Why I Asked My Wife to Send Me Dirt
When I told my wife what I wanted her to send me, she laughed. Most soldiers overseas asked for snacks, socks, or letters. I asked for dirt. Real soil from home, a bit of fertilizer, and a packet of grass seed.
Out there in the harsh desert, where everything felt dry and far away, I missed the feeling of something green under my feet. I missed the smell of fresh-cut grass. It wasn’t just homesickness—it was something deeper. A need to feel grounded.It took her weeks to figure it out—postal rules, customs, and all the complications. But eventually, the box came. My unit gave me a hard time at first. “You planting a farm out here?” someone joked. I didn’t mind. I found a little square of dirt, added the soil, planted the seeds, and waited.When the first stubborn blades of grass appeared, everything changed.
The teasing stopped. Slowly, one by one, the guys started standing on it before missions. Barefoot. Quiet. It reminded one of his grandmother’s backyard. Another swore it brought him luck. We didn’t talk much about why it mattered—but it did.That patch of grass became a quiet place. A moment of peace in the middle of chaos.
But word got around. Command heard. We were told the grass had to go—for health codes or appearance, or something official like that. The order came, but none of us wanted to lose it.That night, Harold whispered from his bunk, “Let’s move it.” Mateo had a plan—an unused storage container near the motor pool. So at midnight, we moved it. Shovel, tarp, a wheelbarrow. We handled it like it was priceless.
The container was dusty and empty, but it became our new safe haven. We visited in shifts. Watered it. Sat by it. Just to feel like ourselves again.
Eventually, the secret got out.
Staff Sergeant Evans called me in. “Want to tell me why there’s a hidden patch of lawn growing next to spare engine parts?”
I told him the truth. “It helps us remember there’s something better waiting for us. It keeps us human.”He didn’t smile, but he didn’t get angry either. “My dad had a farm,” he said quietly. “I understand. But we’ve got an inspection coming. If it’s still there, I’ll have to write you up. But if it disappears before then… maybe I never saw it.”
We all knew what to do.
Mateo suggested we send it home. We packed the soil into a container, labeled everything, and mailed it to my wife with a note: “Plant this in the backyard. Let it grow. Let it remind us that we’re never too far from home.”The inspection came and went. No grass. No trouble. Just a nod from Evans in passing.Life carried on. We played cards. Told stories. Harold played his old guitar. That grass had given us more than comfort—it gave us something to rally around. Something normal.
Weeks later, I got a package. Inside were two Polaroids. One showed our backyard. That tiny patch of grass was greener than I’d ever seen it. The second photo was my wife and daughter, standing barefoot on it, smiling wide.
That photo passed from hand to hand in our tent. For a few minutes, no one said a word.
Even after it was gone, the memory stayed. That small patch of green had done more than we ever imagined. It reminded us of home, of who we were, and what was waiting for us.Sometimes, hope comes in the smallest things—a bit of earth, a blade of grass, a single photo. And sometimes, that’s all you need to keep going.