Carricia Simpson
My heart grew heavy this morning as I began thinking about the soldiers who have been sent home … never again to fight, protect, or defend our great nation.
Trying to process our loss, my mind turned to the quiet weight carried by every family member connected to armed services.
There is a weight because we carry the labor of love each time they step into harm’s way for people they may never meet.
It is a weight wrapped in prayer, covered by faith, and held together by the grace of God.
For the Word declares, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
While I may not know their names, their spirits speak , telling the story of who they were, what they carried, and the sacrifice they made.
Their lives testify in a way that only Heaven can fully record.
And as I sat with that truth, my heart began to reminisce on our own service journey.
I remember Fort Sill, Lawton, Oklahoma.
I remember that I was sitting on the bed for morning devotion. At that time, I was carrying our fourth military-connected child when the Twin Towers fell.
I remember hearing the telephone ring. My best friend, whose family was stationed at Fort Sill, called me to tell me to turn on the news on the television. Seeing the towers burning, the screaming, the crying, and the praying of countless citizens who were watching the devastation in disbelief.
I remember how security measures changed immediately across the installation.
I remember when my service‑connected loved one willingly deployed to Afghanistan to fight for freedom that is not free.
I remember the children forgetting what he looked like because he had been gone so long.
I remember when the children and I were scheduled for our Skype visit at the unit, back when Skyping was not a common practice. The U.S. Army provided that invaluable resources for military‑connected families, giving us a window of hope in the middle of a long deployment.
And I remember the moment that stood still.
All four of our children rushed toward the screen to touch their father’s face.
That was the moment I knew it was going to be challenging to keep the promise I made to myself, the promise that I would not cry in front of him or the children.
I have always believed a soldier cannot be fully effective when they are worried about what is happening back home. My duty back home was to be strong for my family. But watching our children reach for their father, believing they could touch him through that screen, overwhelmed me with sorrow and joy at the same time.
I held myself together in that moment because their little hearts needed strength, but my own heart was quietly breaking beneath the surface.
I kept my tears bottled up until the children and I were safely back at home.
After the doors were locked, after dinner was eaten, after the children were playing before bedtime … I slipped away.
I retreated to our bedroom, closed the door, and finally let myself break.
I needed that moment, the release that comes when you’ve been holding everything together out of love for your husband and out of duty to your family.
A good cry has a way of easing the mind, the soul, and the spirit.
For the Word says, “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.”
And tonight, as I think about the six soldiers laid to rest, I pray.
I pray for the mothers and fathers who will forever have a missing child.
I pray for the spouses who now sleep on one side of the bed.
I pray for the children whose memories will be shaped by stories and photographs.
I pray for peace that passes all understanding.
I pray that God heals their hearts, steadies their spirits, and carries them through the valley.
Lord, comfort them on every side. Hold them in Your everlasting arms.
May another military‑connected parent, spouse, child, or friend never have to remember what no heart should ever endure.
Carricia Simpson is a Richmond County native now living at Fort Bragg.
