It’s the night before Thanksgiving. My husband just put on his badge and walked out to his patrol truck. After he drove off into the night, not to return until morning, I logged onto Facebook to see that Officer Collin Rose died of the gunshot wound inflicted on him in an ambush style attack.
In the same breath, I grieve for one man and fear for another. I don’t know Officer Rose, but having worked in emergency services and sent my husband off in a patrol vehicle for a couple of decades now, I don’t need to know the officer personally to hurt for the loss.
And I worry. I’ve been in this police wife gig for a long time. I know the lines to tell myself: “It’s actually very rare for an officer to be killed in the line of duty.” Or, “The most dangerous part of his job is probably driving his patrol truck.”
But today those lines ring hollow. Today we remember the officers from all over the U.S. who have been killed ambush style in the line of duty in just a week, and I can’t help but think it could just as easily be my husband.
The man who still makes me weak in the knees. The man who sings to our little dachshund puppy. The man who has loved me for better and one hell of a lot worse for many years. The man I hope to grow old with in a cabin in the mountains. The father of my children, my other half.
Sometimes he whisks out the door a little rushed and flustered, but tonight he paused for an extra hug and kiss from us all, even the dogs. It was a bit more poignant than our usual parting. We didn’t say it, but tonight it’s a bit too real that there are no guarantees.
Still I proudly send him into the night. He’s a sheepdog after all, a protector. He’s protected our family and our community well for many years now, and I pray he will for many years to come.