Sometimes My Heart Thinks Louder Than My Brain

I was sitting in Spring Barbecue in Katy, Texas when my husband told me he was deploying to Afghanistan. He was a colonel, an Army Reservist, and we had been married less than three years. You would have to understand we are older, and to find the man of your dreams at any time in life is really quite miraculous, but to find him at my age... is truly so. I was 56 years old when he left, and owned a closet full of evening wear, that I got to use often.  I wasn't allowed to dance when I was in high school, although my younger sisters were when they reached the same age.  That is one of the disadvantages of being the oldest in a family; your parents mellow as they raise children... after you are gone. When I met Randy, I had never danced with a man before, and my first dance with him was just as magical as I had imagined as a young girl that it would be.  We were at a reunion of the 95^th Division WWII veterans, and the band was playing a beautiful old song, The Tennessee Waltz, and we waltzed.  It was always pure delight for me to attend the military balls that Randy was frequently required to attend, and to dance with him.  Life can be a romance novel… even when you are old.  When any woman of any age finds that in a man, all times of separation between them, are unbearable for her.

 My husband had gently broached the news in the Spring Barbeque that I had known from before we married would eventually come.  "Cowgirls Don't Cry" began to play in the background, and as he broke the long dreaded news, tears began silently flowing from my eyes, as they never had before. They didn't stop their continuous stream the entire time we were there. I never made a sound, and I would smile each time the waitress asked with concern if we needed something, and nod "no." I could not, for the life of me, stop those tears. It was the most embarrassing meal I have ever publicly   suffered my exposed and raw emotions through. 

I knew as he tried to console me that day while I choked down my sandwich, it was going to be the hardest thing I had ever done.  The experience has lived up to my worst expectations and then some, but I struggle on, and I yearn for the day he finally comes home, or I get to go to where I can sleep in the same bed with him every night, no matter where he is.  I have always said I would live in a tent in the dessert, in a hole in the ground, or any other place just to be where he is.

 

We live on a small ranch within an hour of Houston, but when we first moved here, now almost five years  ago; Yahoo Maps could not locate our address. We really live in the country. Internet connection possibilities are limited, and a cell phone is only as good as the room you are standing in and the weather.  My husband and I both love the little ranch of forty two acres, and Austin County where it is located.  There is a pond, thirteen heavily wooded acres, an antique barn, and unbelievable wildlife.  My husband dubbed it Soldier's Heart Ranch, and two people have never been happier as we have endeavored to make it the home of our dreams.  Both of us are unpretentious people, and “expensive things” are not a requirement for “dream” achievement.  

We have also added three little cabins, and a “Barbie Barn,” along with many other furnishings we know to be soothing to the soul, like 1100 square feet of wrap around porch, and rocking chairs by the dozen.  We both count it a great honor to be able to share the tranquility and beauty of this place with others who serve and their families.  It is the people who live here in Austin County as well, that make it the special place it is.  We live between Bellville and Sealy, and there are not better people to be found. They are honest, hardworking, genuine, supportive of each other and the community as a whole, and as a rule, patriotic to the core.

 

I am a trained FRG leader, mature, self-reliant, and independent by nature.  Having supported many other Soldier families, I had told myself I was going to do this, and do it proud.  I had always felt great empathy as I watched other military families , including my daughter’s, and those observances have somewhat empowered me.  My Christian faith, friends, and family have been invaluable to my survival. I have now learned the struggles and sacrifices America's military families make every day first hand, and come close to complete collapse many times while attaining that knowledge.  There isn't enough training or anything else in the world, which will make the deployment of a loved one without strife, pain, and sacrifice.  However, even though those things are a given when a loved one serves, there has also been the acquisition of what my husband says the Army offers to anyone associated with it, if they will receive it.  He calls it by the acronym he assigned it, “SIP.”  That stands for Skills, Identity, and Purpose, and those things can be the very positive products of enduring the deployment of a loved one to a war zone half way around the world.

Click edit above to add content to this empty capsule.

Mostly because we were in the company of other Soldier families seeing their husbands and fathers off to war, and due to the fact that I was so numb with disbelief that it was actually happening, I held back tears at the airport.  Then I went home and lay in bed and cried for two weeks after I stood watching the plane until its dot finally disappeared on the horizon.  I ate nothing but Girl Scout Cookies.  I remember thinking I would never make it a year.  I remember too agonizing over the thought he would be gone that long, because even though I had known intellectually that it was coming, my heart had never gotten the message clearly.  My heart, as my beautiful oldest grand-daughter, Madie, once told me of her heart, “sometimes thinks louder than my brain."  I think she was seven at the time.

Eventually, the fact that I had seen many women, including my own daughter, do deployment, and do it well, called me from my bed and my cookies.   So I took up a mantra from my husband’s life long thinking, changed the gender to make it my own, and declared to myself "if the woman in front of me can do it, so can I."  Sure enough, I began to acquire SIP.

 
When my husband left for Afghanistan, it was to be a one year deployment, it has now been three years, and he isn't home yet. I have survived, I have grown, I have suffered, I have sacrificed, and I have cried, but most of all, I have loved.  I have become a richer, and even happier person, so proud to have worn the title “Army wife.” My colonel has been officially retired since last June, but the State Department has snagged him and his phenomenal talents up, so I am entering the fourth year of his consecutive deployment to the Middle East.  The Bible is full of promises about making it through hardships, and God is always a promise keeper. I will tell my own deployment story over the next month, because the Army little noted my husband leaving service after thirty years, sending him a Legion of Merit, on which his name is misspelled, in the mail, and later a certificate signed by President Obama in a manila envelope that was so wrinkled I had to iron it to make it presentable.  It arrived in the mail as well.  That just won’t do… and I am planning the celebration of his long and distinguished service at a party I will host on Memorial Day here at the ranch.  We will also be formally dedicating the ranch to the work we have started in support of our military and their families called Soldier’s Heart Ministry.

I will offer bits of the wisdom I have gained for the consideration of others in their own struggle, and I promise you, it is a struggle each and every day.  As always, I will with profound humility and gratitude, offer support to anyone who is currently serving, or who has served. You all have my deepest admiration and appreciation; you are the best among us.  Now since it is getting so late I give my best advice to anyone facing this "refining like gold” experience of deployment: keep your chin up, look around for someone else in need of support and give it to them, and work on your SIP!

The Heart of an Infantryman Is the Same In Any Language

Poetry continues to pour from my heart about the war as I observe its’ faces and hear its’ stories. I am really trying to discipline myself to make my own record, and share that record here. With that, this morning I offer a poem inspired by my husband telling me of observing Afghanistan men doing basic training after joining the Afghan National Army. I have made friends with some young people from Afghanistan, and I have been privileged to know of Afghanistan and her people through their eyes. We have discussed many issues, and I respect and admire these people, and have somewhat of an understanding of the personal sacrifice and risk it takes for them to raise up their country from the tyranny which has long haunted their land. I do not know that I could put myself and my family at the risk of death to help do the same were it my country. With the discontent toward the war on the part of many of the American people, it would trouble me that I might find myself left holding the bag, without the resources needed to complete the liberation of my country. That they do step out, bringing such risk to their lives, criticism from some of their own countrymen, and from people all around the world who doubt their true motivations, strikes me as uncommon moral courage.

So this morning I relate to you the thought process which my husband went through as he observed these strong and proud men at attention before their instructor, and some them in sandals, and some with bare feet. You will also get the feel of what the heart is like of a dedicated, died in the wool, ever loyal, honor graduate of West Point and the Army War College, who is a colonel serving his last days of a 30 year career in Afghanistan and Iraq. You will note too how much I love and admire him as well as the people of Afghanistan.

Bare and Sandaled Feet

He strode purposely from his office, but stopped to stare at their bare and sandaled feet.

Afghan Soldiers in training, at attention in perfect military bearing, his gaze their eyes did not meet.

How could they run, how could they make a stand?

Were their feet not cut by the rocks, burned in the hot sand?

He continued his powerful stride, but now he detoured to command.

His questions were met with assurance that boots had been ordered, plenty to meet the demand.

He returned to his work where he labored far into the night,

Then made his way to his quarters, laid down, and turned out the light.

Soon thoughts of work faded, and were replaced by scenes of the blessings of his life.

He thought of friends, family, his beloved home, and his strong and adoring wife.

The beats of his heart slowed, and in his mind appeared The Long Gray Line in motion.

Familiar feelings rose, and as each night, again he vowed his “last true measure of devotion.”

As sleep stole over him a smile was on his face, at the memory of the strength of the bare and sandaled feet,

And his mind saw visions of a firestorm of courage and valor, which soon the enemy would meet.

Written by Debra LeCompte, November 6, 2010

Dedicated to the love of my life, Colonel Randy LeCompte, and his Infantryman’s heart,

West Point, and The Long Gray Line,

The Soldiers of The Afghan National Army, and

The Kabul Milli Boot Factory, Kabul, Afghanistan

You can tell so much about a man by handling his books. I have been doing some deep cleaning, and I moved the book shelf in the living room to the den to make a place for a rather formal antique piece I had found and had restored. I first emptied the book shelf of its contents, then lightly sanded the nicks out and touched them up with matching stain. I meticulously cleaned the floor where the bookcase was to find new residence, as I knew this chore would not be repeated again for awhile once all the heavy books are in place. I polished the floor, placed the bookcase exactly where I wanted it, waxed its’ shelves and began the task of replacing my husband’s books.

My husband is highly intelligent and accomplished, and that is reflected by the books he has collected over the years. The first evidence of his intelligence being indicated by his four large year books from West Point, along with the original catalog he was sent when he first made application. It is still in pristine condition, as are most of the books. Of course his 1990 Dwight D. Eisenhower Centennial Edition of the Register of Graduates and Former Cadets 1802-1990 had to find a place on the shelves. Many of his books reflect his military career which is approaching thirty years in duration. There are the books of military history, the books of military strategy, the books about military leadership, and the biographies of famous military leaders. Titles including War and Moral Responsibility, World Tensions:Conflict and Accommodation, Maxims of George Washington, The Forgotten Soldier, We Were Soldiers Once… And Young, and Thin Red Line are place lovingly by me on one shelf. Venezuela, The Democratic Experiment, Colin Powell My American Journey, Cobra II, A Guide to the Study and Use of Military History, and The Final Move Beyond Iraq also lay in stacks on the floor waiting to find their placement on the shelves. I place countless copies of Parameters, The US Army War College Quarterly side by side, like soldiers marching, on their shelf. Soldier, the Life of Colin Powell, Reagan, A Life in Letters, and From Here to Eternity round out what I consider to be a representative look at selections from his military books. I find there is among these books one that is fingerprinted, worn, and showing signs of countless readings. Why Courage Matters, written by John McCain, profoundly influenced my husband during a particularly difficult time in his military career.

My husband has been in Afghanistan for fifteen months now, serving with the Army. The project of moving the book case and its’ contents becomes a delightful experience as I begin to sense a nearness across the thousands of miles as I hold his books. By this time I am holding each book far too long, and too carefully selecting its’ place on the shelf. In some books, I am discovering things underlined or highlighted. Many books reflect his love of the South American culture and countries. They are in Spanish, for he is fluent in Spanish. He wore a mustache for several years, because as he traveled and worked in South America in his civilian job, he discovered it brought to him a revere with his software customers. I recall his experience of being in Columbia when conflict suddenly broke out, as he had began a trip to the airport, along the route he witnessed gun fire and a shooting. He arrived to find chaos at the airport, and as “officials” began to inquire of him who he was, and where he wanted to go, he realized he did not want his military ID to be found. With providential timing, he spotted a Columbian colleague with whom he had established a warm relationship. He was a person of some prestige, and by his word my husband was able to board a plane and leave the country. As I think of this experience, and how often he has been in harms way, I hold the books which I know his eyes have rapidly scanned as he absorbed every detail of information. Suddenly I am yearning once again to be by his side, physically sharing the same home and life.

The chore is becoming a morning of both longing and delight. There are many science texts, Basic Statistics, Tools for Continuous Improvement, Understanding Industrial Designed Experiments, Mathematics With Application, Statistical Quality Control, An Introduction to Linear Regression and Correlation, and the evertitillating The Annual ASTM Standards Plastics-General Test Methods Nomenclature. Among the science books lies the one book to place on the shelves on economics, it is titled simply, Economics, the Science of Common Sense. Briefly, I consider dropping that one in the mail, but I do not have the White House address.

Countless books on management take up at least two shelves, with titles of In Pursuit of Excellence, Empowering Teams, The Dening Management Method, Reengineering the Corporation, Good to Great, The New Rational Manager, The Program Management Book of Knowledge, and Getting to Yes. His leadership style isn’t reflected in any of these works, he has developed his own style, he calls it “The Gideon Principle,” he identifies the key participants with the heart and skills for the work, concentrates on their refinement, and leads them as they mentor those who might be potential upcoming leaders. He leads from the front always, never asking anyone to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. Always integrity and character are his base, and always he uses moral courage as the compass of whatever mission he undertakes.

By far the largest collection of books contain many versions and translations of the Bible and Bible studies. Strong’s Concordance, Malachi, Rekindling the Fires of Faith, Masterwork, The Blazing Center, A Journey in Faith, Experiencing God, Faith Works, 1st Peter, Message of Encouragement, The Family Bible Encyclopedia, The Historical Atlas of Judaism, and many others are placed in a grouping on three shelves. It is his personal study Bible that I spend the most time over. When he left for Afghanistan he carried a small Bible that would pack and travel well. In his regularly used Bible, which is contained in a zippered leather case, I find dozens of church bulletins with meticulous notes on each sermon. I was always aware of his making the notes, however I had never read them as I was making my own notes, which I promptly lost. I spend a long time in that treasure trove of his deepest thoughts on the sermons from our pastor, and find myself so refreshed and encouraged.

Two more of my husband’s books are telling of the man my husband is. One is entitled, How to Open a Chess Game, by 7 International Grand Champions. My husband is the most intensely competitive person I have ever known, with a stipulating factor… he always is in competition with himself, others may be involved, but his quest is always for his personal best, his state of excellence. To him any endeavor worthy of pursuit, only gets his best, nothing else will do. The last book is a very thin, small book, and one could easily overlook it. The author is a seven year old boy, and it is titled, The Christmas Present, and dedicated to his mother and father There among all the lofty titles shines the little book authored by his son, ten years ago, which says so much about the man my husband is.

I love him and long to see him, talk with him, listen to his words, share our daily lives once more. I remember the tender little routine we had each morning. I would make his breakfast, press his work clothes for the day, and we would read the Bible together as we ate breakfast before he left for his day’s work and I tended to mine. A man’s books, and how he uses them tells so much of who he is, and what his character is made of. I enjoyed my morning’s chore, and felt the thousands of miles melt away, and knew things of my husband's heart as though we had shared breakfast in that "too tender" little morning routine.