[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 156 (2010), Part 2]
[House]
[Page 1821]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]




                 IN HONOR OF SERGEANT JEREMIAH WITTMAN

  The SPEAKER pro tempore. Under a previous order of the House, the 
gentleman from South Carolina (Mr. Inglis) is recognized for 5 minutes.
  Mr. INGLIS. Madam Speaker, I am here to honor one of America's 
heroes. U.S. Army Sergeant Jeremiah Wittman, age 26, was killed in 
Afghanistan on Saturday, February 13, 2010. Sergeant Wittman was from 
Montana. His wife, Karyn, is from the Chesnee/Boiling Springs area of 
Spartanburg County, South Carolina.
  Sergeant Wittman and Karyn have a beautiful 3-year-old daughter named 
Miah. I got to play in Miah's doll house when I visited her 
grandparents' home recently. More on that in a minute.
  Sergeant Wittman was doing what Americans best do--he was protecting 
freedom, protecting us, when an improvised explosive device was 
detonated near him as he was on foot patrol in Zhari province in 
Afghanistan.
  I wonder what it means to a 3-year-old, Madam Speaker, to hear that 
her daddy is one of our heroes. I said that to Miah the other night at 
her house. I know she heard it from others because we are very 
patriotic people in the upstate of South Carolina, Madam Speaker. 
Still, I wonder what it means to a 3-year-old.
  Miah's mom, Karyn, knows what it means. She knew what it meant when 
representatives of the U.S. Army showed up at her parents' front door 
dressed in ``Class A's.'' She knows that this Saturday an Army officer 
will kneel beside her and say that the President of the United States 
and a grateful Nation stand in appreciation of the honorable and 
faithful service of her husband, Jeremy.
  Devoted spouses like Karyn and self-sacrificing parents like Sergeant 
Wittman's know that service means the possibility of not coming home 
safe and sound, the possibility that the last full measure of devotion 
will be given on a battlefield far from home.
  The people of the upstate of South Carolina and Montana know what it 
means. It means that we must live our lives in gratitude to America's 
best; the ones who come home unscathed, the ones who come home with 
scars, and the ones who come home in solemn honor.
  But what does it mean to Miah? Well, Madam Speaker, if you will 
indulge me, I will try to say what it means in a letter to Miah.
  Dear Miah, that's an awesome dollhouse you have in the living room at 
your grandma and grandpa's house. Thank you for letting me see the cool 
things you've got in there. I like the computer a lot, and the lights 
over the door to your doll tent are awesome. Thank you for showing me 
the pictures of you and your daddy.
  I guess you've noticed by now that grown-ups like us cry sometimes 
when we hear you say that your daddy is in heaven. It's not that we're 
not happy for him. You know better than us grown-ups that your daddy 
can trust God to dry every tear. It's just that we're overwhelmed by 
the gift you've given. You and your mom and your grandparents have 
given the rest of us the gift of your dad's life.
  He was in Afghanistan protecting you and your mom mostly, but he was 
also there protecting me and my family and all American families. So if 
you see a lot of people crying, it's the only way we know to show how 
much we care, how much your dad's sacrifice, how much your sacrifice 
means to us.
  A sergeant like your dad told me recently, ``When I see good things 
at risk, I'm inclined to fight for it. I guess that's why I'm in the 
Army.'' That's Sergeant Mennell from Texas. I don't know if Sergeant 
Mennell knew your dad, but I bet that's what your dad thought too. Your 
dad saw your future at risk, Miah, so he went to fight for you and for 
me and for all of us.
  When I was leaving your house the other night, there was a beautiful 
moon hanging low in the west over the mountains you can see from the 
top of your driveway. It was glowing orange and looked like a bowl that 
could hold something. I thought of those pictures of you and your dad. 
I thought of God holding the moon up there, holding your dad, holding 
you and your mom, holding this whole big world. It seemed like the moon 
was doing something else, Miah. It seemed that it was holding the hope 
of a lot of tomorrows. You see, as the moon falls, the sun rises on a 
new day. When your dad fell, it was so that you could have many more 
tomorrows in peace and freedom.
  When I see a waxing moon glowing orange and hanging low in the west, 
stretching its light from South Carolina to that farm your dad loved in 
Montana, I'll think of you, Miah, and I'll think of your dad, and I'll 
pray for many tomorrows for you and for the country your dad loved.
  Thank you, Miah.
  Your friend, Bob.
  P.S. Keep an eye on those dinosaurs in your doll tent. You know they 
scare me.

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