Today is Patrick's birthday.

His 19th will be my son's first away from family. It will be spent in a very different way; amongst people he didn't know when he became an adult last year. He'll be in Iraq with his army family.

Last month he went to Kuwait, eager and more than ready for whatever life may bring him.

Then the war started and the images of war. Images of grief, accidents, the capture, death and uncertainty of our young people who are fighting, ostensibly, to free a people. But the violence and potential.

And I began to wonder about my son. Where was he in all this chaos? A friend of mine, through military friends, brought me welcome news of his whereabouts. He told me Patrick was in a safe location, in a support capacity and thankfully away from battle. I appeased myself with this story, telling everyone he was not in danger. I felt relieved as I thought for a while he was not in the fighting and violence.

Days later a story of his unit surfaced through my son's father that Patrick was on the ground in Iraq, and we could read stories being written by an imbedded reporter.

I stayed up late several nights, obsessed with information, surfing the Internet, looking for photos or stories that mentioned my son's progress through the embattled country.

While readings news of larger stories, I followed articles about his unit's journey through Iraq, traveling in the aftermath of U.S. bombs through a mostly defeated land. I read about atrocities and acts of mercy. Accidents and adventures.

Follow his progress gives me comfort and I strangely felt that I too was driving the Humvee, skirting bodies. I too was helping pull down hated statues of a violent and repressive regime and covertly slipping water to thirsty civilians. I too saw the dead baby and helped pay my respects in an Islamic fashion to the unknown infant and by doing so, countless other Iraqi people scattered and unburied by their own regime or ours.

And I mourned the loss of life, and wondered how Patrick was holding up emotionally, he who I considered a sensitive person.

Recently I wrote a letter to him, trying to offer some guidance on the experiences he was facing. Where there is not much one soldier can do about the overall situation, I suggested that he CAN offer mercy and kindness whenever possible. Whether it was a smile, a drink of water, or a prayer of goodwill. And do his best.

Patrick's father wonders why no letters have arrived, although he sends off several a week. He says, "Maybe Patrick's mad at me, knowing how I feel about the war. Or is there some other reason he doesn't write?"

It seems to me he probably just cannot write because he is busy staying alive, working 12-hour days. His psyche is busy as well, possibly just storing outrageous and unexpected images and experiences that he cannot yet write about.

Patrick's brother, Truman, who is about two years younger, offered his perspective on what his brother was going through. It's just experiences, he said, and everybody has experiences. Some were pretty awful experiences that Patrick was going through, I mentioned. Yes, he said, he will have some experiences, some he'll talk about and some he'll probably never share. He may just keep them to himself, but that's all they are, he said, experiences, things that happen in life.

I reflect on my job recording young people's childhood experiences and my own early experiences of family dysfunction. They are just experiences that we go through and one day move beyond; if necessary loosening or cutting the chains that our experiences can cast on us. Maybe even by finding meaning in even the worst experience.

Happy birthday, Patrick, and Happy Birthday Iraq, may peace celebrate soon in your country.

When Patrick returns home, regardless of any ulterior reason that American went to war with Iraq, I will thank my son. I will thank him for offering his life and service. His willingness, in whatever capacity, to help free people from terror, fear and violence.