I could never have imagined that I would be the mother of two military sons. Brave, courageous, disciplined and tenacious, both boys are truly stellar Marines and have chosen a life of sacrifice and hardship. I am grateful to God that he trusted me to be their mother and spiritual mentor through life.

People often ask me why my sons chose to serve their country instead of following a more traditional path - getting a higher education, climbing the career ladder, and marrying and raising families. I answer that question with a special story about the generations of Americans who came before them - my proud family members who chose to stand for freedom and to protect this country with their lives - three uncles, a father, a son and a daughter. All lived to share their war stories and went on, by the grace of God, to raise families.

One of the most wonderful veterans I have ever known was my father, Joseph Lloyd Gale, who served this country proudly during the Korean War. If my father were alive today, he would be so disillusioned to see what has happened to the country he almost died defending. If he were alive today he would be standing beside me shouting these words, “Wake up Americans and do whatever it takes to pull this country back from the brink of socialism and moral collapse.”

It is because of my father and his life example that I chose the path of military service. At the young age of 19, I raised my hand and took an oath to protect America with my life. How odd that I find myself, nearly forty years later, safeguarding her still today. Why, you might ask? Many reasons: the aggressive expansion of government into our personal lives, a national debt level spiraling out of control, an ever-increasing tax burden on middle class Americans, and a refusal by both political parties to protect the borders of the United States.

I am a member of the tea party movement! I am exceedingly proud to participate in taking this great country back to its’ constitutional roots. I have drawn my line in the sand and I will do whatever it takes to ensure that my children have the same quality of life and the same rights I have had for nearly 60 years. I am a not a racist, a mobster or a right wing extremist. I am a proud American who still believes we are a Christian nation I believe we each have a responsibility to defend the Constitution of the United States, from enemies foreign or domestic.

Anyway, back to the story of my dad. When I was six, I remember waiting for him to come home from work. Our routine was simple: a kiss, a hug, and the age old question, “How was school, and what did you learn today?” Then I would follow him into the bedroom; he would empty his pockets of all the loose change; and with a fleeting, silent glimpse, we would both notice the three pieces of shrapnel, just sitting there on top of the dresser. I must have asked him a hundred questions about those jagged, shiny pieces of metal, spray painted gold. Each day he would brush the inquisition aside for another day by saying, “Maybe when you’re a little older, child; but please, not today.”

One afternoon, before he passed away, he finally decided to release Korea to my sister. There in the safety of his home, the flood gates opened for the first time since 1952. The fifty year mystery of the shrapnel that sat upon his dresser was finally unveiled; it had been removed from his body and almost cost him his life. As he began re-living the horrors of battle, he shook uncontrollably and cried, as my sister sat lovingly and silently as a witness to the pain he had buried in the cornfields of his mind. No doubt he was remembering the bitter cold of that night as he and his men crossed the river to fight the Chinese. Only fragments of pictures remained - fingers blackened from frostbite, grenades exploding all around him, hundreds of bullets whizzing by chasing their next victim, friends of his falling without a sound onto the blood stained, snowy ground. As it turns out, my father was one of the lucky few who survived. Only by God’s grace was he able to get safely home. I am so grateful that I had a father.

The Day I turned 18, it is no wonder that my Dad fell apart when I told him I was joining the military. As the tears welled in his eyes and the life drained from his face, he said, “You’re a young woman with your whole life ahead of you; and besides that, you’re a girl. Why on earth would you choose such a thing?” My response was simple, “You did, Dad.” I cannot imagine the fear my father must have felt for me after his Korean nightmare. But I certainly did get it the day my own kids joined the Marines. Now I know that my father lived on his knees much the same as I have each time my children have gone to battle.

I am so proud to be the mom of two Marines, both in very specialized combat units, one 20, the other 23. As a Marine mom, I have learned to chase after and cherish every single adult moment that I can spend with them because I know they may not have a tomorrow. So each time we are together, I listen quietly to the frightening war stories, the life drains from my face, I take a cleansing breath, and that is when they read my fear and say, “Mom, you’re forgetting that we were born to be warriors. If we lose our lives in the process, you have to know that we were doing what we loved and believed in. Just be proud of us.” Those three pieces of shrapnel, just sitting on top of my Dad’s dresser, have molded many lives.

There are so many war stories I would love to share with you but there isn’t enough paper. What I really wish is that I could find the words to help you understand the sacrifice our warriors make each day, every day, as they protect you and me from the enemy. I pray I will do their stories justice.

Last year, my youngest son was deployed to the mountains of Iraq near the Syrian Border. For four months, he lived with 15 other marines, sleeping on the ground in the 20 degree cold - no tents, no showers, no toilet facilities, and only meals-ready-to-eat for sustenance. The living conditions were horrendous. Sand penetrated everything, ruining cameras, sun glasses and what little fighting equipment they had purchased with their own monies. Every three days or so they would burn their worn socks and underwear; their stock would be replenished if a convoy was able to reach them. Thanksgiving and Christmas went by without celebration, without Christmas dinner and without family. Just a week before they were scheduled to come home, they were called for one last mission - to provide security over watch during the election in Mosul, Iraq. They left early that morning under cover of dark, traveling with lights out for their own protection. The vehicle my son was traveling in hit a huge hole in the road, flew high into the air and rolled over four times. Not knowing whether they had been attacked or hit by an IED, my son pushed open the back door, turned to grab his weapon for protection, and suddenly realized he could not move his body. Because he was the closest to the door and blocking the way of the others, he fell out onto the ground so his brothers could escape the vehicle. As he laid there looking up into the faces of the Marines who had come to his rescue, he searched the sky for God and wondered if he might be paralyzed for life.

Two hours later he was evacuated by helicopter to a hospital in another part of Iraq. When the emergency room doctor ran to lift his stretcher from the helicopter, he asked, “How old are you, son? You are much too young to deserve this and to face this kind of trauma.” The doctor wept but kept working through his tears to provide the top notch emergency care my son needed and deserved. For two weeks my child laid on his back, unable to move, but able to wiggle his toes. From that hospital bed, he watched as they brought in many of his fellow marines - brave, wounded warriors who would live to face battle again and some who gave all. As a mother, I can only imagine the trauma my precious child must have witnessed there in the ER. He has, to this day, only shared one story - a Marine his age brought in on a gurney. Without emotion, he remembered the young Marine and the life moment with these words. “blood was pouring from his body like someone pouring pain out of a can. I don’t know whether he lived or died,” he cried.

Just months later, my son’s tender heart took yet another blow when he learned that a close friend of his had volunteered to fight in Afghanistan, shortly after returning from a deployment in Iraq. His friend gave all when he stepped on an IED; there was nothing left of him to bury. Both my children understand loss now. In their short time on earth, they have been forced to toughen their hearts and to accept the harsh reality that they will lose many treasured friends.

Fortunately, my son’s back healed from the trauma of the accident. After much therapy, exercise and yoga, all that remains are the emotional scars. Those are permanent injuries.

My oldest son’s unit freed the village of Garmsir, Afghanistan from the cruel hands of the Taliban in 2008. His first firefight was 50 hours long. He killed many enemy soldiers, as did his fellow Marines; they did what they were trained to do. After gaining firm control of the area, my son and his team volunteered to run regular patrols to go hunt enemy. Under cover of dark, they would run down into the rates holes and along the trench lines, a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other, not knowing what was coming next. One night they were waiting for an enemy weapons exchange. They kept watch all night in an abandoned town; and as morning came, they put Marines on the roof on the ground to watch the front of the compound. My son had just laid down in the 120 degree blistering heat to get a few minutes of shuteye when he heard the sound of approaching dirt bikes; he knew their position had been compromised. He grabbed his rifle, moved silently into a room under a broken window, knowing he would be the first point of contact with the enemy. There, his body scrunched under the ledge, his heart beating outside his chest, his finger nervously sitting on the trigger, unable to breathe, he heard their voices, coming for his team. Step by step they inched closer to what my son thought would surely be the end of many lives that day. Yet with amazing bravery and self control, as the Taliban appeared in the window, he jumped up, threw his rifle into the face of six Taliban and then promptly removed his finger from the trigger as they threw their hands into the air in surrender. The Taliban knew that since they were unarmed, they could seek reparations if the Marines hurt them in any way, Nevertheless, they began laughing and scoffing at all of our boys. Bad move on their part; really bad move. Those foreign fighters will never again laugh at another Marine. What is even more important to note is that on that day our boys made a conscious choice to spare the lives of six fighters who turned out to be younger than 18. You see, war is not always about killing. Is it not amazing that we expect our young men and women to have the maturity to make life altering decisions in the flash of a moment. Yet our own government considers these dedicated kids “right wing extremists” just simply because they have been deployed and are supposedly at risk of being recruited into violence against America. I say shame on our leaders in Washington. I will gladly wear that title - right wing extremist, mobster, radical or a member of a fringe group; but no one in Washington will diminish the bravery and sacrifice of my two sons!

Three pieces of shrapnel, just sitting on top of my Dad’s dresser - what an amazing testimony they must have been to him - a reminder that he was blessed to be alive, a monument to all the brave friends of his who died that night in Korea. For me, those three pieces of shrapnel, paved the way to be like my Dad - strong willed, fiercely independent (even though I was a girl), grateful for life, but willing to risk it all to serve this country. Those three pieces of shrapnel, from 45 years ago, that I actually hadn’t thought about since I was a child, brought me here today to you to serve as a reminder that we must all be willing to fight for what is morally right for this country.

I wish you could understand how deeply I believe in America and the freedom for which it stands. As a young woman, when I raised my right hand to defend the country, I knew my decision would alter the course of my life, but in ways I could never have imagined. One of the most vivid memories I have is of standing at the edge of the runway in the sweltering heat and monsoon rains of Thailand. I was waiting for friends of mine, A-7 pilots, to come home after bombing missions. Some never returned. So many wonderful young men lost their lives in Vietnam. It is because of them that I still defend America today, nearly 40 years later. You see, I am convinced that many of the freedoms we take for granted are being eroded by those who take a more liberal view. I would be overwhelmed with guilt if I stood quietly by and did not participate in political discourse, especially in light of the fact that decisions being made in Washington, D.C. will impact my ability to stay in business and to continue to employ the precious young, college students who work for me.

I urge you to stand up and be counted. Draw your own line in the sand. Get motivated; get politically educated and active. Study the Constitution and learn how to defend it. Attend tea party rallies or support them in their efforts to safeguard America. Please do not ever forget how very blessed we are to live in a country free of dictators and ruthless, immoral tyrants like Saddam Hussein. Please always remember how fortunate we are to have the right to free speech and to worship as we choose! Do not take these rights for granted. Do not ever forget those who gave their lives so that we could live in the greatest country on earth, America the Beautiful. Please pray for our troops!