Written by Staff Member Brittany March

On our April 30th pack day our Care Package Project coordinator asked me to help a Marine mom who wanted to pack a care package for her son, who was deploying that very morning from Hawaii. It was his first deployment, confirmed by the pained expression on his mother’s face. I told her she could pack the box with whatever content she found on our packing lines and offered to hold the box for her while she perused the items and placed them inside. She politely but firmly declined my offer, and I worried later that my offer had been somewhat insensitive, though that wasn’t my intent.

I wanted to guide her through the process of assembling her own care package, but I quickly realized that I was not needed. This was a one-woman job, an important moment to be shared with no one. The half hour she spent with that box was like a therapy session for her. It was an opportunity to feel connected to her son. She was putting a piece of herself in that box, even though half of her was already gone to Hawaii, waiting to be deployed.

After I left the Marine mom to her therapeutic solitude, I glanced over at her every now and then. I watched her grip that box as though it was her son inside, instead of the packages of Girl Scout Cookies and other edibles the box actually contained. Under no circumstances was she going to let anything come between her and that box. She slowly walked up and down the packing lines, careful not to overlook an item her son would enjoy. The pained expression she wore morphed into a look of desperation as she searched for small items that would fill the box to the brim. She wanted, needed the care package to be perfect. It was as if she thought the package would be the last gift she’d ever give him.

After she had put the final loving touches into the package, she grasped it even more tightly as she walked it over to the postage table. She handed her pride and joy to a staff member as if she was handing over a newborn baby. Her eyes never strayed from it.

I stopped watching her when my attention was needed elsewhere, but my thoughts drifted back to her later as I recalled the look on her face that day. It was one that I cannot relate to, but it led me to a better understanding of the helplessness a military mom feels when her child goes off to war. There is nothing she can do to protect him now, as he battles bravely thousands of miles away. There is nothing she can say or do that will keep him out of harm’s way. So she does the only thing she can do. She sends all of her love tightly packaged in a military flat-rate box, hoping it will bring her son happiness. After all, it’s the only thing she’s ever wanted for him.