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I will always miss you my friend.
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<blockquote data-quote="DC" data-source="post: 1687910" data-attributes="member: 480"><p>and the rest of the story:</p><p>The body of Jane's husband arrived in the United States within 72 hours at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware on Sept. 12. But the full arc of Christopher coming home - the sacrament of laying him to rest, the ritual of receiving all the artifacts of his life at war from the Army - felt like forever to his young widow.</p><p></p><p>It would be four weeks before Arlington National Cemetery had a time slot open for the funeral. As months passed, Christopher's belongings kept trickling home, sent by the Army - mementos left by other soldiers at a memorial in Afghanistan, a black bag containing what Christopher had with him when he died and foot lockers filled with clothing, souvenirs, snacks and myriad other items.</p><p></p><p>"It's kind of like a mystery," she says.</p><p></p><p>They met at King's College in New York City, two conservative kids with a passion for politics in a liberal Manhattan. They worked together on Mayor Michael Bloomberg's 2005 re-election campaign.</p><p></p><p>She was from Cleveland, the youngest of three. He was from Tulsa, the oldest of three born to an evangelist and his wife, and spent his adolescence in a military academy in Missouri, honing his sharpshooting skills.</p><p></p><p>Christopher joined the National Guard in 2008 and was surprised that his growing affections for Jane were stronger than his long-held devotion to country and service.</p><p></p><p>"This is a little scary for me," he wrote in a letter home from basic training. "Although my love, dedication and commitment to my country is unchanged. You are my life's number one dedication."</p><p></p><p>They married in 2009. They both dreamed that after the Army he would run for public office, perhaps even Congress.</p><p></p><p>Instead, she now sifts though his belongings as if they are part of some kind of archaeological dig: a tiny Stalin figurine he bought at a flea market in Kyrgyzstan on the way to war; a log he kept of missions he could not discuss on Facebook instant-messaging; and a Sony camera he carried with him.</p><p></p><p>There were nine pictures dated Sept. 9, the day he died. Most show young GIs lounging or dozing in the enclosure where the attack occurred. Jane believes they were taken by her husband hours - if not minutes - before he died.</p><p></p><p>The Army will return a dead soldier's clothing washed or unwashed. The widow decides. Jane wanted them unwashed. She wanted everything as it had been with Christopher, even to smell him one last time. "But it doesn't smell like that," she says now. "It just smells like dirt."</p><p></p><p>She wanted to study her husband's hands. At the casket, she had his white gloves removed and recognized the torn skin around his thumbs - a nervous habit she knew quite well.</p><p></p><p>Jane utterly threw herself into memorializing Christopher.</p><p></p><p>She chose the seven-story, vaulted interior of the majestic First United Methodist Church in Tulsa, with its limestone and oak, for the funeral service. For the burial, she arranged commercial flights back East with her husband's body in baggage. The casket traveled in a white packing crate stenciled with his name and the words "head" and "foot."</p><p></p><p>She asked Oklahoma Sen. James Inhofe, a Republican for whom she had worked as an intern, to deliver a eulogy at an Arlington Cemetery chapel. She got Mullen and Army Gen. James Dempsey, the new chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, to attend cemetery services. </p><p></p><p>"God made me strong for a reason," Jane says.</p><p></p><p>On the flight home, she toiled over phrasing for Christopher's headstone, searching for the perfect epigrams that could fit on two lines of 15 spaces each.</p><p></p><p>She settled on "Valiant Warrior/Fearless Sniper."</p><p></p><p>Through it all, there were as many kindnesses as there were setbacks.</p><p></p><p>A neighbor Jane didn't know solicited the city to rename their street in honor of Christopher. Inhofe's legislative assistant, Anthony Lazarski, stayed at her side during the early hours of Sept. 12 at Dover waiting for Christopher's body to arrive. Bloomberg called to express condolences. Cleveland friends sent her specialty ice cream by mail - salted caramel and poached pear.</p><p></p><p>Southwest pilots on the flights carrying her and Christopher to the burial paid homage over intercoms, and one gave her the wings off his uniform.</p><p></p><p>But she had to ask for a new Army casualty officer after she found the first one "not a good fit." The cemetery put the wrong death date on a temporary grave marker. Southwest lost her luggage.</p><p></p><p>These annoyances Jane can weather. What's difficult is the way people outside the military react, or fail to react on a personal level, to the sacrifice her husband has made.</p><p></p><p>Whether it's awkwardness or indifference, the mention of his name at social gatherings or political events elicits silence or a change of subject.</p><p></p><p>"People don't know what to say, or they don't say anything at all," she says.</p><p></p><p>She could not be prouder of how Christopher gave his life for his country, but she feels many people are uncomfortable with the topic.</p><p></p><p>TAPS spokeswoman Neiberger-Miller says Jane's reaction is very common among families whose loved ones died in Iraq or Afghanistan. The Gold Star is a precious commodity among them, says Neiberger-Miller, whose brother, Christopher, was killed in Iraq in 2007.</p><p></p><p>They don't wear the pin "for people to go, 'Oh, look at them they're the sad people,' " she says. "We do it because we're proud of our loved ones and what they gave this country and we want people to know it."</p><p></p><p>Jane thought the Gold Star pin would be a conversation starter. But it isn't.</p><p></p><p>"This is like code: 'My husband was killed in the war.' But nobody knows what it means.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="DC, post: 1687910, member: 480"] and the rest of the story: The body of Jane's husband arrived in the United States within 72 hours at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware on Sept. 12. But the full arc of Christopher coming home - the sacrament of laying him to rest, the ritual of receiving all the artifacts of his life at war from the Army - felt like forever to his young widow. It would be four weeks before Arlington National Cemetery had a time slot open for the funeral. As months passed, Christopher's belongings kept trickling home, sent by the Army - mementos left by other soldiers at a memorial in Afghanistan, a black bag containing what Christopher had with him when he died and foot lockers filled with clothing, souvenirs, snacks and myriad other items. "It's kind of like a mystery," she says. They met at King's College in New York City, two conservative kids with a passion for politics in a liberal Manhattan. They worked together on Mayor Michael Bloomberg's 2005 re-election campaign. She was from Cleveland, the youngest of three. He was from Tulsa, the oldest of three born to an evangelist and his wife, and spent his adolescence in a military academy in Missouri, honing his sharpshooting skills. Christopher joined the National Guard in 2008 and was surprised that his growing affections for Jane were stronger than his long-held devotion to country and service. "This is a little scary for me," he wrote in a letter home from basic training. "Although my love, dedication and commitment to my country is unchanged. You are my life's number one dedication." They married in 2009. They both dreamed that after the Army he would run for public office, perhaps even Congress. Instead, she now sifts though his belongings as if they are part of some kind of archaeological dig: a tiny Stalin figurine he bought at a flea market in Kyrgyzstan on the way to war; a log he kept of missions he could not discuss on Facebook instant-messaging; and a Sony camera he carried with him. There were nine pictures dated Sept. 9, the day he died. Most show young GIs lounging or dozing in the enclosure where the attack occurred. Jane believes they were taken by her husband hours - if not minutes - before he died. The Army will return a dead soldier's clothing washed or unwashed. The widow decides. Jane wanted them unwashed. She wanted everything as it had been with Christopher, even to smell him one last time. "But it doesn't smell like that," she says now. "It just smells like dirt." She wanted to study her husband's hands. At the casket, she had his white gloves removed and recognized the torn skin around his thumbs - a nervous habit she knew quite well. Jane utterly threw herself into memorializing Christopher. She chose the seven-story, vaulted interior of the majestic First United Methodist Church in Tulsa, with its limestone and oak, for the funeral service. For the burial, she arranged commercial flights back East with her husband's body in baggage. The casket traveled in a white packing crate stenciled with his name and the words "head" and "foot." She asked Oklahoma Sen. James Inhofe, a Republican for whom she had worked as an intern, to deliver a eulogy at an Arlington Cemetery chapel. She got Mullen and Army Gen. James Dempsey, the new chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, to attend cemetery services. "God made me strong for a reason," Jane says. On the flight home, she toiled over phrasing for Christopher's headstone, searching for the perfect epigrams that could fit on two lines of 15 spaces each. She settled on "Valiant Warrior/Fearless Sniper." Through it all, there were as many kindnesses as there were setbacks. A neighbor Jane didn't know solicited the city to rename their street in honor of Christopher. Inhofe's legislative assistant, Anthony Lazarski, stayed at her side during the early hours of Sept. 12 at Dover waiting for Christopher's body to arrive. Bloomberg called to express condolences. Cleveland friends sent her specialty ice cream by mail - salted caramel and poached pear. Southwest pilots on the flights carrying her and Christopher to the burial paid homage over intercoms, and one gave her the wings off his uniform. But she had to ask for a new Army casualty officer after she found the first one "not a good fit." The cemetery put the wrong death date on a temporary grave marker. Southwest lost her luggage. These annoyances Jane can weather. What's difficult is the way people outside the military react, or fail to react on a personal level, to the sacrifice her husband has made. Whether it's awkwardness or indifference, the mention of his name at social gatherings or political events elicits silence or a change of subject. "People don't know what to say, or they don't say anything at all," she says. She could not be prouder of how Christopher gave his life for his country, but she feels many people are uncomfortable with the topic. TAPS spokeswoman Neiberger-Miller says Jane's reaction is very common among families whose loved ones died in Iraq or Afghanistan. The Gold Star is a precious commodity among them, says Neiberger-Miller, whose brother, Christopher, was killed in Iraq in 2007. They don't wear the pin "for people to go, 'Oh, look at them they're the sad people,' " she says. "We do it because we're proud of our loved ones and what they gave this country and we want people to know it." Jane thought the Gold Star pin would be a conversation starter. But it isn't. "This is like code: 'My husband was killed in the war.' But nobody knows what it means. [/QUOTE]
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