Taya Kyle Quotes

I think that that's so true for a lot of first responder families and military families. If you ask them, 'Is there anything I can do for you?', they almost always will not ask for that help.

The next morning, I went over to pick them up. I'd spent the night thinking of more things I should tell them--everything about Chris I thought they needed to know.
It was all too much.
"I don't know how to tell you everything," I confessed to Bradley as he got into the car. I started to cry. "There's so many things and we have such a short amount of time."
"Just being here is all we need," he said. "I'm not an impersonator. I'm just here to feel Chris's life--I feel him here with me right now."
Bradley put me at ease and I calmed down. Back at the house, he and Clint became almost like family. Little bits of their personality came out as well--and I saw a glimmer of Clint's famous Dirty Harry character later on in the day when I had to leave to go to Bubba's basketball game.
They'd talked about coming with me--which frankly would have created an impossible circus. But I did give them the option. As they stood trying to make up their minds, I snapped into anxious mom mode.
"All right," I told them both. "You're welcome to come. But if you're coming, we're leaving now."
I guess my tone was a little too strident.
"So you want to get tough with me, huh, lady?" said Clint in his best Dirty Harry voice as he raised his eyebrow.
It's amazing how threatening a simple facial tic can be.
I left them home to study some of Chris's replica guns and gear. Our own already had its ample share of lawmen.

One of the things that I've always felt missing from funerals and services is the voice of the man or woman who was the deceased's partner in life. I've always wanted to hear from the person who'd loved them more than anyone. Biblically, the two become one flesh--the spouse is their other half. It has always seemed to me that his or her voice was critical to truly understanding who the deceased was in life.
I also felt that American Sniper had told only part of Chris's story--an angry part in much of it. There was so much more to him that I wanted the world to know.
People said Chris was blessed that I hung in there during his service to our country; in fact, I was the one who was blessed. I wanted everyone to hear me say that.
Beforehand, a friend suggested I have a backup in case I couldn't finish reading my speech--a "highway option," as Chris used to call it: the way out if things didn't go as planned.
I refused.
I didn't want a way out. It wasn't supposed to be easy. Knowing that I had to go through with it, that I had to finish--that was my motivator. That was my guarantee that I would finish, that I would keep moving into the future, as painful as it surely would be.

When you think you cannot do something, think again. Chris always said, "The body will do whatever the mind tells it to." I am counting on that now.
I stand before you a broken woman, but I am now and always will be the wife of a man who is a warrior both on the ba

Sometime after Chris died, one of his friends said something offhanded about us having to leave our house. I was shocked, and demanded to know why.
"Because a ghost lives there," he said.
He was speaking metaphorically about all of our memories. But that was exactly why I did not want to leave. I still felt Chris very strongly there, and I didn't want to lose that.
By the fall of 2014, I realized that I feel Chris strongly everywhere I go. He's so much a part of me that I can't lose him. Physical places may suggest memories, but that's all they do: suggest. The experiences are already deeply embedded in my brain and soul.

maybe we need great disappointment to appreciate the good, and to better appreciate the meaning of God in our lives. I've come to realize that part of faith is opening yourself up to free will and knowing God will bring beauty, even in the midst of evil.

I have been afraid of guns, I have sworn I would never use a gun on another person and so did not need one, and I have wanted to deny the existence of evil.

I have been touched by extreme violence, and I have been robbed of the life I always wanted by someone who chose to do evil.

The body is the one thing you have to say goodbye to. You can hold on to your memories. You can hold on to the spirit. That's part of the package that you love and the part that comforts you.

Around Christmas 2003, we visited Chris's parents in Texas. I found myself exceptionally hungry, though I couldn't figure out why. When we came back to California, I just felt something was off.
Could I be…pregnant?
Nah.
I bought a pregnancy test just in case. Chris and I had always planned to have children, but we weren't in a rush about it. In fact, we had only recently decided to be "a little less careful." It was a compromise between our spontaneous impulses and our careful planning instincts, which we both shared. We figured, if it happens somewhere in the next year…
I was upstairs in the house working when I decided to take a break and check things out.
Wow.
WOW!!!
Chris happened to be home fiddling with something in the garage. I ran downstairs, holding the stick in my hand. When I got there, I held it up, waving.
"Hey, babe," he said, looking at me as if I were waving a sword.
"Come here," I said. "I have to show you something."
He came over. I showed him the stick.
"Okay?"
"Look!"
"What is it?"
"Look at this!"
Obviously, he wasn't familiar with home pregnancy tests. Maybe that's a guy thing-given that the tests reveal either your worst nightmare or one of the most exciting events of your life. I'd wager every woman in America knows what they are and how they work.
Slowly it dawned on him.
"Oh my God," he said, stunned. "Are you…?"
"Yes!"
We confirmed it at the doctor's soo

I think when you suffer a tremendous loss, everybody needs love and support in tangible ways. And that's what people have done for us.

Back home, Chris struggled to readjust, physically and mentally. He also faced another decision-reenlist, or leave the Navy and start a new life in the civilian world.
This time, he seemed to be leaning toward getting out-he'd been discussing other jobs and had already talked to people about what he might do next.
It was his decision, one way or another. But if I'd been resigned to his reenlistment last go-around, this time I was far more determined to let him know I thought he should get out.
There were two important reasons for him to leave-our children. They really needed to have him around as they grew. And I made that a big part of my argument.
But the most urgent reason was Chris himself. I saw what the war was doing to him physically. His body was breaking down with multiple injuries, big and small. There were rings under his eyes even when he had slept. His blood pressure was through the roof. He had to wall himself off more and more.
I didn't think he could survive another deployment.
"I'll support you whatever you decide," I told him. "I want to be married to you. But the only way I can keep making sense of this is…I need to do the best for the kids and me. If you have to keep doing what is best for you and those you serve, at some point I owe it to myself and those I serve to do the same. For me, that is moving to Oregon."
For me, that meant moving from San Diego to Oregon, where we could live near my folks. That would give our so

What I've noticed is not only in the military, but in the first responders community, that when you reach out your hand to help one of them, they almost always grab your hand with only one of theirs, because they're using their other hand to reach behind them and pull up somebody else with them.

The kid's emotional growth won't suffer if they don't have the most frightening zombie costume in their class? No? Really?
Can I get that in writing?

I was visiting Marcus and his wife when a friend asked if she could talk to me alone. Teresa was the spouse of a Team member who'd served with Chris. We hadn't spent a lot of time together, but we'd always had a connection.
"I have something I want to give you," she said. "I don't know if it's going to seem corny to you or what, but I kind of want to do it for me."
She pressed a medal into my hand. I looked at it--it was the medal she'd received for completing the Boston Marathon.
"You and Chris kept me going," she explained. "It was almost eerie how, when my legs were tired and I wanted to quit, Randy Travis's song came on the iPod. It was the one he played at the memorial. My iPod was on random shuffle but it was always at just the right moment. I would hear that song and it would spur me on."
Maybe Chris was somehow behind that. People have told me of other inspirational incidents; each one, from simple to grand, has touched me with its beauty.

Not long after Chris died, a national magazine published a story comparing his life with that of the man accused of killing him. There are some parallels; they both grew up in Texas. But the article skimped on the differences. Look at the decisions they made, look at what they did with their lives, look at the responsibilities they took on--or shirked.
Chris saw a great deal of combat. He never made excuses for his behavior. He didn't always do the right thing, but he tried to do the right thing by others. Chris got the good grace, as Abel did, not by his birthright, but by his effort.
As I sat listening to the prosecutor, I thought his parallel extended through Chris's life--not solely to the man who shot him, but to the haters, to the people who ended up in legal disputes with him or his estate, for whatever reason. They all wanted something he had.
Not money, but authenticity. Real achievements. Soul.
Grace.
And of course that's the one thing you can't take from someone else, even if you steal his life.
Chris became famous without wanting to. Opportunities that others had to fight and claw for seemed to fall in his lap. But most of all, people just liked him for being who he was, with seemingly no effort on his part at all.
Of course, there was effort, and there was great struggle. He had to persevere--The Navy didn't want him at all when he first tried to enlist. But people don't see that part. They don't see the long days at BUD/S, or

They laid him on my chest.
This is what it's all about, I thought. This is so perfect.
I memorized everything I could about my little boy, to make sure that I knew who he was-no one was going to accidentally switch my kid on me. In fact, I demanded that they keep him in my room with me throughout the entire stay.
Our families came in and took turns holding him. He was an instant celebrity. A little later, the nurse came in with a diaper. Chris took Bubba and laid him on the table nearby.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Changing his diaper."
"Really? How do you know how to do that?"
"I just do."
He did. It was Chris-taking care of things without a fuss, even if it meant dealing with poop.

Somehow, the strife made our marriage better. We got back to holding hands and making out on the couch, touching each other during the day, and cuddling in bed.
We'd been distracted by everything, and now we returned to what was important. We laughed; we had fun. I felt again like we were made for each other.
There is a point for everyone, I think, where physical attraction is everything, and it can lead to love. A person looks beautiful to you, and therefore you love them. Beyond that, as you grow with them, as your love deepens, your perception of beauty starts to deepen. At that point, what you love becomes beautiful-or rather, you are better equipped to recognize the inherent beauty.
We were there. Chris would gaze at me in the mirror from the bedroom as I was getting ready for bed, and his eyes would be filled with love. I would lie next to him on the bed and just feel loved, secure in the knowledge that the most amazing man in the world had me in his arms.
And yet, there was a little part of me, a nagging part, that told me I didn't deserve all this happiness. I remember calling a girlfriend around this time and raving about how our marriage seemed to have gone to a new level: Amazing.
Then I added, "But I feel like something bad is going to happen to one of us. Because it's just too perfect.

Knowing Chris was getting married, his fellow Team members decided that they had to send him off with a proper SEAL bachelor party. That meant getting him drunk, of course. It also meant writing all over him with permanent markers-an indelible celebration, to be sure.
Fortunately, they liked him, so his face wasn't marked up-not by them, at least; he'd torn his eyebrow and scratched his lip during training. Under his clothes, he looked quite the sight. And the words wouldn't come off no matter how he, or I scrubbed.
I pretended to be horrified, but honestly, that didn't bother me much. I was just happy to have him with me, and very excited to be spending the rest of my life with the man I loved.
It's funny, the things you get obsessed about. Days before the wedding, I spent forty-five minutes picking out exactly the right shape of lipstick, splurging on expensive cosmetics-then forgot to take it with me the morning of the wedding. My poor sister and mom had to run to Walgreens for a substitute; they came back with five different shades, not one of which matched the one I'd picked out.
Did it matter? Not at all, although I still remember the vivid marks the lipstick made when I kissed him on the cheek-marking my man.
Lipstick, location, time of day-none of that mattered in the end. What did matter were our families and friends, who came in for the ceremony. Chris liked my parents, and vice versa. I truly loved his mom and dad.
I have a photo from

We wrote our own vows; I take them to heart even today:

I give you my heart, soul, and everlasting love.
I promise to be there during both laughter and tears and to protect you in the days to come.
I will be faithful and truthful, whether near or far, and will never give you cause for doubt.
I will embrace your happiness and hold you when you are sad.
I will be your biggest supporter and your constant friend.
I will remind you of who you are when you forget.
I will consider your happiness with every action.
I will celebrate your soul and work to enrich your life as you enrich mine.
Most of all, I will love you and show my love all the days of my life.

Instead of traditional wedding music, we chose Enya's version of "How Can I Keep from Singing." The words of the song talk of a hymn that can always be heard, no matter how dark the night or how difficult the day. The song speaks of faith and endurance, and through it all, music. It seemed to perfectly capture our love and commitment to each other. The words and tune-hypnotic and soaring-would come to me at various parts of my life. I gave birth to it. I hear it in my head today.

But what should he wear?
I thought about having him laid to rest in his uniform. But the truth is he hated wearing it. He really needed to be dressed in something he was comfortable in.
And that wasn't going to be in a suit, either: he hated being in a jacket and tie even more than in a uniform.
Tie? Ha!
I got a pair of his best pressed jeans. They had a nice crease in the pants leg, just like he liked. I found one of his plaid button-down shirts, another favorite.
Kryptek, which produces tactical gear and apparel and was one of Chris's favorite companies, had presented him with a big silver belt buckle that he loved. It was very cowboy, and in that way very much who Chris was.
"You think I can pull this off?" he'd asked, showing me how it looked right after he got it.
"Hell, yeah," I told him.
I made sure that was with him as well.
But if there was any item of clothing that really touched deep into Chris's soul, it was his cowboy boots. They were a reminder of who he was when he was young, and they were part of who he'd been since getting out of the military.
He had a really nice pair of new boots that had been custom made. He hadn't had a chance to wear them much, and I couldn't decide whether to bury him in those or another pair that were well worn and very comfortable.
I asked the funeral director for his opinion.
"We usually don't do shoes," he said. It can be very difficult to get them onto the body. "But if i

You're Chris Kyle?" said the man.
"Uh, yeah?" answered Chris.
The man handed Chris a piece of paper. "You've been served," he intoned in an overly dramatic voice.
Jesse Ventura had decided to sue Chris, claiming he had been defamed by his statements. According to Jesse, the incident never happened.
One of the unique aspects of the lawsuit was that it charged Chris with "unjust enrichment." In layman's terms, as I understood it, this meant that Jesse claimed people bought the book because he talked about decking him.
So all that information about Chris's childhood, his days as a cowboy, his time in Iraq, his medals, the people he saved, the people he couldn't save, his difficulty transitioning home, all the things I said in the book about raising the kids, how hard it was to get on without him…all of those things weren't the reason people bought the book? They were interested in the four hundred or so words tucked toward the back about a fight that didn't even name the principal-details that anyone could find for free on the Internet?
Awesome.
Chris wasn't worried about the lawsuit. He believed what he said and had witnesses who remembered the incident as he did.
It was an issue that would smolder for more than two years, and cause a great deal of pain.

We took the kids to see Chris's body the next day.
He'd been cleaned up a lot. Leanne had suggested that we have a photo book with pictures of Chris; it was a brilliant idea, a way of putting their good-byes in a better, if not exactly happy, context.
Before going in, I told them they were going to see their father's body without his soul. Their dad was now in heaven; all they were going to see was the body God had loaned him for this world.
How much comfort that was, I don't know.
Bubba stood near him for a bit, then decided he was done. At some point he told me he didn't like to cry. "It hurts too much when I cry." Instead, he would run hard, play hard. The thing about grief is, we all do it in our own way, in our own time, kids included.
He went out with V and they sat together on a couch, looking at the book. Within a few moments I heard V's deep voice boom; laughter echoed in the hall. Bubba was telling him stories about his father, reminding him and all of us who Chris really was.
Angel and I stayed with Chris.
"Can I touch his hand?" she asked.
"Yes."
There was a flower in the room. She put it on him.

We all suffer. It's part of life. The blessing is - while evil exists, Divinity does, too, and it is stronger.

I think that sometimes you can be an example of what to do and what not to do, and I think most of the time I'm an example of what not to do.

In fact, I didn't know how much Chris had done in Fallujah until he came home. We were at a car wash place one day when someone overheard his name called and went up to him.
"Are you Chris Kyle?" asked the man. His haircut and build made it clear he was military.
"Yes."
"I was in Fallujah," said the young man, who turned out to be a Marine. "You saved my life."
"Y'all saved my ass plenty of times, too," said Chris, referring to Marines.
Others came over, including the father of one of the Marines. He had tears in his eyes when he shook Chris's hand.
"Your husband saved my son's life," he said to me. "Thank you."
What an incredibly small world it is, I thought. For all of these people to have been together so far away, and now just meet by chance in the oddest place.
Or was it part of a cosmic plan? A way of showing Chris that he was appreciated?
I felt proud of him, but I also felt sadness--I imagined being the parent of one of these young men, worried about their welfare and yet unable to do anything to protect them. It was an impotence with few parallels.
Chris just took it all in stride, smiling and waving as he left to get the car.

I didn't want a fancy engagement ring or a gaudy wedding band; for me, a plain wedding ring was a perfect symbol. I like simple, especially in a wedding ring: it reminds you that love is about love, nothing else--not money, not appearances, not showing off. But it seemed almost impossible to convince anyone of that. Including Chris.
He kept asking me what I wanted, and wouldn't take "simple" for an answer. Then my mother got into the act. My grandmother had left her a diamond from a ring that she had had. Mom suggested that I use it as the centerpiece of an engagement ring.
I told her thanks, but no thanks.
"I don't care whether you wear it as an engagement ring or a belly button ring," she insisted after we went around a bit. "But I'm sending it."
She did. It was lovely. Chris and I ended up taking it to a local jewelry store. We found a wonderful setting we both loved and had the jeweler set the diamond in it. We got our wedding rings the same day, adding an engraving on the inside.
"All of me," Chris wrote on mine.
"My love, my life," I said on his.

May 5, 2006

I also hope you are being able to keep yourself a little bit happier. If you need to resent me to be able to make it through, I understand. I know you love me, and support me in whatever I do. I don't have to hear it all the time, or call home to hear just good things. If you need to unload on me when I call, then do it. Whatever it takes to make you feel better.

When the dark days come, many wonderful moments, those will all seem dead and empty to you. It will take practice and even hard work to find the joy sometimes.

From: "Chris Kyle"
Date: December 25, 2010 at 12:55:57 AM EST

I appreciate your upbringing and your respect. My dad would have kicked my ass if I didn't call everyone sir or Mr. until they notified me otherwise. So I am telling you, my name is Chris. Please no more sir bullshit.
I went to college right out of high school, but did not finish. Sometimes I regret that. Now that I am out, I could really use the degree. Even if you think you will retire from the service, like I did, there is life after the military. I joined at 24 years old. I had some mental maturity over my teammates due to joining later. I also got to enjoy my youth. One thing about being a SEAL, you age fast. I was only in for eleven years, but I spent over half that time in a combat zone. Unlike other combat units, SEALs in a combat zone are operating. That means getting shot at on a daily basis. I had a baby face when I joined, and within two years, I looked as if I had aged 10 years. I am not in any way talking you out of joining. I loved my time, and if I hadn't gotten married and had two kids, I would still be in. Unforeseen events will come at you in life. Your plants today will not be the same in four years. I am just trying to prep you for what is to come. I sit in an office or train other people on a range all day, every day. I would much rather be in Afghanistan being shot at again. I love the job and still miss it today. There is no better friendship than what the teams will off

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You like to be independent, but you will need to learn to ask for help. It doesn't make you weak.

He could also be terrible romantic and thoughtful. My job was a real challenge. The work was difficult and the boss demanding: he thought nothing of calling or emailing at odd hours, even on the weekend; you ignored him at your peril.
There was a point at which everything got to me. And it was exactly at that moment that Chris stepped in and planned a weekend getaway. He found a little cabin out in the woods where there was no cell phone reception-yes!-and without telling anyone, we made our getaway.
Almost. I actually called the boss and told him my cell reception was giving out, and so I wouldn't be able to check messages, something he expected even on the weekends.
As soon as we got to the cabin, I headed to the bedroom. Inside, I opened my suitcase and changed into sexy white Victoria's Secret-style lingerie, complete with corset and thigh-highs. Feeling a little shy and silly, I walked out and leaned against the doorway of the living room where he was sitting.
"Hey!"
"Yeah?" he mumbled from the couch, not bothering to look up from the magazine he was reading.
"Turn around," I said.
He turned around-slowly at first. But as soon as he caught sight of me in that lingerie, he hopped clear over the couch and chased me down the hall to the bedroom. I squealed and giggled the whole way.

I think I've been inspired by Chris and his ability to be raw and genuine and admit flaws and let it be whatever it is. That's something I'm trying to do, too, is just be real ... That way ends up being very healing with people.

But before I knew it, I was drunk on Chris's good looks and easy personality.
That and the Scotch I was drinking.
It is unfortunately true that I emptied the contents of my stomach on the way to the car. He sweetly held my hair back to keep it from getting soaked as I did. When a relationship starts like that, it can only get better.

When you're trained for battle, the idea is that it will be man against man.

He had only three days off, which meant our honeymoon was only two days. We went to Lake Tahoe, and one of the highlights was a snowmobile tour in the mountains. In theory, we had to ride our separate vehicles very placidly, with no horsing around. But Chris-or maybe it was me-discovered that by maneuvering carefully, it was possible to splash up a lot of snow, and as we went up to the top we managed to cover each other with snow. It was the sort of simple joy you vow to repeat as often as you can, even as you realize the moment will be impossible to duplicate.
They were a great two days, though I wished there were more.


I happened to be reading a book around that time that theorized that humans live through many lives. I asked Chris what he thought about the concept. Did he think he had many past lives?
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "That's not in the Bible."
"No, it's not."
"I guess anything's possible," he told me after a little thought. "I don't think we have all the answers. But I do know this: if we get more than one life, I can't wait to spend the rest of them with you.

He called back with an incredible report: there were people lined up around the store already.
Wow, I thought.
Wow!
Wow didn't begin to cover it. People lined up on two floors of the store to talk to Chris and get their books signed, hours before he was even scheduled to arrive. Chris was overwhelmed when he got there, and so was I. The week before, he'd been just another guy walking down the street. Now, all of a sudden he was famous.
Except he was still the same Chris Kyle, humble and a bit abashed, ready to shake hands and pose for a picture, and always, at heart, a good ol' boy.
"I'm so nervous," confided one of the people on the line as he approached Chris. "I've been waiting for three hours just to see you."
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Chris. "Waitin' all that time and come to find out there's just another redneck up here."
The man laughed, and so did Chris. It was something he'd repeat, in different variations, countless times that night and over the coming weeks.
We stayed for three or four hours that first night, far beyond what had been advertised, with Chris signing each book, shaking each hand, and genuinely grateful for each person who came. For their part, they were anxious not just to meet him but to thank him for his service to our country-and by extension, the service of every military member whom they couldn't personally thank. From the moment the book was published, Chris became the son, the brother, the nephew, the cousin,

I'm extremely grateful to all the first responders, veterans and their families for all their sacrifices.

There was a lot of stress on both of us, and one night we had a fight over some detail about the house. The cause is lost to me, but I know I got really mad-mad enough to knock my papers off the kitchen table, and then take a bowl of macaroni and cheese and fling it against the wall.
That's very mad, especially for me.
I also remember the solution. Sitting alone after Chris went to bed, I called a girlfriend and poured out my heart. I knew that I had gone too far, but I didn't know how to fix it.
"You love him, right?" she asked finally.
"Yes."
"Then go in there, wake him up, and give him some hot sex."
So I did. We didn't talk, but we sure did make love.
Chris seemed apprehensive when he left the next morning. I later found out that he couldn't quite figure out why his mad fiancée would come to him for hot sex and no talk. He was afraid he would come home and I would be gone.
He didn't mention it, though, because he didn't want to risk a talk when maybe I was over it. If he was wrong and I was gone, he would find me and fix it. Avoiding a "talk" was worth the risk of damage control later. He was his usual confident self, taking life as it came and handling the consequences IF they came.
On my side, I would have panicked if I thought he was going to leave me.

The minutes slid away. Finally, it was time for the formal ceremony. They needed to close the casket and take Chris out to the field.
It was my last chance to be with him, face-to-face.
Whatever we believe about spirits surviving, I thought, however strongly I still feel Chris beside me, whatever happens in heaven, this will be always my final chance to look at him as I know him now.
I went over to the casket. I touched his face and stroked his hair.
"This is it, babe," I whispered.
My knees weakened.
Don't do this! You're going to cause a scene.
I want to feel this. How do I do this?
I stood back, empty. I wanted to impress it all in my brain, this one moment and our lifetime together. I wanted it preserved. But the emotion was so overwhelming it threatened to obliterate me.
I started talking to Chris in my head.
Look at this, babe. Cowboys Stadium!
All these people! Isn't this great?
Can you believe this? Who would have thought?
The one-sided conversation, such as it was, pulled me together. I took a deep breath, and gave him a kiss on his head, then turned away.
I stopped after a few steps, glancing back.
Walk! Just walk!
If you don't walk now, you never will.
Walk!
I turned and walked away, this time for good, never to see my husband's face again in this lifetime.

For quite a while, it didn't feel right. How could I feel joy when I lost the love of my life? I'm learning that those two things can co-exist. It will never be the same joy, but it doesn't mean there won't be joy.

As we were wrapping up the book, I sat down and thought about all the lessons I'd learned over the past two years. I couldn't list them all, but here are a few:

Never complain about the price of a gift from your spouse--accept it with love and gratitude. You can't put a price on romance.

Take lots of videos, even of the mundane. You will forget the sound of your children's voices and you will miss your youth as much as theirs.

Celebrate every wedding anniversary.

Make time for dates. Hug your spouse every single morning. And always, ALWAYS, say "I love you."

Believe in your partner.

When you hit hard times as a couple, take a weekend away or at least a night out. The times that you least feel like doing it are likely the times that you need it the most.

Write love notes to your spouse, your children, and keep the ones they give you.

Don't expect a miniature pig to be an "easy" pet.

Live life looking forward with a goal of no regrets, so you can look back without them.

Be the friend you will need some day.

Often the most important thing you can do for another person is just showing up.

Question less and listen more.

Don't get too tied up in your plans for the future. No one really knows their future anyway.

Laugh at yourself, and with life.

People don't change their core character.

Be humble, genuine, a

I don't expect you to know what the future is going to bring," I told him. "And I'm not asking for a commitment right now. But I do want to know if it's possible for us to be something long term. If it's not a possibility, I'm not interested in doing this."
Chris didn't answer right away, but when he did, his answer was perfect.
"I love you," he said. "And I don't want to spend a day of my life without you."
Whoa!
Whoa?
Instead of feeling happy and confident, I suddenly felt something like fear.
In my mind, what he was saying was that he wanted to marry me.
Was I ready for that?
No.
But I loved that I heard that he wanted to marry me and was so confident and open about it.
I quickly warmed up to the idea. But as the days and then weeks went by, I began to wonder. Did his answer really mean he wanted to get married? We didn't talk about it, and our relationship didn't change in any meaningful way.
So, were we headed toward marriage, or not?
Then came 9/11. The tragic attack, and the implications that going to war would have for Chris, pushed me to think harder about my future-our future.
One day I called him and said, "I just had this crazy idea-let's get married."
I thought he'd say, Hell yeah! Let's do it!
His actual reaction: "What?"
As in, What the heck are you talking about?
What!?!
"Oh, it's just an idea," I said, quickly retreating. "I'm kind of kidding. We can talk about it later

The service beautifully reflected Chad's life, with memories and poems recalling his vitality and thoughtfulness. He was a kind, quiet man without airs or pretensions, and his service honored those beautiful qualities.
It happened that I was with Chad's parents when they saw him laid out for the first time. His father grabbed him by the shoulder and said, "You go rest high on the mountain, son. Rest high on the mountain."
I'm still moved to tears by that memory. His dad said it with conviction and pain, affirming both faith, and ultimately, life.

My world had stopped, but the outside one kept going. On Saturday, one week after the murder, Bubba had a basketball game. He wanted to go. I wanted him to go, too.
And if he went, I was going, too. Even though I hadn't been out of the house except to go to the funeral home.
A friend picked Bubba up early so he could get there for the pregame warm-up. When it came time to leave to watch the game, I decided to run rather than drive. It was five minutes by car, and I thought it wouldn't take long to trot over.
I was wrong about that.
Four or five of the men at the house accompanied me, including my brother-in-law Jeff, who had just gone through an operation and was still recovering. I'm sure his rehab plan didn't include running alongside a half-crazy woman, but he did anyway, without a complaint or even a "Hey, slow down."
We got to the church gym just in time for the game. I felt such pure joy watching Bubba play. It was one of the very few times that whole month that I was able to completely forget my grief and feel fully myself. They were fleeting moments, but they loom large now in my memory, little islands of relief in a sea of dread.
We all walked home. The men tossed a ball back and forth with Bubba. They couldn't replace Chris, but they provided an enormous, unstated reassurance to Bubba that he would never be alone.

The doctors had hit an artery, which is not standard procedure. They worked quickly to deal with it-to this day I have no idea what actually happened, but whatever they did worked, because our beautiful Angel was born soon after.
Chris was the first person to hold her. They word beaming was invented to describe the proud expression on his face.
I went into the recovery room and slept for a while. When I woke up, Chris was holding Angel. He looked so natural with her-a big six-footer holding a six-pound bundle in the crook of his arm, already bonded to her.
"Do you want to hold her?" he asked.
I was exhausted, and I knew she was safe with him, so I told him no.
He forced himself to smile. He explained later that he thought my response meant I was rejecting the baby-having worked on a ranch, I guess he had seen animals do that, with dire results for their new offspring. But of course I wasn't; they just looked perfect together, and I was barely conscious.
I asked for her a few minutes later, when I felt stronger. He passed her on gently, and I held her for the first time. There is no way really to describe how that feels.
In many ways, the birth was a miracle, not a disaster. Because of Angel's dilemma, her father was able to be there at her birth-something that wouldn't have happened had that ultrasound been routine, since I would have waited another four or five weeks for her. A potential tragedy had been turned into something beautiful. It

Driving my daughter to a friend's house one evening, she asked me about God.
"Why doesn't God stop bad things from happening?"
I glanced back at her in the seat. Her eyes were big, her expression pensive.
"I'm sure he could, but that would break his promise to us," I said, working the answer out. "Because he promised to give us free will, and that means that we are free to do bad things as well as good."
"But other people?"
"Other people, too. All people have free will." I worked to explain it, not just to her but to myself. "God promised not to leave us alone," I said, coming back to an idea that has often comforted me. "It doesn't mean we'll always be happy. But He will always support us."
Angel was thinking about her father and his death. I wondered if she was going to cry.
"It's okay to cry," I told her.
"I'm not going to cry," she said. "I have a lot of questions about God. But I can't think about them now."
"You can always ask."
"I know."
"Are you angry with God?"
"No. He didn't do this to us."
"It's okay to be mad at God," I admitted finally--to myself. "He can handle it.

When they were first casting for my part in the movie, the producers asked if I had any suggestions.
"I'll tell you what I don't want," I said. "I don't want someone in their early twenties who's never had any heartbreak or gone through anything difficult."
I heard later that Clint thought he'd have a hard time casting me. I hope that was because I'm such a complex but soulful person, though you never know.
When he settled on Sienna Miller, he hit it on the head. The first time I talked to her, it felt like I was speaking to an old girlfriend. She got everything. Whether I explained how it felt the first time Chris kissed me, or how it felt when he held me, she completely understood. She's a woman with deep empathy as well as a great actor.
My part--her part--in the movie isn't very big, but it's important, and I felt it was in good hands. She knows what it's like to be a mom, and she knows how it feels to worry about someone and to live through situations you can't control.
Still, I remained nervous: What if, despite all their efforts, they didn't manage to convey what Chris was all about? The director, the actors, they were all at the top of their field, but that was no guarantee that they could pull it off.

That was essential to my journey: the ability to love children while simultaneously having your heart broken.

Before going on set in California, the producers had Chris fill out a form that, among other things, listed some of his special qualifications. His answer: Shooting, shit talking, and beer drinking.

With a warm drink, in a rocking chair and family and friends around, I am working on finding peace and joy in the moments we have been given. It doesn't have to all make sense. I don't have all the answers.

Our main goal is to honor God and to honor this country by honoring and serving those families who serve.

In the immediate aftermath of Chris's death, Bubba dealt with his grief by playing. He played all the time, with anyone and everyone who came to the house. It was his way of staying busy and not focusing on sadness.
Angel, younger, was a little more direct, though quieter. She often looked toward her brother as her spokesman and maybe test case: his emotions guided hers. She expressed her connection with her dad directly, mentioning that she often felt him still close to her. I came to take that as a comfort and reassurance: Chris walked with us still.

In the year after Chris died, a friend organized a trip for the kids and me to use the time-share at Disney World in Florida. I felt exceptionally lonely the night we arrived in our rental car, exhausted from our flight. Getting our suitcases out, I mentioned something along the lines of "I wish we had Dad here."
"Me, too," said both of the kids.
"But he's still with us," I told them, forcing myself to sound as optimistic as possible. "He's always here."
It's one thing to say that and another to feel it, and as we walked toward the building I didn't feel that way at all. We went upstairs--our apartment was on the second floor--and went to the door.
A tiny frog was sitting on the door handle.
A frog, really? Talk about strange.
Anyone who knows the history of the SEALs will realize they trace their history to World War II combat divers: "frogmen" specially trained to infiltrate and scout enemy beaches before invasions (among other duties). They're very proud of that heritage, and they still occasionally refer to themselves as frogmen or frogs. SEALs often feature frogs in various tattoos and other art related to the brotherhood. As a matter of fact, Chris had a frog skeleton tattoo as a tribute to fallen SEALs. (The term frogman is thought to derive from the gear the combat divers wore, as well as their ability to work both on land and at sea.)
But for some reason, I didn't make the connection. I was just consumed by the weirdness--who finds

When it came time for Chris to leave, we drove his Yukon down to the base. Chris was excited to go to war-he'd spent years training for it, after all. He was somber and serious, but also looking forward to it.
Me?
I felt as if a part of myself was leaving, and there was nothing I could do about it. I longed to be with him, but knew that our separation would be deep, and perhaps permanent. I felt trapped by fate, a prisoner of whatever inevitability the future was bringing.
We sat together in the back of the SUV, waiting until it was time for him to board the bus waiting to take him to the plane. Finally, it was time to go. Chris was wearing sunglasses, but I could see his eyes leaking tears under them.
I thought he was nervous because he was going to war and was afraid that he would die. It wasn't until years later that he straightened me out: "I was afraid you wouldn't be there when I came back.

So okay. C-section in the morning? Why not?
Chris still hadn't shown up when I felt the examining room. Nor had he answered my call asking him what was up.
I got in my car to drive to the hospital, then did what a lot of women do in that situation: I called my mom.
"Hey, honey, are you okay?" she asked.
"Yes." I burst into tears. Until that moment, I hadn't realized how close to panicking I really was.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I…don't know where Chris is. I have to go to the hospital to have the baby-"
"It'll be OK," she said quickly. "I'm going to the airport. I'll be there."
I didn't even get to explain the full situation.
Then Chris called. "Where are you?" I asked. I was somewhere between relieved and angry-or maybe I was both angry and relieved.
"I just had some stuff happen," he said. "I'm okay. I'll tell you when I see you."
"I need you now," I said, telling him about the baby.
If you've read American Sniper, you know what had happened to him: he passed out during what should have been a very routine procedure to remove a cyst in his neck. It was a freak thing that led to what we think was a temporary seizure.
Some "thing." But being a SEAL and being Chris, he completely minimized it. In fact, I didn't know what had happened until later. All I knew was that he met me at the hospital and was by my side when I needed him.
There is a bit of a funny story attached to the incident. A friend of Chris's

The first thing Bubba's feet touched when we took him home from the hospital was Texas soil, which his folks had brought west at our request. No child of Chris Kyle's was going to be anything but a Texan. He smiled contentedly before nodding off back to sleep; clearly Texas was in his genes.

Someone had found a pair of blankets that had American flag motifs and covered both Chris and Chad with them. It was a thoughtful gesture, but it also meant I couldn't see my husband's face, or more than the bare outlines of his body as he was carried past.
"Give us five minutes," said someone as I started to follow the gurneys inside. "Five minutes."
"I don't want him prepared," I said. "I don't want him cleaned up."
"Five minutes."
I stepped back.
We waited-I don't know, probably less than five minutes, but it was all I could stand. I went inside, determined, unstoppable.
The funeral director met me. "I didn't do as much as I wanted. His hands are dirty from the fingerprinting."
"His hands were always dirty," I said.
Inside the room, Chris lay on the gurney, chest covered with the blanket. I bent to his face, tears pouring from my eyes, and kissed him.
How many times? A thousand. Not enough.
Never enough again.

The generosity, to me it's less about the money and more about the support and the idea that people still care and love what Chris stood for and love him.

I think that God prepared me for Chris's death in some ways, because I've seen other people lose their spouses. I've known for a long time that life isn't fair.

You can forgive somebody and still believe they need a consequence.

From the days of Cain and Abel, we know all too well there will always be evil. But that evil shouldn't take away our freedoms.

Among the many people Chris met while doing charity work was Randy Cupp, who invited him and Bubba out to shoot with him come deer season. When Chris passed away, Randy made it clear to me that the offer not only still stood, but that he would love to give Bubba a chance to kill his first buck.
With deer season upon us, the kids and I decided to take him up on the offer. Angel, Bubba, and I went out to his property on a beautiful morning. Setting out for the blind, I felt Chris's presence, as if he were scouting along with us. We settled into our spots and waited.
A big buck came across in front of us a short time later. It was an easy shot--except that Bubba had neglected to put his ear protection in. He scrambled to get it in, but by the time he was ready, the animal had bounded off. Deer--and opportunities--are like that.
We waited some more.
Another buck came out from the trees not five minutes later. And this one was not only in range, but it was bigger than the first: a thirteen pointer.
Chris must have scared that thing up.
"That's the one," said Randy as the animal pranced forward.
Bubba took a shot.
The deer scooted off as the gunshot echoed. My son thought he'd missed, but Randy was sure he'd hit him. At first, we didn't see a blood trail--a bad sign, since a wounded animal generally leaves an easily spotted trail. But a few steps later, we found the body prone in the woods. Bubba had killed him with a shot to the lungs.

February 22, 2005

Right now the rumor on leaving is the latest the 22nd, but I am still supposed to leave on the first. Hopefully. I want to get home to see my baby and my son. I miss both of y'all something awful. Time is going a little faster now because of working again. I had a long enough break and it's about time I got back out. I'm still making a name for myself by adding to my numbers. I know I never say it, but it does feel good to have all the people talking about me in a good way. Anyway, I love you and miss you. You mean the world to me. Please take care of yourself and I will call you soon. Smoooooooooch!!!!! I can't wait to give you a real one. Carefully go over every inch of your body. I am soooo horny! I love you, baby!
-XOXOXOXOXXXXX

Chris accompanied me to most of the exams as we got ready to have the baby. At one critical point, the doctor offered to do a test that would screen for developmental problems. People sometimes use the result of that test to decide whether to go ahead with the birth.
We looked at each other as she said that.
"Do you want to know?" I asked Chris. "I mean, what difference would it make if something was wrong with the baby?"
"It won't change anything. I'm going to love the baby, one way or another."
"Me, too. That's our baby, no matter how it comes out."
We decided not to do the test, leaving the outcome to God.
But we weren't willing to leave everything unknown, or at least Chris didn't: he wanted to know whether it was a boy or girl. A few checkups later, the sonogram proclaimed loudly, "It's a boy!"
I can still see myself lying on my back, belly covered with jelly, and Chris beaming next to me. He'd been sure the baby would be a girl-so many other Team guys were having girls that it seemed to be some sort of military requirement.
I was very excited-and a little nervous. I hadn't had a brother growing up. (Ten male cousins don't count in this equation. Even if I love them all." Talking to his mother, I mentioned that I had no idea what to expect with a boy. She, after all, was an expert-she'd had two, both of whom turned into fine young men.
"I don't know what to do with a boy," I confessed.
"You just chase them," she replied.

August 18, 2006

It was so nice to talk to you tonight. I always wind up in a better mood after talking to you. Somehow you always manage to brighten my life even when in a hell hole like this. You are the greatest woman ever, and I will never understand how I got so lucky to have been blessed with you. I appreciate all you do. You are the strongest person I know, and I admire you, and respect you. I am always extremely proud of you. I know with all that has happened with Marc and Biggles, you have gone out of your way to try to make everyone feel better. Even though I know that is your worst nightmare. I don't know many people who could be there, and put themselves through the pain just to make someone you don't even know more comfortable. You are an angel sent by God. Now you have given me two more angels. Remember Satan was once an angel of God, so Bubba is an angel, but just which side is sometimes debatable. Just joking. I know he can be very trying sometimes, and you have kept your cool way better than I ever could have. Our kids are so lucky to have you as their mother. So am I.
I cannot wait to get back into your arms. Talking about it tonight felt so good. Knowing that this whole thing is coming to an end. I dream about the day I step off that plane to see you. Hope you have no plans for the rest of your life, because you're gonna be a little busy. I miss you so much!!!
I loved talking to Bubba tonight. I love hearing him tell me he loves me, but

As the months went on, I couldn't shake the feeling that Chris was still somehow with us. Maybe it was the depression; maybe it was grief. Maybe something else.
Feeling down and empty, I chance to look across the room and think I catch a glimpse of him.
I go to a restaurant with the kids and sit at a table. A while later I look up and swear Angel is sitting on Chris's lap.
I take a walk and from the corner of my eye see him in his camouflage jacket walking beside me.
He's in a crowd, or standing across the parking lot, or lurking nearby in the shadows.

I'd realize it's not worth our time to worry. You do your best, and God will put the right people in your path.

Many of us who have cars have felt some form of extreme anger at other drivers because we feel they have put us in harm's way. We might even envision ramming their cars or cutting them off in return, but do we actually do it? No, because the overwhelming majority of us never want to take another human life.

In many ways, I have it easy now with the kids. They're still in elementary school; the teenage years will surely have their own challenges. I've tried to stay involved in their lives, though my participation in school events has declined because of my other commitments. I can't be the supermom who volunteers for every class trip anymore. But I do chaperone when I can, and one of my happiest days recently was watching Bubba give a class report.
It's been hard to realize and even harder to accept that that's enough.
The kid's emotional growth won't suffer if they don't have the most frightening zombie costume in their class? No? Really?
Can I get that in writing?
Things that are vital to their success in life as well as school--those things we still do. Chores, required reading, homework, of course--those are all still there.
And we still thank God every night for the things that mean a lot to us. We always say what we are grateful for that day--and from that, I've learned a lot about what's important to them, and I think they've learned the same from me.
One of the most remarkable things about children is their compassion. Mine continue to pray for others every night. Maybe it comes from the DNA. Maybe it comes from having been through adversity. But it's a wonderful quality, one that I hope stays with them as they grow.

I hope our people hold tight to the notion that we do not have to be a fear-ridden country focused on restrictions, but rather that we remain the land of the free and home of the brave.

I had had my own dream of writing. The dream stayed with me on and off, and with Chris working on his book, he encouraged me to work on my own.
But my time was tight. I was volunteering at the kids' school, helping Chris, and just being a mom. Finally, Chris pushed me to get going.
"Couldn't you run to Starbucks for a few hours when I get home and work on it?" he asked.
I did that for a while. I'd make dinner before I left, then go out and work. Unfortunately, it was still very hard to be consistent-the kids might get sick, or there were just other interruptions and things that had to be done.
Finally, I got to the point where I thought, God is telling me you'll do it, but not now.
Now that I've gained some distance from it, I've realized that putting it down temporarily was actually a blessing. Not only have I gained a perspective on what I was trying to say, but I've also gotten more insights into people and situations that are similar to those I was trying to write about.
And I wouldn't trade the time I spent with Chris for a dozen novels, all of them bestsellers.

I am overwhelmed with gratitude, and my heart is full. 'American Sniper' has broken records, which follows such an honest path of Chris's life.

One of our best dates was actually a weekend when we went to the wedding of a friend from the Teams. The couple married in Wimberley, Texas, a small town maybe forty miles south of Austin and a few hours' drive from where we lived. We were having such a pleasant day, we didn't want it to end.
"It doesn't have to end," suggested Chris as we headed for the car. "The kids are at my parents' for the weekend. Where do you want to go?"
We googled for hotels and found a place in San Antonio, a little farther south. Located around the corner from the Alamo, the hotel seemed tailor-made for Chris. There was history in every floorboard. He loved the authentic Texan and Old West touches, from the lobby to the rooms. He read every framed article on the walls and admired each artifact. We walked through halls where famous lawmen-and maybe an outlaw or two-had trod a hundred years before. In the evening, we relaxed with coffee out on the balcony of our room-something we'd never managed to do when we actually owned one. It was one of those perfect days you dream of, completely unplanned.
I have a great picture of Chris sitting out there in his cowboy boots, feet propped up, a big smile on his face. It's still one of my favorites.
People ask about Chris's love of the Old West. It was something he was born with, really. It had to be in his genes. He grew up watching old westerns with his family, and for a time became a bronco-bustin' cowboy and ranch hand.
More than t

As the year went on, I felt I was handling my grief and depression better, but the pressures kept piling up. You don't really ever feel "comfortable" being a widow. You endure, maybe get through it, but you don't ever truly own it.
And still, a part of me didn't want to get beyond it. My pain was proof of my love.
One night I went over to a friend's house and just started bawling. I had been going through photos of Chris when he was in his twenties and thirties.
I'm going to be an old woman somewhere, and he's going to be young.
So many other emotions ran through me every day. People suggested that I might find someone else.
"No," I'd tell them. "No one will ever take his place."
School forms would ask about the kids' family situation. Were their parents married, divorced?
I'm not a single mother. I'm raising the kids with my husband! Even if he's not here. I always think about what he would want to do.
One night, alone in my bedroom, I picked up the laundry basket off the treadmill. I suddenly felt as if Chris was there with me, somehow hovering two feet off the ground.
He grinned.
"I'm working on something for you," he said. And I knew he meant he was trying to hook me up with a man.
I jerked back. Had I really heard that? Was he really there?
The room was empty, but I had the strongest feeling that he was there. I could feel his grin.
I became furious.
"How dare you!" I screamed in my head. "I don't want

A couple of times, I felt like I was cracking and I couldn't go on, and God would put another person in my place to help me.

March 28, 2005
I am so ready to be home I have already gone into autopilot mode. Just counting the days, waiting for that big bird to take me home. I am sorry to hear that you are not feeling good. Hopefully getting off the pill will help. Hopefully when I get home I can help with your emotions. Whatever you need, just tell me. I want to make things easy for you when I am home. At least as easy as possible. I love you so much gorgeous. Glad to hear your dad has busted his ass to help us out so much. We are so lucky with our family, I couldn't have married into a better one. Not to mention couldn't have married a better woman, cause there is none better. I also got an email from your niece. It was a PowerPoint slide that was real cute. It had a green background with a frog, and said she missed me. Sweet, huh. If she didn't forward a copy to you, I can. Oh, about the birth control: You said you wanted ten kids anyway. Change your mind yet? What is Bubba doing that has changed? Is he being a fart or is he just full of energy? I'm sure when I get home you will be ready for a break. How about after I get to see you for a little while, you go to a spa for a weekend to be pampered? I REALLY think you deserve it. You've been going and going, kinda like the Energizer Bunny. Just like when I get home for sex, we keep going and going and going and going and, you get the point. Hopefully you at least smiled over that. I always want you to be happy, and want to do whatever it takes t

My hope for this country is that we remain a people who value freedom, who have the courage to face the realities with faithful hearts instead of anxious ones.

I've talked to people who felt very strongly that Chris has done things for them since he died. The stories move me, even though I don't really know what to think about them.
I guess if you think of how Chris acted as protector during his life, and how he wanted the people he loved to be happy, it makes sense that he might spend some of his energy in the afterlife to keep doing that. I could easily see him talking God into letting him come back from time to time to take care of things down here.
I'm sure there are rules to follow--but knowing Chris, if there's a way around them, he's figured it out.

No one looks at you funny if you excuse yourself to grab a smoke. Imagine the reactions if you say, "Hey, I'm going to go grab a five-minute prayer. I'll be back."
Or worse, "Hold that thought. I just want to go cry a minute."
Excuses are easy. Quitting is much harder.

Something that I've struggled with for awhile is looking at our country voting on sound bites, and to me, character is really important.

One of the people in charge of props told me: "It's not my job necessarily to make things look exactly as they were in real life. But I want [the movie] to look so authentic that when you see it, you'll think it's part of your own personal history. It will be your life to hold onto."
That attention to detail--and that care and dedication--moved me, and I did everything I could to help them. Still, I didn't want to just put my memories in the mail or FedEx. To put me at ease, the studio offered to use a team of couriers so that the material would be in someone's hands each step of the way.
They sent a driver out one day. He was a big, hulking fellow who filled Chris's office the way Chris would have.
"I just have a few more things to pack up," I told him. "If you could just wait a second."
"Sure."
Bubba came in, still wearing his jammies. "Hey," he said to the guy. "You play darts?"
"Uh--"
By now Bubba was so used to people dropping by and playing with him that he didn't even need to ask who they were.
He'd also become pretty good at darts.
I wrapped up quickly, sparing the poor fellow the humiliation of losing to a kid whose voice wouldn't change for several more years.

I'll proudly stand with one of the great leaders this state and country have ever produced: Rick Perry.

One of the things I loved about Chris was his sense of humor, which seemed perfectly matched with mine, even at its most offbeat. April Fools' Day was always a major highlight. A month before our daughter was due, I woke him up in the middle of the night.
"Don't panic," I told him, "but I think I'm going into labor."
"Do we have a bag?" he asked, jumping up immediately.
"No, no, don't worry." I slipped out of bed and went to take a shower.
Chris immediately got dressed and, calmly but very quickly, gathered my clothes and packed a suitcase.
"I'm ready!" he announced, barging into the bathroom.
"Babe, do you know what day it is?" I asked sweetly. It was two A.M., April 1.
"Are you kidding me?" he said, disbelieving.
I laughed and plunged back into the shower.
He quickly got revenge by flushing the toilet, sending a burst of cold water across my body.
In retrospect, maybe I'd been a little cruel, but we did love teasing each other. At our wedding, we'd smooshed cake into each other's faces. That began a tradition that continued at each birthday--whether it was ours or not. The routine never seemed to get old. We'd giggle and laugh, chasing each other as if we were crazy people. Our friends and neighbors got used to it--and learned to stay out of the line of fire.

Little things.
I drive by the funeral home where he was taken several times a week, if not a day. Ordinarily, these trips mean nothing. But one time not long ago I happened to glance at the building and my mind was filled with visions of him laid out on the table, his body being prepared.
I started crying. I was still crying when I got on the freeway a short time later.
"You're gone," I whispered. "I can't believe you're gone."
I can't believe it. I can't believe he's gone.
I repeated the words over and over, until I started to hear something else above the rumble of the tires and the rush of the wind.
I'm still here. Always with you.

I have learned in my life that my plans don't matter. It's God's plan.

For people who grew up hunting, especially war veterans, shooting often settled the mind. It was something that required full concentration, and therefore took you away from your troubles, at least for a short time.

A postscript on Ryan: Ryan did recover, but he was left permanently blind. His girlfriend Kelly stayed by his side through his recovery, and they soon married.
I'm happy to say that we all became good friends. Ryan had an indomitable spirit that infected everyone he met. He used to say that he suspected God had chosen him to be wounded, rather than someone else, because He knew he could bear it. If so, it was an excellent choice, for Ryan inspired many others to deal with their own handicaps as he dealt with his. He went hunting with the help of friends and special devices. His wound inspired the logo Chris would later use for his company; it was a way for Chris to continue honoring him.
Ryan and his wife were expecting their first child in 2009 when Ryan went into the hospital for what seemed like a routine operation, part of follow-up treatment for his wounds. Tragically, he ended up dying.
I remember looking at his wife at the funeral, so brave yet so devastated, and wondering to myself how we could live in such a cruel world.
My enduring vision of Ryan is outside one of the hospitals where he was recovering from an operation. He was in his wheelchair with some of the Team guys. Head bandaged and clearly in pain, he asked to be pointed toward the American flag that flew in the hospital yard; once there, he held his hand up in a long and poignant salute, still a patriot.

I wasn't angry with God that I lost my husband. I was devastated; I was broken. I still am, in many ways. But I feel like God gives free will to everyone, and people who want to choose evil, they have that same free will.

It's not enough to simply avoid sin. We have to do good. And we have to go out of our way to do good.

Chris and I talked about the ceremony on the way home.
"There were a lot of people there," I said. "I would like a small ceremony."
"For a funeral?"
"Well, yeah."
"I want a big funeral," he said. "I'm gone, right? Blow it out."
He wanted bagpipes, music, and a large crowd.
We talked a bit more. "Do you still want to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery?" I asked. We'd discussed the possibility several times; it had been among his dearest wishes.
"I don't know if I feel that way anymore," he confessed.
"Why is that?"
"I just want to be wherever is best for y'all."
I was so taken aback by that. But it stayed with me.

The main entrance reminded me of the Alamo, a place Chris had always loved. His fascination with history seemed to fit perfectly with the place. School kids came regularly to learn about our history, something I knew would appeal to him.
It just felt like Chris.
Still, I had to be sure. I excused myself and took a walk away from the others, moving down the hill to a spot where I could see the immense flag.
"Okay, babe," I said. "If you can talk to me, tell me what you think. I don't know."
Bad-ass.
The words flew into my head, bypassing my ears.
Bad-ass. Bad-ass. Bad-ass.
Over and over, I heard those words in my head. It was as if Chris was there, telling me yes, this is where I want to be buried.
There were plenty of logical reasons to choose Austin-it's much closer to the family, and I can be buried next to him when my time comes. But I truly felt that Chris had spoken at that moment to me.
Walking back to the family, I felt his arm around me and his gentle lips on my temple.
"Okay, babe. Austin.

I'm grateful for all the things I have that remind me of Chris--photos, videos, notes and emails he wrote, tangible pieces of him. We're blessed to have them, just as we are blessed to have his memory.
But I also know that sometimes those reminders can hurt, and not just me.
When we were preparing to move into the new house, Angel mentioned to me that she wouldn't mind having fewer pictures of Daddy in the hall.
"I love seeing him," she confessed, "but sometimes they hurt."
I know exactly what she meant. I love looking at them too, but sometimes I can't take the emotions they provoke. And I know, too, that there's a difference between building on the past and getting stuck in it.
I love that wedding photo of us because we're both looking off into the future. And that was Chris. That was the essential part of him: fearless, and hopeful, always moving forward.
That's the part of him that I hold most dear, and that's the part of him that I struggle to bring with me every day: fearless and courageous, ready for anything, striding toward tomorrow, and tomorrow's tomorrow.

I think it's a mistake to miss out on joy just because you have pain.

I challenge anyone to tell me there isn't evil in this world.

Silly stuff could tickle him no end. Chris loved practical jokes, even when they weren't planned.
One day he brought home a large kudu head to keep for a friend. (Kudus are large African antelopes; this one had been shot and mounted as a trophy.) I was in the kitchen getting something out of the refrigerator. I heard a noise and looked up-there was a beast in my house!
I screamed.
Chris appeared behind the head. For a brief moment his face was tight with concern and worry.
It was a very brief moment. When he realized he'd scared me with the silly head, he began laughing so hard the house shook.
"I'm sorry," he said, gasping for air. "I didn't mean to scare you."
He laughed some more.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said when he managed to stop momentarily. "I'm sorry."
Another five minutes of hysterical laughter. By now it was contagious, and I started laughing, too.
"I didn't mean to do it," he said finally. "But it couldn't have worked out better.

I'm not a fan of people romanticizing their loved ones in death.

We can't legislate human nature.

The first Easter Chris was gone, I stayed up late Saturday night to hide the Easter eggs. We got up early, and I watched as Bubba and Angel went to work finding them. You can't help but smile at kids who are just alive with the fun of it all. For a few moments I was so absolutely into their happiness that I forgot how tired I was, and didn't think of Chris or the fact that we were missing him so badly.
Finally, after all the eggs and candy were gathered, I told the kids I was going to take a shower and get ready for the rest of the day. I was feeling great--until I closed the door behind me.
The sense of loss that I'd been screening out hit me. It drove me to my knees, and I began crying uncontrollably.
There was a knock on the door. Angel opened it and looked in. I did my best to smile. "Hey, what's up?" I asked.
"Are you okay, Momma?"
"Yes."
"You miss Daddy?" she asked.
I nodded.
Angel came in and gave me a hug. "You know he's still here with us, right?"
"Yes. Yes, I do.

My father gave me a piece of advice that has stuck with me over the years: you don't have to follow the Bible to get to heaven, but it is a recipe for happiness.

Angel spent another week taking lessons at home before starting at the school. I drove her in on her first day.
"Mamma, I feel like Daddy's with us in the car," she told me. "He never missed my first day."
"You're right," I told her. "I'm sure he is.