The Seattle Times: "Memories of a Stryker":

ROCHESTER, Thurston County — It's been a bit over six months since Cpl. Christopher J. Nelson was killed in Iraq by a suicide bomber.

Only a few hours later, Angela was met at her parents' home in Rochester by two soldiers in their dress uniforms, who had driven there from Fort Lewis in a black SUV.

They asked Angela to sit down. One of them then began with the words that have been uttered more than 4,000 times to American families of soldiers serving in the Middle East.

"The secretary of the Army regrets to inform you ... "

My father was a soldier...

and a combat veteran of two wars. I remember him everyday. Today I'd like to share a memory about a day in May, 1969. We lived in Schilling Manor, Kansas, a former SAC base converted into a post for the children and wives of senior enlisted men serving in the war. We were one of them, one of 800 families waiting for their men. Most waited a full year until a tear-filled greeting at the air strip. Some just waited until an olive-colored staff car pulled into their driveway to tell them by way of condolences from the Secretary of the Army that their wait was over. Seeing that car approach and hoping it turns down another street and towards another house...it does something to a ten-year old.

But my father came home. He skipped the formalities of an airstrip greeting and snuck home one morning to surprise us, just like in the movies, with a bag over his shoulder and leaning on a cane. My sister called Ward's Department Store were mom worked, leaving an urgent message that her mother should come home right away. Mom did, probably thinking the worst. When she walked through the door and saw dad sitting on the couch, she just fell to the floor. "Nobody move, nobody move," she screamed, as if by moving we would break some spell, until she gathered herself enough to fall into his arms. Then she did the only thing that made sense to her...she got up and cooked dinner, a big German dinner for the six of us. So we ate dinner at 11:00 that morning, not out of hunger but a will to become ourselves again.

Stuffed with food.  Relieved.  I fell asleep. And so did my father.

Not every child at Schilling got to do this.  This day is for them too.