Every morning, the first thing I see is the top of my tent and I wonder: How many more days? I want to feel grass again. I want to be able to go to the bathroom at 2 a.m. without it being an ordeal to find my shirt, pants and boots — and having to shake everything out to avoid encounters with God’s beasts over here. Then I find a flashlight and some baby wipes, trek 200 meters to the Porta-Potty, scan with flashlight for scorpions, decontaminate seat from careless males.

I know I won’t be home for July 4, so I sincerely hope everyone can remember what it means to be an American for at least one day. You’ll never truly know how lucky you are to live in such a wonderful country. Anyone born with nothing has a better chance of making something of themselves there than anywhere else in the world. I’m thankful for the many watchdog groups that will prevent so much of what I’ve seen over here. Old warheads in school yards, no medical care and fear of torture. It’s obvious that 99 percent of the Iraqis are grateful for the little bit of effort and kindness we’ve shown them.

I don’t know how completely this is portrayed by the media at home, but the reporters here look for the story they want. They’ll interview 10 people and air the one story with the disgruntled school principal who thinks we shouldn’t be here and can’t help them.

Except for Infantry and Armor, no unit except transportation, especially fuel haulers, has seen so much of this land. I have driven all over this country from Safwan to Basra, from An Nasaryiah, to Karbala and Baghdad. The people here want what you have at home, even if it’s just a slice of it. They want to feed and clothe their families and live in peace.

So be thankful this July 4, no matter how disenchanted you are with your government. You have the cleanest water, good schools and 632 percent more law and order, and respect for it, than most. Any doubts about how great the United States is should be squashed by simply walking into a grocery store where your biggest decision might be picking the freshest out-of-season fruit and your favorite cereal from among the 117 choices. Sixty-two kinds of bread. Ice on hand, disease-free meat, fresh produce, cold drinks and free press (for the most part). First aid stuff! People wear dirty rags as bandages here! It’s endless, our good fortune.

Everyone here is anxious to get back to family and friends, but it will feel so good to touch down on American soil again. I’m not sure I’ll ever leave again. OK, maybe a vacation to the Bahamas. So I haven’t been brainwashed to mindlessly chant “I love USA,” but a trip to any Third World country can make you appreciate what you left behind. I will feel guilty now leaving behind all these people and their troubles.

For now, we’re going to continue our long hauls north of Baghdad. It’s too strange to think that we ever will leave. Surely we’ll be here forever. I hope a lot of family and friends can come greet me when we get back to Fort Riley. After my C-141 trip over here, I’ve announced that I will be sitting first class on the flight back.

OK then. Soon, I hope.

This is an edited version of a letter from 1st Lt. Sarah Martinez of Lawrence to her mother, Kay Crider of Lecompton. It was submitted to the Journal-World by Martinez’s grandmother, Roberta Crider of Lawrence. Martinez is a member of the Army Reserve stationed in Iraq.