
đ The Light on the Wire
The snow fell softly outside the small community hall, settling on the flags that lined the entranceâeach one
slightly worn, each one flown with purpose. Inside, the lights were warm, coffee was strong, and the laughter carried that
familiar mix of old stories and quiet understanding.
It was Christmas Eve.
Some had driven hours to be there. Others joined only in spiritânames spoken gently, chairs left empty,
memories carried close. As always, the EOD family gathered not because tradition demanded it, but because brotherhood did.
At the far end of the room stood a small Christmas tree. It wasnât fancy. No matching ornaments, no ribbon theme. Instead, each decoration told a storyâa unit patch from Vietnam, a bent wire shaped into a star, a small robot charm, a pair of wings, a folded
piece of tape with a name written in marker.
One ornament hung slightly apart from the rest: a simple light, glowing steady and white.
âWho put that one there?â someone asked.
No one answered right away.
Finally, an older techâgray at the temples, hands steady despite the yearsâspoke up.
âThat oneâs for the ones who canât make it home.â
The room grew quiet.
He continued. âI learned something a long time ago. In our line of work, light matters. Sometimes itâs a flashlight in the dark.
Sometimes itâs a headlamp under a truck. Sometimes itâs just that one calm voice in your ear saying, âSlow down. Youâve got this.ââ
He nodded toward the glowing ornament.
âThat light reminds us that even when things are tense⌠even when the wire looks wrong⌠someoneâs always watching over us.â
Across the room, a younger tech held his child on his shoulders. Nearby, a Gold Star spouse adjusted an ornament placed c
arefully on the tree. A retired bomb tech leaned back, eyes closed, remembering a Christmas spent overseas, sharing a candy
bar and a laugh in a place that didnât feel so far from home after all.
Someone passed around a plate of cookies shaped like stars and trees. Someone else poured another cup of coffee. No one rushed.
No one needed to.
Because in that moment, they werenât active duty or retired. Not Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, or Public Safety.
They werenât ranks or MOS codes.
They were family.
As the night drew on, the hall emptied slowly. One by one, goodbyes were saidâhandshakes, hugs, quiet promises to stay in touch.
When the lights were finally turned off, only the small Christmas tree remained glowing in the corner.
That single white light stayed on.
Steady. Reliable. Unwavering.
Just like the men and women of EOD.
And somewhereâacross the world, across time, across memoryâthose who came before smiled, knowing the
watch was still being kept.
From the NATEODA Family
This Christmas, may you find peace in the quiet moments, strength in your bonds, and warmth in knowing you are never alone.
Merry Christmas to our EOD Familyâpast, present, and always. đđŁ