Dear JOHN,

My name is Lisa Rose. I’m a lifelong educator, union member, and proud mother of Max Rose.

If you have a minute to spare, I’d like to share a story with you. 

It’s been 10 years since my boy Max was injured when his vehicle hit an IED in Afghanistan. But it seems like yesterday – the feelings of disbelief, indescribable fear, and then relief, because he was alive.

While Max was in Afghanistan, I NEVER allowed myself to imagine that there was a possibility he could be injured… or worse. And yet, I think I held my breath the entire time. I always kept my phone right next to me. I was always ready, in some odd way, for the call. And then it came. My husband picked up the phone. “Dad, my vehicle hit an IED and I was medevaced to the hospital in Kandahar. I have a concussion, and my knee is messed up.”

What? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It didn’t feel real. But it was. By the grace of God, Max was able to call us, so I had to believe he would be ok. He could talk. He had all of his limbs. He told us he’d call again as soon as he could. My husband and I stood there and hugged each other. Of course it wasn’t possible, but we wanted to get on a plane and go to him – to see for ourselves that he was ok. He stayed in the hospital for almost two weeks, had a battery of tests, and insisted that he wanted to get back to his platoon at the COP as soon as he could. And that’s what he did. As soon as the doctors cleared him, he went back to his unit. Somehow, I’d have to hold my breath again for another five months, until his tour would be over and he'd return to Fort Bliss in El Paso, Texas. I know that the families of our first responders feel that same fear for their loved one's safety every single day.

We parents, from the moment our children are born, are programmed to do anything we can to keep them safe. Funny how as much as we want to protect our kids when they are little, they grow up to be men and women and they want to protect us. It wasn’t until more than a year after Max came home, and I was able to have a conversation with his Afghan interpreter that I knew just how close a call it was. He described the explosion and told me how he cradled Max’s head in his arms – how much blood there was, how quickly he was rushed onto a stretcher and into the helicopter. If I had known all of that at the time he was injured, I don’t know what I would have done. Even writing about this now, I know that I am still processing what happened. And I know, in my bones, that Max must be too.