around our neck.  Free beers and massages followed.

We returned to our hotel room with the lovely Sarah Brahm and Megan Pringle who were our roommates for the weekend.  I had never met either of them before, but knowing that they were Daren's friends was good enough reason for me to believe they wouldn't drug me and steal my belongings while we slept.  They, of course, turned out to be absolutely lovely ladies.  We all slathered ourselves in icy hot, placed ice bags on our legs, knocked back some pain killers and lamented about our sore muscles.  Later that evening we all went to Fudd Ruckers for a Team Daren reunion.

I was mingling with friends and family of Daren when it finally hit me how I recognized one particular man who ran for Team Daren.  All weekend I tried to place him.  He was Captain Garcia from 3/2SCR, G Co,  Daren’s unit in Afghanistan.  It was the first time I had recognized someone in the states from meeting them in Afghanistan.  We immediately began swapping G Co stories and USO tales.  It was nice to make a connection with someone who had been there for all of it too.

It was also a chance for my parents and sister to meet Daren.  Although they can’t meet him in the physical sense of the word, they got to meet him that weekend in the smiles, laughs, ridiculous and heartfelt stories that everyone who knew him shared.  They got a glimpse at the boy who everyone loved.

Through it all I think about the way Daren has changed my life and somehow finds ways to continue to do so.  A year ago this month I spent some time with Daren in Afghanistan.  He happened to be at KAF, and it was my day off so I needed to do some laundry.  There were plenty of washers available, but upon our return after gathering my stuff there were none.  I was pissed.  So I gave up on the laundry and instead we just talked.  He asked me about what I wanted to do after this.  I told him that I loved writing, but always got nervous that it wasn't good enough.  He shared with me his journaling so I wouldn't feel as self conscious about my blog.  Then he told me something I will never forget, “Don’t worry about what to write, don’t worry if you think it’s stupid or inconsequential.  If you thought it, it’s worthy.  Write it, even if it’s just that you got pissed today because there were no washers available. “  Well Daren, I write, and I run for you.

Please visit www.rememberdaren.com to learn more about Team Daren and how you can honor our fallen hero.

My sister Gretchen and I running down the Avenue of Flags.  I have a look of determination to get to the finish, hers is  a look of joy that the finish is so near!

We're marathoners!  The medals looked like dogtags.

Toward the end of the race soldiers were running with the racers to encourage them to finish strong.

Virtually everyone in this picture is part of Team Daren.  My mom, sister, Sarah Brahm and Megan Pringle at the foreground.