Farewell, and thanks

This is my last column. Please pardon me while I break into a profuse sweat, stagger from my computer, swig a little Maalox. Because I don't really want to write those words.

No one is making me write them. Don't picture my darling editors, Jamesetta Walker and Elizabeth Thiel, holding lighted newspapers to the balls of my feet to bully me into quitting. Although those two have threatened me with bodily harm if I didn't learn to turn things in on time, they aren't making me quit. It would be easier if they would. Instead they send me e-mails that say things like, "Are you certain this is the time?"

I'm not certain. That's the problem. Because I still love this job. Who wouldn't? Being a columnist is one of those jobs that people fantasize about getting. It's not exactly like being a rock star, and it pays a lot more like being a rock collector, but it's a great gig.

In the past 12 years, I've written about all the things I care about most. My husband and my kids and my parents have let me put them into columns about big topics like war and autism and surrogacy and aging. They've also let me cast them in columns about minivans and pizza commercials and what love feels like on a Sunday afternoon. I've been allowed to interview some of my personal heroes, like Stephen Covey and Alexandra Stoddard.

I'm so grateful for all that. I've also been so grateful for the connections to all of you Pilot readers. Even though my husband's job in the Navy has meant that we moved six times during my tenure with this column, you have kept me grounded. You made me laugh at crazy things your mothers-in-law have done to you. You made me weepy over stories of the loyalty couples show during 50 years of marriage. You pushed me through deployments, childbirth, Hurricane Katrina, autism, clothes wars, high school sports, Christmas - the million things that compose a life.

Why give that up?

I keep asking myself that question. I keep telling myself it is time. Time for you to have another, fresher columnist, as if columnists were gallons of milk that expire. Time for me to get on with the next part of my life, that part of my life that has been knocking at my door, elbowing its way into my living room, making room for itself on my couch.

Even though this next part of my life is being both demanding and rude, I have to admit I kind of like it. It started showing up after I wrote my book about military life, "The Homefront Club," published in 2005. I started getting invited to give speeches to groups of military recruiters, wives' groups, conventions. That led to "These Boots," a CD for Military OneSource, a support service for military families. It led to a weekly radio show and podcast for Operation Homefront, a nonprofit service for families of deployed service members.

In the past year I have spent the majority of my time traveling and giving workshops to military folks and the service providers who work with them. In 2008 alone I've stalked through airports in Venice and Amsterdam, Washington, D.C., and Jacksonville, Fla., Honolulu and Okinawa and Iwakuni. Every time I stand in front of a group, I know I want to do more of this work - especially if it means I'll be working with more military families.

That's why I have to go. I'm not sure how I feel about this. I have spent so many nights throwing myself across Brad's chest asking him to give me proof that I am making the right decision. He mostly just pats me with his eyes closed in the way of good husbands. He asks me to go over my arguments again, counsels me to trust in the opportunities that present themselves.

I fall asleep doing just that. I know I will wake up next Tuesday morning without a deadline, without a byline. I will be a little lost. I won't be a columnist for the Pilot anymore, but I won't be the new thing yet, either.

So I'll take myself up to the local Starbucks. I'll order a skinny vanilla latte. I'll get down to work on my speech for the Kansas National Guard... and then I'll think of you. I will miss you. And I hope you will miss me a little, too.

Jacey Eckhart, jacey87@mac.com