care package

The year was 1989. The setting – a small 4th floor dorm room off the quad on an idyllic New England college campus.

No surface was immune from the chaos that represented my life in that moment – a hopeless jumble of papers, assorted ashtrays gagging on charred cigarette butts, empty cans, bottles and half burnt incense cones.

I was completely overwhelmed. By my own hand, my prospects for staying in school were quickly unraveling. I had spent the preceding semester drinking in the extracurriculars of the college experience (often literally) while all but ignoring anything remotely related to academia.

By the time that finals rolled around in that first semester of my junior year, I was in a full fledged, self-induced panic. I was trying desperately to cram four months work into a matter of days, a vain attempt to salvage my flailing college career. 

My friend Paul sat on the edge of my bed surveying the damage and shaking his head. He never quite understood how it was that I got myself into these situations, but nonetheless, he always seemed to be there to help me pick up the pieces when I did. 

My dorm mates were all ensconced in their own rooms, emerging for meals or to blow off some steam before returning to their (more productive versions of) studying and paper writing. Once a day, the mail would arrive and someone would yell the good news throughout the hallways. A few lucky girls would go running off with care packages from home, friends excitedly trailing behind, eager to share the loot.

Paul opened my door as a girl breathlessly shouted my name from the hallway. He took the big brown box from her and handed it off to me. As we tore into my mom’s careful lettering, I wondered what we’d find inside. Oreo cookies? Peanut butter? Fluff? Three Musketeers bars? I could barely stand the anticipation.

Paul cocked his head as I pulled everything out. He looked confused as I removed the contents of the box and spread them on the floor around me. He didn’t ask why when I started to cry.

I had gained weight in college. Nothing overly dramatic, but at 5 foot nothing, the ‘freshman fifteen’ was pretty significant. Working at the local pub and subsisting on a diet of potstickers, hot wings and beer certainly didn’t help my cause. I had gotten rounder, softer. 

My mom was concerned about my weight. She mentioned it every time we got together and often asked how my diet was going, whether or not I had said that I was actually on one. Her maternal concern was perfectly natural and understandable, if not accepted particularly gracefully.

My mom had meant well. She had no doubt sent the package with a lot of love. I’m sure that when she picked out the rice cakes and the diet lemonade mix she did so with the best of intentions. She chose my favorite flavors and hunted down things she thought I’d enjoy.

And I was crushed.

Paul stayed with me for a while and then said that he had to take off. He said that he had a few things he needed to take care of and told me that he’d catch up with me later.

I did my best to focus on keeping myself in school. I attempted to devour Rousseau and make some sense of Hobbesian theory in a matter of hours. I finally nodded off somewhere in the middle of Plato’s Republic.

A couple of hours later, I stumbled out into the hallway. I nearly tripped over the new box that had been freshly deposited in front of my door. Resting on top of the box was a sheet of loose leaf paper, obviously torn from a notebook on my desk. The note read:

Dear Jessie,

This is what a care package is supposed to be.



The box was a veritable treasure trove of my favorite things (and guiltiest pleasures!). There was not a single thing in the box that was even remotely good for me.

Oreos (double stuff!), Slim Jims (extra spicy!), Diet Coke (in cans!). An elaborate assortment of the makings for the best Bloody Mary bar this side of the Mississippi – Absolut vodka, Clamato, spicy horseradish, crushed pepper, Tobasco, Worcestershire sauce, green olives stuffed with garlic, even fresh celery. 

That’s Paul.

He worked for every dime he ever had. That care package represented nearly a full night’s work at the bar where we slung drinks together four nights a week. 

All these years later, I still cherish my friendship with Paul, and now with his wonderful wife and two beautiful little girls. I think of him nearly every day.

I think of him on days like yesterday when I walk through DFW airport and see soldiers heading to or returning from war. I think of him when they are on line behind me at the airport Dunkin’ Donuts and I insist on buying their breakfast. I think of him when they look momentarily confused when they try to thank me and I well up and say that it’s the least I can do. 

I think of him when I stand for the national anthem or listen proudly to my girls reciting the pledge of allegiance. I think of him when I read about the political struggle to bring the soldiers home, when I hear about the ill-funded VA hospitals or when I hear the heart wrenching stories about children (like his) whose parents are oceans away. I think of him when I hear the tales of all of the heroes who live by their oaths to protect their fellow countrymen at any and all personal cost. 

I think of him with my heart in my mouth when I hear about helicopters going down in unforgiving lands halfway across the world. 

And of course I thought of him last week as Katie and I pieced together a care package to send to him in Afghanistan. As we scoured the shops for the best dark chocolate we could find (his favorite), I was right back on my dorm room floor all those years ago. As we headed to Starbuck’s for the coffee beans that he loves (his only request), I thought of the Oreos and the Bloody Mary bar. As Luau put together a library of DVD’s to help him while away the hours in the mountains (the only other thing he finally admitted to wanting) I thought back to the Slim Jims and how they made me smile at (what I thought was) such a tough moment in my life. 

And when Luau headed to Mailboxes Etc to send the package overseas, I thought of the selfless love and boundless generosity of my dear friend. Eight different kinds of dark chocolate, six pounds of coffee, ten DVD’s – we knew it wasn’t going to be cheap to package and send. It should have cost approximately $50 in supplies and postage. But this wasn’t a time to skimp.

The owner of the Mailboxes Etc franchise was at the counter when Luau arrived. They began to chat and he noticed that the box was being sent to an APO address. He asked where it was headed and Luau proudly told him about Paul – Blackhawk commander, soldier, patriot, friend.

The straight postage was $18. He charged us for nothing else. 

It’s contagious – generosity, selflessness, CARING. 

Dear Paul,

This is what a care package is supposed to be.



(P.S. A grateful nation thanks you and your precious family and prays for your safe return.)

23 thoughts on “care package

  1. i think when the focus switched to iraq, a lot of people forgot: afghanistan is still happening…and now it’s only more active for us. anyway, this paul sounds like an amazing dude…very authentic person.

    that jess person described in the post, she sounds pretty amazing too.

  2. Tears again. Prayers for all the people who have been in your shoes and for all their friends and family. We are a STRONG nation! We are STRONG people. God bless this country!

  3. Jess, I had to get up and walk away from my computer before writing my comment. This post is so moving. Thank you for writing it, and thank you for the reminder. We are all so blessed.

  4. I’ll reiterate what my wife just said….

    Rhemashope – it is the soldiers like Paul and your husband and their wives and children that let me do what I do. Thank you! I am deeply grateful.

  5. I am so sad that I won’t be able to meet you when the powerful forces gather at your home soon (Ok, that’s how I built it up in my mind. 😉 ). But I am so gald that Paul has a friend like you and that you aren’t afraid to share your heart and love with the world. We need more of you.

  6. Thanks for such a touching story. Thanks for appreciating our troops. My husband and I were just talking today at how amazed he is when people come up and thank him (he mentioned you and Matt, particularly) and buy him lunch or something. He feels grateful for the love and support – but also kind of undeserving. I’m sure Paul is the same way – they don’t see themselves as heroes even though that’s exactly what they are.

  7. rhemashope –

    “they don’t see themselves as heroes even though that’s exactly what they are.”

    truer words could not be spoken, my love .. but not just to paul and to your wonderful husband, but to YOU and to your girls . to paul’s wife, gretchen and to his beautiful babies.


    YOUR incredible strength, YOUR sacrifice – YOU make their work possible.

    you are no less a hero, and as indebted as we may be to your husbands, we are no less grateful to you.

    you are all in our hearts and our prayers. we are grateful beyond expression.

    words fail miserably.

  8. Jess,
    Now that my eyes are dry again I will say thank you for sharing your story. I always enjoy hearing about your college days together (with Paul). I am glad at least one of you can remember them! Paul will be touched by your appreciation; he will devour the chocolate, savor the coffee, definitely smile, and probably laugh thinking of all your wonderful memories. You, Luau and the girls are dear friends to all of us. Your words do not fail. You are eloquent and your message is heartfelt.
    Much Love,
    Gretchen, Sella, and Carly

  9. If you published that story in a book, I’d buy it. It has power. I compells. It inspires.
    I don’t know you and Paul, but I do.
    And I admire you both mightily. I want Paul to come home now. But I am grateful for his service.
    Thank you for writing. Thank you for blogging.

  10. Pingback: we would send band-aids « a diary of a mom

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