It started like any ordinary morning drive. The sun was just breaking through the clouds, the road was quiet, and I was lost in my thoughts. Then I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

I pulled over, rolled down the window, and greeted the approaching officer with a smile.
“Good morning, Officer! Was I speeding?” I asked.

“Good morning!” he replied warmly. “Nope, you weren’t speeding. I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for your service.”

It caught me off guard. Then I remembered—I had a military bumper sticker on the back of my truck.
“Oh, I see the bumper sticker! Thanks, sir. It’s my pleasure!”

He nodded, then asked, “Where did you serve?”

“I was in Iraq,” I told him. “Fifteen months, deployed out of Ft. Benning.”

There was a pause. His tone shifted slightly as he said, “Got it. My son served in Iraq too… but he unfortunately didn’t make it back.”

My chest tightened. “I’m really sorry to hear that,” I said quietly. “I just completed a PTSD program.”

His eyes flicked to the folded flag visible in the back of my truck. “I noticed you have a flag in your truck—the same kind we received for him. It’s at my house.” He hesitated, then asked, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Would you mind stepping out for a hug? You remind me so much of my son. When I stopped you, I thought you were him. Some days, it’s still hard to believe he’s gone.”

The lump in my throat made it hard to speak, so I didn’t. I opened the door and stepped out.

We stood there on the side of the road, two strangers bound by a shared understanding that only those touched by war can truly feel. He wrapped his arms around me, and I hugged him back. Neither of us spoke for the next minute or two—we just cried.

It wasn’t the kind of hug you give casually. It was the kind you hold on to because you know, for both people, it means something deeper. It was grief meeting comfort, loss meeting survival.

When we finally stepped back, we both wiped our eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

“No,” I replied, “thank you.”

To all the families and friends of soldiers—whether they’re currently serving, have completed their service, or never made it home—God bless you. Your peace, your hearts, and your memories matter more than you know. I understand the weight of those empty chairs, the photos on the mantle, the stories that sometimes are too hard to tell.

This journey can be incredibly hard. But moments like this remind us we’re not walking it alone. Much love to all of you.