Letter: ‘What are WE willing to sacrifice to save our country from madmen who are bent on our destruction?’

Editor’s note: Opinions expressed in this letter to the editor are those of the author alone and may not reflect the editorial position of ClarkCountyToday.com

Lately, I've heard a great deal of complaining about the rising cost of gasoline, groceries, and the everyday necessities of life. I'd like you to read a letter with me from a loving wife to her husband fighting on the front lines of World War II, a reminder of what an entire generation of Americans were willing to sacrifice in the name of freedom.

Anna Miller

It begs a question we should all be asking ourselves today: What are WE willing to sacrifice to save our country from madmen who are bent on our destruction? Will we rise to meet the biggest challenge of OUR time? Or were these men and women truly the last greatest generation?

Anna Miller

Camas

A Letter from the Home Front

Somewhere in America, November 1944

My Dearest,

The children are finally asleep, and the house is quiet. I find myself sitting at the kitchen table, staring at your photograph, wondering where you are tonight. Are you warm? Have you eaten? Are you safe? I pray for those things every night, although I know the answers may not be what I want to hear.

Our little ones are growing so quickly. Your son asked again this morning when Daddy was coming home. I told him you were far away, helping to keep our country free. He doesn't understand what that means, of course. He only knows that Daddy isn't here to lift him onto his shoulders or tuck him into bed. Our little girl still kisses your photograph every night. I try not to cry when she does.

Life here is not easy, my darling. There are days when I feel the weight of this war in every corner of our little home. The ration books are nearly empty, meat and sugar are scarce, and I have learned to make a little stretch a very long way. I mend the children's clothes until there is hardly any original fabric left. I save every scrap of food, every bit of grease, and every penny I can spare. Nothing is wasted now.

I stand in lines, tend to the house, care for our babies, and do the work we once shared. There is no one to take over when I am tired, no strong arms to hold me when I am afraid. Some nights I am so weary I can scarcely keep my eyes open. But I get up each morning and carry on, because that is what this war asks of me.

All across America, families are doing the same. Mothers are raising children alone. Fathers are working long hours in factories. Young women are building airplanes and ships. Grandparents are tending gardens, saving every precious resource, and helping wherever they can. Families gather around their radios, listening for news from places they had never heard of before this terrible war began.

And then there are the telegrams.

Every woman on our street knows what it means when that messenger approaches a front door. We watch from our windows and silently pray he keeps walking. Last week, he stopped at Mary's house. Her husband will never come home. I held her while she cried, knowing there was nothing I could say to make her whole again.

I will confess something to you, my love. Sometimes I grow angry. Angry that our children must grow up without their father beside them. Angry that so many young men must die on foreign soil. Angry that ordinary families, who ask for nothing more than to live in peace, must surrender so much.

But then I remember why you are there.

You are not fighting for riches or glory. You are fighting so that our children may grow up in a country where they can speak freely, worship God without fear, and live without the shadow of tyranny over their lives. You are fighting for people you will never meet, for generations yet unborn, and for the simple freedoms we once took for granted.

And we are fighting here, too, in our own quiet way.

Every sacrifice we make is our contribution. Every ration we surrender, every hour we work, every lonely night we endure is part of this great struggle. We cannot carry your rifle or stand beside you in battle, but we can carry the burdens here at home so that you may finish the work you were called to do.

Someday, when this war is over, I hope our children will understand what their father did for them. I hope they will understand what an entire generation sacrificed so they could inherit the blessings of liberty.

Most of all, I pray they will never take those blessings for granted.

I dream of the day you walk through our front door again. I dream of an ordinary Sunday morning, with the children laughing, coffee brewing, and your boots beside the door. How precious those simple things seem now.

Until then, I will keep our home, raise our children, and hold fast to my faith. I will be brave, even on the days when I do not feel brave.

Come home to us, my darling. But know that while you fight for freedom over there, we will do our part to preserve it here.

For our children. For our country. For all those who will come after us.

All my love, all my prayers, and all my heart,

Your loving wife