I Don’t Have Seven Arms To Hug Them All’

Jennie Taylor walks through the moonlit cemetery, past gray tombstones, faded bouquets and left-behind remembrances until she comes to her husband’s grave. Nearly a year has passed since Brent was killed in Afghanistan on his fourth combat deployment. She kneels in the damp grass and begins to cry. Tomorrow will be their 16th wedding anniversary, her first without him.

A single gunshot took the father of her seven children, the mayor of her hometown and a decorated major in the Utah Army National Guard. At times, she believes she’s overcome the worst of the pain. But then there are other times, like tonight, when her heart feels as if it has been wrenched from her chest.

The evening breeze blows strands of Jennie’s red hair onto her wet cheeks. She’s brought with her a collection of photographs: joyful moments from their wedding day; military promotion ceremonies; events with their smiling blond kids. She reminds herself those happy days weren’t that long ago. But she’s caught in a grim reality. “I’ve been waiting for things to return to normal, but in my heart I know that’s not going to happen,” Jennie says. “I can move on and have a beautiful future for the next 10 to 20 years, but this is still going to be part of my life. Brent is gone.”

In an instant, Jennie and her family joined tens of thousands of others who have lost a loved one in combat, an unseen society that no one wants to join or ever fully identify with. Who envisions themselves a widow at 39 years old? How can you accept that you’ll never again see the man you built your life with? And how do you tell seven children their dad is dead?

Facing those questions over the past 11 months has changed Jennie. Her adult life had been defined by Brent’s involvement in America’s forever wars, but she herself had been removed from it. Brent