“I cannot complain about the flour… or the early mornings”
That was what she said. That is what set me free to pursue the things I enjoy and feel led to do. But did she mean it? There is no way she did because she had no idea what she was talking about… but she said it all the same.
We were riding through Key West at the time and I was trying to figure out what to do with my life. I was set to get out of the Navy within the year and I was really torn between going to college, becoming a cop, or trying out for SARC, Special Amphibious Recon Corpsman. I knew that I should involve my wife in this decision making process.
As we sat riding in the Jeep, we talked about my desires for the future. I would talk about being a cop and then tell her that I wanted to steer away from that. My dad was a cop for as long as I can remember. I remember how it felt to be a kid and have my dad gone so often with the strange hours and rotating schedule of a Police Officer. I remember watching my mom’s face when she would get the phone call saying daddy would not be coming home because he was standing on the side of the road taking care of a traffic accident. I remember what it felt like to know that my dad had arrested the brothers and fathers of some of the kids in my class and that I had to watch out for the retaliation against my dad that might be served to him through my broken body. It was a rough life and I did not want that for my family.
I mostly did not want that for my wife. My mom spent a lot of time raising us kids by herself. My dad would ask her how we were and he would tell her what he would like for her to do with us, but my mom was really the active one in raising us. I did not want my wife to be that “single” parent because I was gone so often.
When I shared these ideas with her, she responded by talking about a baker. She said,
“You are not the man that you are because of the job that you do, you do the job that you do because of the man that you are.”
That took a long time to sink in. She continued by explaining that she could not marry a man who enjoys the early morning, serving breakfast, and exercising his creative spirit through baking, and then complain about the early mornings, the smell of pastries, and all the dirty aprons. If she marries a baker, she has to put up with the baking.
It still took a little while for my identity to be refined and for me to understand what that meant. As I started thinking through these things, I started to question my motives for choosing my future job. What it boiled down to was pretty simple. I wanted a job where I would be required to think under stressful conditions, use my body to bring about the desired results of a task at hand, and to serve people in a manner in which they were not able to serve themselves. I wanted to protect, defend, and serve. I wanted to think, strategize, and make things happen. There does not seem to be many jobs that put such a high emphasis on intelligence, “outside of the box thinking”, and physical prowess and stamina. That kind of ruled college out. It also set Recon above getting out to be a cop.
But I was afraid that Jessica did not fully comprehend what she was asking. In my extensive wisdom, I made her watch Black Hawk Down and then go talk to some of the wives of the instructors at the Army’s dive school on Flemming Key. She spent a few days in a very somber mood. When we continued the conversation, she confirmed what she had said before.
I started looking for a bakery.
We lost everything we owned to Hurricane Wilma. While walking around a grocery store making a list of the food items we lost for the insurance claim I got a call from a friend of mine. He was a part of 3/8 (Third battalion, Eighth marine regiment, pronounced Three Eight) and they were deploying to Ramadi. He said the platoon sergeant had requested 2 Corpsmen for the deployment, and that the battalion wanted to support this decision, but had already assigned their other stellar performers to other sections. He asked if I wanted to go to Ramadi with 3/8 Scout Sniper Platoon.
I hung up the phone and talked to Jessica. The next day I started the paperwork and within 2 months had all the signatures I needed to move back to Camp Lejeune.
Right after Christmas 2005 I slid into the platoon.
I’ve been baking ever since.
Thanks Sweetie for recognizing what it meant to marry a man like me, embracing the difficulties and making the sacrifices required of you, and for not ever complaining about duty days and deployments.