In the early months of the war, in a moment of gratitude and compassion, I did what so many others did: I sent a care package or two to my loved ones serving in the military. And then, after patting myself on the back, I returned to my normal life. My safe life. My comfortable life. A life that got along just fine, thank you, without daily reminders of the war. Just like so many others.

I went on like this for a long time. I'm not sure what exactly woke me up. Somehow I recognized the denial. I admitted the disrespect I was guilty of by conveniently ignoring those who were serving in places like Iraq and Kuwait and Afghanistan. I woke up, and I realized I didn't want to be ignorant and uncaring. Rather, I wanted to be generous and, if possible, inspire others to be the same.

I'm a writer, and like most writers, I'm a reader too. And thinking back on some of the hardest times in my life, I can tell you that there are few things that can provide relief like escaping into a book. And that's when I realized, that if I couldn't bring those service men and women home, I could at least offer them a temporary escape. I could give them books.