O Holy Night

I'm laying in bed listening to my little brother yell from the other room, "Sissy! Can I get up?" He tried "Mommy" but got no response, so now he moved on to me. My sister is in the bed next to me still sleeping. There is a cat sleeping at her feet. I've been up for about 30 minutes because my phone went off saying I had a Facebook message. It took forever to load and while it was I was saying, "Please be my baby. Please be him." It was. I hadn't heard from him in 6 days and it was such a relief to know that he made it safely to his new location. We chatted on Facebook for just a few minutes about his new base and his new amenities there. Soda was on the list of amenities. And just like that he was not online anymore.

My alarm is about to go off. Today my family is going to church with my husband's family. Being in the home I lived in when we met without him being here messes with my mind. I'm different. Things are different. I walk around with the feeling of "Crap, what am I forgetting?" Then I realize I didn't forget anything. The bills are paid. I did what I needed to do. It's him. He's not here and so part of me feels missing. It's been hard for me to get into the Christmas spirit this year. I hung lights at my apartment and bought a festive wreath. I've listened to my fair share of Christmas music. Cookies have been baked, ornaments are hung, and presents are under the tree. Yet it still doesn't feel like Christmastime to me.

The upside of all of this is that without all the excitement and wonder Christmas brings, I am able to focus more on the simple things in life. A teenage virgin gave birth to a baby that would one day die to save our souls. That is no simple thing, but his love is. I'm not interested in religion or arguing over whether to say Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays. All that is just noise drowning out what we need to hear. He appeared and the soul felt its worth. I hope your soul feels its worth today. My love is far away and I miss him so. The inner most parts of my soul know something is missing. Yet, it knows its worth. Laws and religion and political noise fill us with rules and regulations and arguments about things that don't matter. But his law is love and his gospel is peace. I wish you glowing hearts, a thrill of hope, and for your weary soul to rejoice this season.

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth!
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Fall on your knees, O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born!
O night, O holy night, O night divine!

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming,
Here came the wise men from Orient land.
The King of kings lay thus in lowly manger,
In all our trials born to be our friend!

Fall on your knees, O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born!
O night, O holy night, O night divine!

Truly He taught us to love one another;
His law is love and His Gospel is peace.
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother
And in His Name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
Let all within us praise His holy Name!

Fall on your knees, O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born!
O night, O holy night, O night divine!

rockstar

Lately, I've had an insatiable desire to be my husband's rockstar. My husband LOVES Christmas (much more than I do) and when I thought he'd be home around Christmastime, I had nothing but dreams of how to make it the best Christmas ever. I've thought of every little detail from each twinkling light to how I would wake him up Christmas morning, whether it was the 25th or not. Now that he won't be home until much later, I'm once again planning care packages and welcome home festivities. I just want to be extravagant with my love. I don't want money to be an object or the 7,000 mile distance to be an obstacle. I want my actions to show how much I love him. I want him to say, "My wife is such a rockstar!"

Marriage is a marathon (or at least it should be) and not a sprint. This means that most of the time it's long, arduous, and boring. The way you show love is with the everyday things. Trophies should be given to wives who thank their loved ones for doing the dishes, instead of telling him how wrong they did it. Awards should be given to husbands who truly think their wives are beautiful even at 5 am. Those who choose to be kind, even when the other is being unreasonable, deserve medals. These are the things I'm working towards.

My love can be extravagant, and it should be. I hate that I can't make holidays special for him right now. I hate that I can't cook him his favorite meal. I hate that I can't surprise him in a sexy outfit when he gets home. I hate that I can't do these big, obvious things for him. I want him to feel wanted, attractive, loved, special, needed, respected, honored. I dream about these big gestures and imagine John being blown away by them. I fantasize about him telling everyone, "Do you know what my wife did?! She's so amazing! My wife is a rockstar!"

Deployment strips away just about every opportunity for grand, romantic gestures. There are no surprise weekend getaways. There is no spontaneous love-making. Gifts must fit in a package. Mollie Gross, author of Confessions of a Military Wife, says deployment is a time of just "riding the vows". There is more surviving than there is thriving. But you know what? Anyone can buy gifts, wear lingerie, cook a meal and decorate a Christmas tree. Not everyone is capable of being faithful, even when desperate for some attention. Not everyone is able to withstand coming in fourth or fifth on the priority list (after staying alive, doing the mission at hand, keeping his brothers alive, etc) for an extended period of time. It is, after all, a long, arduous, boring marathon (within a marathon). This job is not for the weak. He may not being saying it right now, but I will. Dammit, I AM a rockstar!

And to those of you who are feeling weary, civilian and military alike, you too are a rockstar. The odds are against us. We are a rare breed. You have a 50/50 chance of making it in this crazy world called marriage, but you have all the tools needed to succeed. Keep being faithful. Keep being supportive. Keep serving, loving, and honoring. YOU ARE A ROCKSTAR!

grace

I am angrily writing on the outside of my right hand in the space between my thumb and forefinger. I hate my job, but stay because I have a wedding to pay for. I don't understand why people are so rude, especially to someone who handles their food. I remind myself of some cheesy mantra about being kind to everyone because you never know what they are going through. Since my niceness and attitude effect how much money I make, I'm trying to shake off all the eye rolls and tilted noses. I keep writing over the letters I've already made so that the word is bold and unmistakable: grace. I'm at a crossroads: grace or death, either my own demise or the next mouthy customer's. I hold my notebook in my right hand and write orders with my left. The way it's positioned, it glares right at me. Grace.

My coworkers notice it written on my hand and ask who Grace is. One teases me and asks if "a lesbo gave me her number" (It's happened). I finally explain to them that for my own good and everyone else's, I am reminding myself to give grace to everyone around me. The same undeserved grace that I've been given time and time again. The kind of grace that forgives, softens, and loves. The kind of grace that makes room for imperfection. Grace that allows people to relax and flourish in my presence.

A perfectionist by nature, I hold myself and the ones I love to unattainable standards. As I've said before, marriage is a giant mirror: it reveals things about oneself. Some of these things the mirror of marriage is bringing out in me aren't pretty. Much to my frustration, I married an imperfect person and so did my husband. Perfectionism is demanding and critical. Perfectionism does not allow room for graciousness. Perfectionism and graciousness are opposites. They cannot coexist. If I am being critical, judgmental, and demanding, I can't at the same time be forgiving, accommodating, and compassionate.

I find myself looking down at that fleshy part of my hand where the word "grace" was written. I had put it in a place that was easily visible. In order to give grace, we must be in a position where we can see grace. I am overwhelmed by the amount of grace that I have received from imperfect people to a perfect God. The way I'm positioned, it glares right at me. Grace.

My Deployment Theory

Many of my readers are not affiliated with the military and have remarked what an insight my blog is into the life of a military wife. Well, I have a theory. Ya'll ready for this? Nah nah nah nah nah. WAY-OH! (Excuse me, the 90's just sucked me in. Oh Jock Jams.)

Deployment is like pregnancy. You have weird food cravings. You wonder, "Would tequila and ice cream go well together?" Of course you don't actually eat that because that's just wrong because you're pregnant. No, not really, just HID (Husband Is Deployed). But no sane person eats ice cream with tequila, it just, you know, crossed your mind. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it!!!)

You have strange outbursts of emotion. You cry in the middle of the grocery store because you realize you forgot to put your wedding ring back on after exercising. You scream, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!!" to the fly that keeps following you around the house. You flip out on your husband because he decided to start shaving his chest hair and you exclaim, "Everything is going to be different! I won't even know you!" Because chest hair totally defines a person.

You anticipate the arrival of your loved one with nesting, making improvements around the house. The day in which he arrives seems so far away and toward the end you think it's never going to happen. You are convinced he's never coming home. There is excitement, yet anxiety about that day. You can't wait for it, yet what if doesn't live up to your high expectations?

You face weight changes, hormone fluxes, anxiety and anticipation for the future, strange dreams, conflicting feelings about the changes happening, and a longing to be with the one you love. Deployment is like pregnancy; am I right, ladies, or am I right?


(To those of you who have endured pregnancy and deployment at the same time, I applaud you. This. is. nuts.)

Foghorn

I can't sleep. I traveled to California from Texas last weekend and am feeling the effects of jet lag, different time zones, and daylight savings. Although it was a short trip, it was wonderful to see family. I wouldn't have traded it for the world. However, it made me miss my husband so much. The last time I'd been home without him was a year ago when he was in Basic Training. I was working and in EMT school. This time last year I was begging my boss to let me have Thanksgiving weekend off so I could go visit John for his 36 hour pass from Basic.

In many ways, that seems like eons ago. So much has changed in just a year. My mind has a hard time wrapping around the concept of a year deployment. Most days, it feels like mere survival. I thought I was lonely last month, but the feeling just compounds as time goes on. A couple of weeks ago, I remarked to my husband that it had been so long since someone touched me. That very night, I was blessed with an amazing hug from a beautiful friend. God is gracious to give me the little things. And it's those little things that keep me chugging through the mud, a momentary rest to catch my breath, just enough to prepare me for the next wave. There are days when I feel like screaming, "Help! I'm drowning in deployment and I can't get out!" but I don't want to cry wolf. I think to myself that it's going to get harder, I haven't had it that bad yet, don't ask for encouragement until you really need it... Wait until you're really drowning. And often times, just saying I need help in my head is enough for me to hold on a little tighter. I really haven't had it that bad! I've heard from my husband just about every day. But some days I want to throw out the computer, the very thing that makes it possible to talk to him, but I'm just so sick of being married to a computer. A computer can't hold my hand. It can't kiss me. It can't wrap it's arms around me.

There is a lot of guilt associated with deployment that people don't prepare you for. My husband feels guilty for putting me in this position. I feel guilty for expressing that this situation sucks because then it makes him feel more guilty. I feel guilty when I enjoy things that he can't do, like going out to eat or seeing a movie. He feels guilty that I feel guilty for enjoying myself! It's an ugly cycle and one that I had no idea would exist. It's not easy to balance staying strong and supportive of him, but also sharing my hurts with my best friend.

I don't know when he's coming home. I have nothing tangible to look forward to, nothing to mark on the calendar. It may be two months from now or ten. Psychologists agree that people survive disasters when they have hope, when they can hear the rescuers in the distance, even if they are days away. I feel like Florence Chadwick who attempted to swim a distance along the California coast. She'd been a champion swimmer, the first woman to swim the English Channel in both directions. However, she didn't make it. When asked why she gave up, she remarked that if she "could have seen the land" she might have made it. The fog clouded her vision. She couldn't see the finish. This is my foghorn.

Waffle Brain

I have heard the difference between the female brain and the male brain described as a spaghetti brain versus a waffle brain. Women think like a big tangled mess of spaghetti: everything is connected and touching and you can't see where one starts and where the other other ends. To men, it may seem impossible to figure out and that there is no clear direction, but women know there is fluidity in thought. The jumps or conclusions that we make as women are obvious to us because EVERYTHING is connected. The male brain, however, is like a waffle. There are neat little squares and everything goes in a box. Nothing is allowed to occupy a box if it does not belong in that box. One comedian even explained that men have a box that is labeled "nothing" and that they like to frequently visit that box and think about nothing.

People (men-bashers) have said that this attribute makes men simple, as in simple-minded. I gagged a little bit when I wrote that. I happen to appreciate the male brain. I think "simple" is the wrong word, maybe organized or concise is better. I love the balance that the male brain and female brain provide each other. Men and women are different and that's good! I am more emotional than my husband, but that doesn't make him a heartless ass or me an illogical crazy-person. Our differences can and should build each other up. Sometimes men need help to see the importance of feelings, but dammit, sometimes an orange is just an orange. And the fact that men can see that does not make them the less evolved sex.

His Piéce de Résistance

I look outside the window this morning. Overcast and windy, it appears to be a perfectly blustery October morning. A long sleeve shirt might actually be appropriate attire for this Texas fall day. I check the weather online. High of 80?! Just to be sure, I go to the French doors to step outside onto my balcony. Hmmm... sure enough, it is a warm 65-ish degrees at 8 am. This Texas weather is playing tricks on my mind, I think. It certainly looks cold out, but my thermoreceptors tell me otherwise.

Isn't that how life is sometimes? What is seen doesn't always match what is felt. Many of us experience this in our relationship with the mirror. Lately, I have been feeling quite beautiful. I want to dance around the house and let out a big "EEEEEE!!" I am loved. I am happy. I am content. And that makes me feel so beautiful. But then I look in the mirror. Flaky skin, a zit on my chin, too many gray hairs for my age. This mirror is playing tricks on my mind, I think. I sigh and wish how I felt inside showed on the outside. I'd be a freaking super model. And then there are the days in which I feel ugly with so many things I'd like to fix. Plastic surgery is alluring. Comparisons are made. I look with those same comparing eyes and try to make myself feel better. "You're better looking than so-and-so." "Other women would die to have your abs!" "At least you don't have this flaw! Or that!" And the twisted inner talk continues. A stranger may look at me and think I am quite beautiful, but I don't feel that way.

And I know I'm not alone in this. An estimated 8 million Americans struggle with eating disorders, 7 million of those are females. I can only imagine the number of people who struggle with self-image issues. I'd venture to say close to 100% of humans at some point have felt that they are not particularly beautiful. But it's all a big, fat, ugly lie. God, the Creator of waterfalls, mountains, snowflakes, peacocks, sunsets, clouds, flowers, trees, oceans, and all the beautiful things of this world says YOU are more valuable than the birds of the air and more beautiful than lilies. He created so many marvels and things of great splendor, yet He felt that something was missing so He created man in His image. And even then, something was still missing: woman.

Don't you see it? You are His piéce de résistance, the best part of all creation, the grand finalé. Dear sister, you are His masterpiece. He crafted you with care and saved the best of creation for last. He is the greatest artist of all; no man can match His artistry. Each great artist simply tries to copy His original works. Every sunset ever painted, every woman ever sculpted, every poem ever penned, and every melody ever notated, are simply counterfeits. When we look in the mirror and start picking apart every little thing we'd like to change, it's like looking up at the Sistine Chapel and thinking of all the things we'd like to change about it. When you berate yourself, you are insulting the great virtuoso Himself. You are pissing on the Mona Lisa. You are taking a crap on the Starry Night. You are rolling your eyes at the Statue of David.

If we look in the mirror with the right eyes, we see that there really is nothing to fix. Just like the many wonders of this world, both natural and man-made, we are prized works of art. After all, we are made by the Creator of the starry hosts, in His perfect, loving, and holy image. You see, when we look in the mirror, we are not only looking at a great masterpiece, but God Himself. So please stop insulting him.

A Night in a Haitian Hospital

I watch her umbilical hernia expand and contract with every deep inhale followed by a forceful cough. She lays her sweaty forehead down after every coughing fit, exhausted from the ordeal. Her dewy skin smells sickly sweet, almost like warm, melted ice cream. I sit with her in the tiny yellow office to hook her up to the nebulizer. Sometimes we have to turn on the generator just for her. No amount of medicine or breathing treatments will improve Sara's fever and breathing. The decision is made: we must take her to the hospital. My heart sinks at this thought. I have little faith in the quality of care provided and fear the trip would be pointless. This is not the U.S. This is a third world country with limited resources and shoddy hospitals. I am unaware of just how different it will be.

We drive through the streets of Port au Prince in our beat-up, but trusty white van. It is still light out, but the sun is setting fast. Rays of sunlight flicker in between houses as if angels are messing with heaven's light switches. We pass a street market and women are closing up shop, putting away the goods that didn't get sold. Men are hopping over puddles and trying to catch a tap-tap home before they stop running for the night. Children in rags chase each other in the streets where the sewer runs and where chickens peck at nothing but gravel. I see a pregnant woman, with a full basket on her head, squat and relieve herself in the gutter. I wonder how many times a day she has to do that.

There are some things I've grown accustomed to since being here: the absence of personal space; seeing things like people urinate in public; trash on the ground; tiny, concrete houses with corrugated metal roofs all stacked up haphazardly on a hillside. I've learned that 3 o'clock means anywhere between 3:00 and 3:59. I know the proper fair for a tap-tap ride and that refusing to pay higher is acceptable. I'm learning words and customs and that jokingly calling someone crazy is no joke at all. I've grown used to greeting people when you see them and to be warmly greeted in return. My body has mostly adjusted to the warm and humid weather, although my sweat glands have yet to catch up. Hearing children play, laugh, and fill an orphanage with song has become the familiar soundtrack of my life. Doing business with the local ice cream man from the outdoor balcony has become routine. He calls to us and stands back to see us over the gate. Some days we wave him off and other days we pass money down to the gate guard who then does the money-ice cream exchange for us. I've grown to like this ice cream that comes in a cylindrical, plastic sleeve and is very much like a fat, creamy Otter Pop. Not accomplishing a single task on my to-do list has become the rule, not the exception- and not because I was being lazy. I have come to expect difficulties and an insane lack of logic or efficiency.

I love this tiny little island and her beautiful people, but I cannot get used to the frustrating fact that there are so many obstacles that prevent good things from happening. Maybe it is because of my love for these people that the injustices bother me so much and I refuse to simply accept them. This is a place where one must bring his or her own bed sheet to the hospital if he or she wants sheets to lay on. This is a place where one must send a family member out to buy medical supplies and bring them back because the hospital doesn't have them. All these truths about this country and the health care system here are racing through my mind as we approach the gate of the hospital. The hospital we choose is one of the nicest in the area. It felt like an oasis when I visited the first time. There is cleanliness, organization, and efficiency. People quietly wait in lines. Bed sheets are provided. Staff is dressed professionally. As hopeful as it is, I am still wary.

We approach the guard at the front gate and he asks for our appointment papers. We tell him that we don't have an appointment and need to go the emergency room. He shakes his head and says we can't enter without an appointment. "To the emergency room?" I ask incredulously. I shouldn't sound so shocked. Things that don't make sense happen all the time here. I take a deep breath. I remember a doctor I met the day I toured the hospital. He was a young red head and wore scrub bottoms with Crocs and a t-shirt. He was kind, but hurried when we spoke. "I'm a friend of Dr. So-and-So. He said I could come anytime I needed to," I tried. Apparently the t-shirt and disheveled hair was misleading as he seems to be some sort of big wig around these parts and all of the sudden it doesn't matter that we don't have an appointment. "But only one of you can come in with the child." I don't hesitate; the obvious choice is me. I make my way to the emergency room with a toddler-sized sweat mark on my shirt, a sick girl on my hip, and a diaper bag over my shoulder.

The ER is one giant room with gurneys and chairs, no curtains in between. I check in with a rude, but semi English-speaking nurse. We eventually are shown to our bed and chair and wait for a doctor to come. I feel almost guilty for being there. The room is full of women with very, very sick children. Sara manages to sleep while I hold a mask to her face. One woman's infant is too sick to eat and her breasts have become painfully engorged. She sits with an emesis basin on her lap, exposes her breasts, and begins squeezing her milk into the basin. I take out some crackers and begin to eat. With the first crunch, twenty-two black eyes are on me. My white skin is a built in spot-light itself and everything I do and stand for is on display for all to see. I offer some crackers to the lady next to me and she willingly takes some and then passes one over to a friend. I have a sack full of snacks. I wonder how long it has been since these women have had something to eat. I feel guilty for not sharing more, but I am worried about my blood sugar dropping and becoming a patient as well. I turn to face little Sara. She is chubby and stubborn. She is well enough to fight treatments and medicine and fills the bed with her rolly legs. We are quite the pair; with my white skin and her chunkiness, we are so different from the rest.

A woman next to me begins to yell for help. The nurse at the desk barely responds. It is well into the night and her cries jolt us from our half-sleep. I know by the intensity and abruptness of this mother's cries that something isn't right. The nurses don't seem to care. Her intensity escalates and is in a near panic, screaming, "My baby! My baby!" Her baby is about eight years old and not breathing. Finally some nurses come over and almost too calmly grab a bag valve mask and began CPR. It only lasts a few seconds until they stop all together. As they escort the mother out, her wails echo through the empty corridor and ring in my ears. Three feet from me lays the first corpse I've ever seen. I am amazed at how fast rigor mortis set in. The girl's arms and hands begin to contract and flex inward. We all just stay in our seats while a nurse takes twine and binds her at the ankles and wrists and then places her in a body bag. Sara throws up and the nurse points me toward a janitor's closet. The deceased girl is still on the bed as I walk past it to get a mop. They say the passage of time leads to increased age and weight. I have spent just one night in a Haitian hospital and leave much more than just a day heavier and older.

another short write

I'm double dipping again! Here's my newest short write for school. The assignment was to write about an emotion without specifically stating it.

~~~~


The lone can of beer he left in the fridge is finally gone. I talk to myself aloud as I do the dishes, none of them his. I don't rinse away the remnants of a meal lovingly prepared and shared with family, but only frozen meals consumed in solitude. The salt and pepper shakers mock me for even they have a better half. It is so quiet. I watch funny videos online and my laughter breaks through the silence like rays of sunlight stabbing through fog. It echoes off the walls and comes back to me sounding awkward. I sort through the laundry; there are no boxers, only lace panties never enjoyed. I turn on a baseball game, though not really to watch. Instead, it fills my apartment with sounds of summertime, home, and of birthdays past.

I used to stay on my side of the bed, but now I take up as much space as possible, every inch rescued from the cold. I lay there childlike stretched and sprawled and contorted in weird positions, clutching a teddy bear. It was his as a child and when he gave it to me it smelled like a dusty, untouched attic. I washed it and a few seams appeared looser than they were before. But the dust was gone, the smell of the forgotten removed. I rub his ear between my finger and thumb as I fall asleep and wonder who it soothes more.

I wake with my feet tangled up in the sheets. I imagine they are intertwined with his, though I know my feet are merely experiencing the effects of a restless night. Being tangled up in the sheets now only has one meaning to me: bad dreams. The only relief is that these dreams are worse than reality. I lay in bed for a moment and listen to the neighbor's dog bark. He wanted to get a puppy, but I told him they were too much work. Now I think to myself it would be nice to have another living thing in this space. I stumble to the bathroom and the toilet paper is on the holder exactly how I like it, not how ever he haphazardly decided to put in on. His toothbrush is not in the drawer next to mine. No razor, shaving cream, or dirty bar of soap is on the counter. I study myself in the mirror. Messy hair and dry skin, but my eyes still sparkle. A new day begins.

confessions and forgiveness

I have a confession.

I just pulled all of these out of my fridge. Most are a month or two old.



I know, I know. Disgusting. A month ago I told my sister not to eat the rice and beans in one of those containers because it was probably bad. And yet it just stayed there. Why would any reasonable person leave spoiled food in the fridge? For months. I'm not really sure my exact reasons, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I like the look of a full fridge, even if it is full of inedible leftovers. But mostly I just didn't want to deal with it. I was sure I'd gag and not be able to handle the smell. And yet the irony is the longer I leave it, the nastier it gets and the more the work compounds.

And isn't that just how unforgiveness works? You let it sit in there to rot away and yet you don't know why. You have no good reason. Maybe hanging on to something you should of let go of months (or years) ago is comforting. It doesn't makes sense, but maybe the truth is that you just like it there. But it does you no good. If you eat of it, it will make you sick. Maybe, like me, you just don't want to deal with it. The work is daunting and unpleasant. Quite frankly, it stinks. But the longer you let it sit there, the more bitter and nasty it gets.

I dumped all of them down the garbage quickly and without apology. I was not sorry to get rid of it. After the first two, I had a new motivation to clean all the junk out. Once I got started and actually did it, cleaning out the fridge wasn't that bad. Maybe you have your reasons for refusing to forgive. Perhaps you never got the apology you think you deserve. Maybe your anger is justified. Maybe you've had it in there for so long, it has become a familiar acquaintance. But whatever the reason, it's rotting inside you and starting to smell. And like dumping out the leftovers, it just might be a lot easier (and rewarding) than you thought!

short stories

I've been doing a lot of writing for class, which means the blog gets neglected. I have decided that I reserve the right on this here blog to kill two birds with one stone and post my class work. For English, we do short essays called "miscellaneous writing assignments" that serve the purpose of simply getting the student to write. This week's prompt is as follows:

Write about a time in which you were frightened, shocked, or traumatized. Give details and use present tense.


It is a warm California day toward the end of my 6th grade year. My scrawny legs are walking myself home from the brand new school that I attend in a brand new subdivision where I live. Not much stands out here in cookie-cutter America where the same five floor plans alternate up and down the street. It is oddly quiet today. I'm not walking with friends nor are there many cars driving up and down the main road. Few children, if any, are playing in the park.

I am thinking to myself when I hear a car come up from behind me. It is driving eerily slow. My head stays straight ahead. Only when I see in my peripheral a car coast next to me at the same speed that I am walking, do I turn to face it. Or rather, to face him. He is driving a mini-van, the mark of a hurried soccer mom. However, this van is in no hurry. The windows are down and my heart is beating. He looks at me with beady black eyes, a shaved head, and a goatee. I quickly turn away, my head straight again, determined to will him away. My legs pick up the pace. Without moving my head, my eyes dart in every direction, planning some sort of an escape. Why is it so quiet? Where are all the people? Where is a man out walking his dog? He reaches over to the passenger door and flings it open. In a forceful but controlled voice, he says, "Get in the car bitch!" My scrawny legs are strong now and they run faster than ever before. The door is open and he is still following me. My backpack smacks the top of my butt with ever stride. My chest is tight. My eyes are focused and I'm able to take in a million things at once. I see a small white pick up truck in the distance coming towards us. I yell to it, though I'm sure it can't hear me. He, however, spots it too. Like the coward he is, he squeals away.

I don't stop running. I don't know if he'll circle and come back for me. I don't know how to make my legs stop even if I wanted to. I don't want to go directly home. No one will be there for a few hours and if he follows me, he'll know where I live. I run to the model home office. By this time, I'm having an asthma attack and can't articulate a thing to the employees except that I need water. I am able to spit out the mucus bubble that has formed in my throat and swallow some water. I can't tell if I've had much of a conversation with these people, but before I can be sure I've articulated what happened, I bolt out of there. Now I really just want to call my dad. I run home, looking over my shoulder the whole way. I quickly unlock the door and re-lock it once I'm inside. I call my parents and the cops are at my house before I can even calm down. How tall was he? How much did he weigh? Make, model, license plate number? Bigger than you, smaller than him. Green. KW4. I'm sorry, that's all I remember. My voice cracks.

notes from heaven

The day after John left for basic training, I had EMT class. I was alone in my car and all of it just hit me. I lost it and began to cry so hard. I was grieving and fearful. I was grieving the idea of him being gone for two months. He had been gone less than twenty-four hours and I missed him already. I was fearful of the change that might take place in him. I was fearful of where that might leave us. I was so worried that basic training would make him an institutionalized robot and there would be no place left for me in his life. That is, after all, the purpose of basic training: they exhaust soldiers and strip them down to something bare and formless, something able to shape and train for their purposes. The military would not be very effective without cooperation, uniformity, and a cohesive purpose. Without a sense of pride, brotherhood, and conformity, the Army couldn't do it's job as well as it can. Knowing that left me worried that he'd be lifeless, loveless, and content to lead a life without me. He was being bred to be a killing machine and in some ways that scared me. I would stand by him, committed and vulnerable, with no guarantee he'd do the same.

That twenty minutes of crying had left me looking like a train wreck so I beelined it to the bathroom to clean up before class. Out of all the bathrooms on campus and all of the stalls in that particular bathroom, I went into the one that had a little note on the floor. It seemed to be waiting just for me. On an unassuming purple sticky note, these words were inscribed: "Take delight in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart. Psalms 37:4" There in that bathroom stall at a community college, I had one of those moments. It was the kind of moment in which everything gets quiet and you hear the Lord speak directly to your heart. In that moment, I realized my fear was not out of faith. In that moment, I realized that my stress, anxiety, and fearfulness was because I wasn't trusting that God would give me the desires of my heart. He said to me, "I know what your heart desires and I've promised to give it you because you take delight in me." What a promise. I also understood that if John did change in a way that left no room for me, that God would STILL grant me the desires of my heart, even if it was in a way I hadn't imagined. I remembered that sometimes God takes away things we think we want for things that really fill our soul. That single little verse left me in position to say, "whatever the outcome, You will still keep your promises."

I write this now, almost exactly a year after that day, and clinging to that promise has been harder than ever. John and I are married now (desire granted) and instead of facing two months apart, we are facing twelve or more. The likeliness that he will change during this separation is greater than ever before. The degree of that change is heightened. And unfortunately, my fear has also increased. He is now acting out all of those things in which he was trained for. It is no longer training exercises, but the real deal. Conformity is not just a practice, but a necessity. Death, in one form or another, is not just an idea, but may become a reality in some capacity. My fear often manifests by becoming controlling, or at least trying. But the reality is, I can't control what happens to and around my husband while he is gone. I cannot control the choices he makes, the influences around him, or the events that take place in his life while we're apart. I have to let it go and believe that, once again, God will come through for us. I have to have faith that His promises are continual.

In one of the lowest points of deployment so far, I felt lonelier than ever. Not just physically, but in heart as well. I was mindlessly flipping through a book and my fingers stopped on a piece of paper tucked between the pages. It was a piece of paper my little sister was given at church while she was here visiting. It said "God is..." and she was prompted to finish the sentence. In her childlike handwriting and in a childlike faith, she wrote, "He is always there!" Just another reminder of one if HIs promises, another breath of fresh air, another prompting of faith, another note from heaven. Even in the most impossible of situations, even when the things I fear are actually valid, He stays unchanging. He is even gracious enough to give me reminders of this when I'm doubting and have lost focus.

present and purposeful

Whenever I post something about marriage or loving my honey, I feel a little guilty. I hesitate because I have a lot of friends that aren't married, but would really like to be. It all seems a little unfair, especially since being married wasn't something I always dreamed about. I didn't grow up fantasizing about my wedding day and made "if" statements about marriage, not "when." I figured I'd probably get married since most people do, but it was never a goal. My plan was to go to college, get a degree, travel the world, own a cute loft in the city, and maybe on my 30th birthday consider wishing for a husband. And then just because of the way life works, I ended up falling in love and getting married at the age of 22 after dating my now husband for only a year. Not to mention, hardly meeting any of the other goals I have... yet. Things seem a little backwards.

Whenever the topic of marriage and kids came up in a group of girls, I always felt like I couldn't relate. Sure I've had boyfriends and heartbreaks, but I didn't have an intense longing to be a wife and mother. And now I have those things (well, except the kids), I feel even more un-relatable. I don't want to cause any pain to my friends, especially the ones who know that it wasn't something I longed for and yet it happened to me. Life isn't fair. I don't know why my friends aren't married, especially since all of them are attractive, smart, funny, talented, and would make great spouses. I don't know why it happened for me and not them.

I do know, however, that there is purpose in every stage of life, unplanned or not. Getting married young, fast, and to a soldier was definitely not my plan, but it has been amazing. Maybe being 30 and single wasn't your plan, but it can be amazing if you let it be. There are things single girls can do that are a little difficult for married gals. The summer before I met my beau, I had a casual conversation with a friend that let to a whirlwind month long stay in another country. That would be a little difficult for me to do now. (Although my sweet husband who knows my heart for the nations and adventure wouldn't prohibit me going or anything, there is just another human being to consider now.) I'm learning things now, in this time, this place, and this current situation that I would have never learned anywhere or any time else. The same goes for whatever situation you are in. This life you are living may not be what you want it to be, but I want to encourage that this season is not in vain. There is value in it. You can live a purposeful single life. You can serve others, learn about yourself, go on adventures, make friends and do a whole lot of stuff you wouldn't be able to do in another time or place or situation. Please, dear sisters, don't take this time for granted. Marriage is wonderful, but so is singledom. Live in the present so you don't miss an experience you'll wish you could of had!

Strong

Some days are easier than others. Some days you feel like shouting "I am WOMAN! Hear me roar!". Or maybe: "deployment shloyment. I got this." We grab our proverbial bootstraps, roll up our imaginary sleeves, and conquer our world. Most days, however, we survive. We get out of bed and put one leg in our pants at a time. We go about our business. We manage to feed ourselves something that may resemble actual vegetables. We smile at the checker at Walmart. We blend in and do what needs to get done. Then there are the other days. You know them. They are the ones that knock you off your feet. These days are a car that has run a red light and SMACK, plows you down, leaving you stunned and bleeding in the street. These days are the ones you don't want your husband to see. You sure as hell know it ain't pretty. You know it may be cause for worry and the last thing you want to do is worry and distract your soldier. But then dagumit, he's the one that makes you feel better. He's your best friend. So then comes the wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth as you debate over what to tell him and what to store later to unleash on some unsuspecting victim... uh, I mean, what to vent to a friend about. Or maybe there is no debate and you just whine and weep to your man and make him feel like crap because he is the cause of all this torment. Oh but, none of us would do something like that.We are Army wives, Army Strong.

But what if Army Strong isn't strong enough? What if Me Strong and Love Strong and all the other reasons we think we are strong, aren't enough? Is there a kind of Strong that is stronger than you, than your love for your spouse, than the U.S. Army? Is there a Strong that we can lean on when we've lost all confidence in ourselves, our love, and the Army? 2 Corinthians 12: 8-9 says "At first I didn't think of it as a gift, and begged God to remove it. Three times I did that, and then he told me. 'My grace is enough; it's all you need. My strength comes into its own in your weakness.' Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift. It was a case of Christ's strength moving in on my weakness." (The Message) Ok, seriously? Glad to let it happen? Appreciating the "gift" of deployment? That's almost laughable. You and I both know sending the person you love the most in this world into a war zone isn't something we want to appreciate. But what if it causes us to let go of our grasp on good things, in order to be able to receive the best thing?

Self-assuredness and appropriate confidence are good things. Faithfulness, loyalty, and love are good things, things God loves even. It's when we cling to those things for our strength that it gets a little messy. It's a hard concept to understand that when we are weak, we become strong. It's like surgery. If we have dead, necrotic tissue inside of us, making us weak, a surgeon must cut us open, exposing our vital organs. He must cut through the skin, our protective layer. He must cut through our fat, our insulating layer. He must cut through our muscle, the layer that helps us move and remain upright. He must get to the most vulnerable part of us and EXPOSE it. We are then in an incredibly weakened state, arguably more so than prior to the surgery. But it is what he must do in order to get to the dead tissue. He diligently, carefully, and masterfully removes what is dead and what weakens our whole system. We must first be weak before we can be made strong. We can take pills and herbs and do everything in our power to mask the symptoms, but unless we allow Christ to make us strong, we just hold onto the dead thing that's making us sick in fear of becoming even weaker. We have to trust, however, that this process of being weak allows us to become stronger than we ever imagined. Not Me Strong, not Love Strong, not even Army Strong, but God strong.




I credit the phrase "God Strong" to the book with the same title. For more reading on the subject, please check out "God Strong" by Sara Horn, an author and military wife.

being love

It was wedding dress shopping day and a friend of my Maid of Honor said, "Remind Carsen that as much as she's preparing to be a bride, she needs to prepare to be a wife. And as much as everyone will try to convince her, it's actually not all about her." Do I see some of your eyes widening? Are some of your heads shaking? The concept that a wedding is not all about the bride goes against what our culture says. Women find it acceptable to do and say things that are normally unacceptable when it comes to their wedding day. I was constantly bombarded by the mantra that it was MY day.

Fast forward just a few months and now I'm an Army wife dealing with deployment. With so much attention and allowances made for me, it's been easy to think once again that it is all about me. I'm so, so grateful for the encouragement, support, and never-ending grace that my friends and family give me, but I've allowed that to make it embarrassingly easy for me to be all about me. In a fit of frustration and miscommunication with my husband, I stepped back for a moment and realized that all of my demanding and emotional upset were because I couldn't take my eyes off myself long enough to see my husband. I had to apologize for totally messing up the "love is not self-seeking" part. I told my husband that I felt like an awkward teenager fumbling over my words and struggling with making myself clear. I realized that I should have been listening instead of talking in the first place. And as soon as I was able to do so, I felt better.

When our vision is so short that we can't see past our own noses, we miss so much. We miss an opportunity to satisfy our spouses need. We miss the fact that what we are kicking and screaming about is right in front of us, if we'll only shut up long enough to see it. We miss a Heavenly Father looking down at us, waiting for us to finish our fit so he may speak with our full attention. We see down and in, instead of up and out. When we lose vision, we lose focus. And how unfocused I had been!

I just chatted with a friend and shared some of these recent struggles. She said, "I'm watching you be love. You're doing it." What a blessing it is to have friends that encourage you in the midst of your mess-ups. That was one of the best compliments I've ever gotten and I hope I can remember to keep being love.

10 Things That Make Deployment Suck Less

Let's face it, we all know deployment sucks. But I'm kind of getting tired of my self-induced pity parties (remind me of that in a week) and forced myself to come up with 10 positive things about deployment. Clearly, I'd give up all these things and more to have my soldier home, but since I can't, I'm just going to appreciate them. Seasons come and seasons go, but not with force. I guess I'd rather surf the waves than fight against them.

1. Getting to cook fish and mushrooms and go out for sushi, things that my husband hates
2. No arguing when it comes time to pick out a movie or over whose friends to hang out with
3. Learning new things that I may have just let my husband take care of if he were here
4. Combat and separation pay plus less taxes equal a little more income
5. Entitlement to Servicemembers Civil Relief Act which drops interest rates on auto loans, mortgages, and credit cards to 6%
6. Spending less on food, gas, and date nights
7. Making more, spending less, and lower interest rates on debt mean a boost to the savings account!
8. Knowing that because my husband left, thousands of soldiers are coming home and being reunited with their families
9. A renewed and heightened love and affection toward my spouse
10. Pride and thankfulness for our freedom as a nation

And while many live routine, mundane lives, I have something to look forward to: the return of my soldier!

Lump in my throat
And beating in my chest
Take what you want
And divide the rest
The air hums on
And the cloud covers
I can't go on
Left with the others
If time is money
Then we are broke
I can't hear your whispers
The distance chokes
Tell myself we'll get through
My heart is saying
I hope that's true
They say all is fair
In love and war
But one gives
And the other takes more
And more
And more

education

My little sister informed me this week that there is no longer music, art, or physical education classes at her school. This absolutely frustrates and baffles me. With the economic "crisis" and budget cuts, I cannot believe how much is being taken from education. What hope do we have for our already declining future if we cut education?

The process of learning an instrument has been proven to be directly linked with the neural connections used in abstract reasoning and spatial relations. A 1997 study demonstrated that musical training was more beneficial than computer training when it comes to spatial-temporal ability, which develops "higher brain functions required for mathematics, chess, science and engineering." (And yet we are installing computers and taking out band.) The brain has been described as a giant "connect the dot" game and it has been argued that both visual art and music may make more dot-connections than even math or language. These connections allow for higher order thinking, including creativity, problem-solving, and reasoning skills. The more complex the connections, the more complex the thinking. Heaven have mercy on a society who is resigned to rote thinking, memorization, and blind repetition of facts.

Other than the obvious physical and health benefits of exercise, there also has been research on the positive correlation between exercise and intelligence. The aforementioned study "revealed that aerobic exercise resulted in a moderately large effect on overall cognitive performance", especially in the area of executive function. The researchers define executive functions as "planning and selecting strategies that organize goal-directed actions (Das et al. 1994) and stand apart from processes involved in basic information processing" (bold mine). Our society has literally whittled school down to "basic information processing" and that makes me a little nervous.

Cossy

Imagine, for a moment, that you are eight. You are eight and you are in a family of three children. You live with an aunt who takes care of you. She works long hours at a salon, doing women's hair. At night, sometimes, she doesn't come home. But, when that happens, she usually comes home the next morning with enough money for food that week.

Your mother died when you were very small, and you don't remember her. But your father loved you, and tried to care for you. You watched him grow sicker and, eventually, your cousin came to get you and take you to her home. While you were living there, you got word that your father died. Your aunt came to pick you up, then, and you started living with her. At six, you noticed that there was pee in your blood, and that your skin was starting to look scaly.

Imagine, for a moment, that you are Cossy Nakate. She is eight years old. She is living with her aunt who is forced to work as a prostitute in order to feed her. Her parents both died of AIDS, but not before they passed it on to her. She is already passing blood in her urine, but her blood count isn't low enough to get the free medication that foreign aid provides. Essentially, Cossy is waiting to get sicker, so that she can get help.

At Nakate, we feel that Cossy is representative of most the little girls living in Kakooge. After meeting her, we decided that we not only wanted to change her life, we wanted to change the future of every little girl in her village. Through employing their mothers, aunts and grandmothers, we are sending them to school, putting clothes on their back and providing food for them each day. Not only that, but we are teaching them that women are valuable, powerful and able to provide. We are teaching them that you don't have to prostitute yourself out to provide for your children.

This week, we'd like to ask you to donate a dollar for your daughters, for your nieces - for all the eight year old girls you know that wake up every morning without worrying where their mother was last night.

Donate a dollar for Cossy.

Shanley Knox

Nakate Project Founder

lovers

"Anyone can be passionate, but it takes real lovers to be silly."
Rose Franken







*Photos by Lauren Coughlan*

Nakate and Mama Hope

Mama Hope, what an appropriate name. She is a Ugandan mother of seven who has found hope in The Nakate Project. Nakate's concept is simple: provide jobs through jewelry-making, which empowers women with means to raise their own money to feed their families. And to simplify it more, there is a small staff and all state-side administration is done on a volunteer-basis making it possible to send all proceeds directly to these women. The women in the program take scraps of paper and old wrappers and roll them up into beads for necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. What a beautiful metaphor it is: taking things that were once condemned to the trash heap, and turning them into something gorgeous, life-giving and life-changing. This is exactly what Nakate does for the women of Uganda: takes them out of a hopeless situation and offers a chance for women to work with their own hands and creative minds to give life to their families.



This week Nakate is partnering with Tipping Bucket to raise $2,000. Nakate currently needs to raise $2,000 so they are able to ship the necklaces to the states before they are purchased and to pay the Ugandan family who facilitates the program. Nakate is committed to paying monthly salaries to the women (40 women get $37.50 a month) which takes start up costs than are incurred prior to the sale of the jewelry. The way Tipping Bucket works is like this: If Nakate raises the goal of $2,000 in the allotted time, Nakate gets to keep the money. If not, all the donations go back to you, the individual donors. All they are asking for is each person to donate one dollar starting Monday here and to spread the word. You can probably find that in your couch. One dollar may be small in the eyes of the world, but to Mama Hope it is the world.

cloud of weird

I was heading to Austin to go pick up my sister from the airport. As I was getting gas, a late night Taco Bell craving overcame me. Lucky for me, it was right across the parking lot and I had left my house early enough to stop. Or was I lucky? About 2 miles and 5 bites into the drive, I realized this grilled stuffed burrito might have been a bad idea. A very bad idea. First the little devil of a burrito started to drip all over my hands. And because it was on my hands, it also got onto the steering wheel. I reached down to get the bag where I might find some napkins. Make that a napkin. Actually, make that a mild sauce covered napkin. I did my best and buried the wrapper and now totally burrito soaked napkin into the bag and was thankful that was over.

My satisfaction quickly subsided when I started to feel something wet on my crotch. I looked down and saw a giant blob of burrito guts in my lap and all over my phone. It looked like I had diarrhea of the who-ha. Awesome. I stupidly reached into the Taco Bell bag to get the napkin and in doing so, my hand got covered in burrito once again. Now I'm digging in the dark (no light in my car), with gooey hands, and who-ha crap all over me frantically trying to find something that will work to clean up the mess. No napkins in the glove box, but I found a notebook. I ripped out a page and tried scooping up the mess. Not very effective. Then I found an empty Zip lock and used that to scrape and wipe away the burrito insides that were seeping through my under-roos and onto places where no burrito should go. All of this is happening while I drive at 11 pm with truckers staring down into my Corolla.

Like a sweet little oasis, there was a toll booth. *Please, Lord, let there be a nice lady in there who has napkins. Please.* And just like that, I asked the lady at the toll booth and she had napkins! The mess had started to dry so I put a finger over the straw of my water and went to work. Ice cold water right on your crotch isn't comfortable, but it had to be done. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Now it looked like I pissed myself, but I decided that was better than the alternative, who-ha crap. So I drove the rest of the way sans AC and hoped to all things good and holy that it was dry before I got to the airport. And then out of nowhere some demonic creature leaped out in front of me. From the smell of things, I'm pretty sure I hit a skunk.

I got to the airport where I parked and was able to get a slightly better look at the damage. I had really missed some spots. So in a crowded airport parking lot, I was rubbing my crotch, sweating, and cursing to the gods of Taco Bell. I was just waiting for security to apprehend me. They were never going to let me leave this airport with a child. That was going to have to do until I could get to a bathroom and in better light. A quick hike and a trip through creepy, AIDS-infested stairways and I was in the airport. I walked into the bathroom and looked down. The cheesy, sour creamy-ness had dried into a white, crusty substance right on the money maker. I'll let you decide what that might look like. So once again, I'm scrubbing and swearing. A lady walked in while I was strategically placed under the hand dryer whispering "please, please, come on!" There was nothing else I could do.

Somewhere between the initial discovery and the skunk, I called my mother. I pretty sure she was in tears from laughing so hard. Right after we hung up, she texted me "Be careful. You seem to have a 'can things get any weirder?' cloud hovering over you." Story of my life, mom. Story of my frickin' crazy, silly life.

children

There have been many of times where I've looked at my husband and said "children" while rolling my eyes and shaking my head, quickly followed by a crooked grin. The sentiment isn't in response to actual children, but by how we behave. Since we've been together there have been races, water fights, wrestling matches, games of catch and H.O.R.S.E, the building of forts, the watching of Saturday morning cartoons, and the infamous silly string fight.



The I.S.S.F occurred not long after we moved into our apartment and the moving company showed up with our things. I had been in the kitchen and John was unpacking a box in the guest/man/extra/where-everything-goes-that-doesn't-have-a-place room. Or so I thought that's where he was. I turned around and was startled by some annihilation of a yet to be known substance. I punched the attacker. Instantly, I realized that the attack was harmless and the heap on the floor was my husband. I felt terrible, but I think he learned his lesson. A few weeks later, upon returning from getting the mail, my husband greeted me at the door. He told me to hold out my hands. When I did, he shoved a can of silly string in my hand and ran to the back bedroom. And so it began!

Thinking tactically, I assumed he was standing right inside the doorway of our bedroom. It would have been a good position if I didn't have 5 brothers and a dad trained in S.W.A.T. I squared up so that I was up against the perpendicular wall. I reached my arm across the threshold at an angle and fired. He swiftly jumped up on the bed frame, getting himself to higher ground. I continued my assault. His strategy was wise, but the execution was poor because I was able to cause him to lose his balance. My husband was once again on the floor. I sprayed him with no mercy until my can began to fizzle out, though I certainly felt the affects of his return fire.

We surveyed the damage. There was silly string from the front door to the back bedroom. It was on the floor, the walls, the bed, and hanging from the ceiling fan. It was stuck to light switches, in my hair, all over our clothes and dripping off John's eyelashes. Door knobs, baseboards, and shoes could not escape our artillery. Thankfully, silly string is very easy to clean up. :)

Livesay [Haiti] Weblog: one small favor

Livesay [Haiti] Weblog: one small favor: "By Heather Help us Make our Maternity Center a Reality by Simply Voting Heartline has a chance to receive a $50,000 grant"

Above is a link to an organization that is so dear to me. Please follow the link to vote for them to receive a $50,000 grant to expand their maternity center in Haiti.

Warrior Princess

Growing up, I was a tomboy. I can't even remember having a close female friend until high school. Where many little girls have a best friend Christina, mine was Christopher. I love(d) dirt, fire, sports, pranks, riding bikes, and all the typical "boy" things. Having 5 brothers, I've had my fair share of wrestling matches and have strong memories of body slams and boston crabs. I have an affinity to spy movies, especially ones with a strong female character. I've been dying to take up Judo and own a firearm. Quite frankly, all I've ever wanted is to be a bada$$. My mom said she never worried much about me, because she knows I don't go without a fight. She also told me she'd be confident that my choice would be "fight" in any sort of "fight or flight" situation. I know she's right. I tell my husband all the time that my stubbornness is both my best and worst quality. I have the heart of a warrior and am ready to fight at a moments notice, often times when there is no threat. Like I said, both my best and worst quality.

Because of this, the term "warrior princess" has always appealed to me. But not until recently have I let the "princess" part sink in. To almost everyone who isn't an eight year old girl, I think the term "princess" has come to mean someone prissy, weak, needy, and snobby. However, I've been allowing myself to conjure up a new mental picture of the term. I don't think anyone who knows me well has accused me of being sweet. Maybe kind and understanding (when I want to be), but never the type of endearing sweetness that makes people feel comfortable and invited or that is just so contagious. I never want to be fake, but I would really like to muster up a little bit more sweetness in my demeanor because to me sweetness is an attribute of a princess. Also, a princess is in a position of authority, an heir to the throne. With that authority comes confidence and responsibility. I have been given much, so with confidence I must invest wisely my gifts. A princess is a woman in her full glory: strong, but soft; confident, but humble; prosperous, but giving; beautiful, but approachable; lovely in all sense of the word. I think I've gotten the "warrior" character down; here's to giving "princess" a try!

stats

I just discovered the stats portion of my blog and found out I have readers in the US, Canada, Germany, Italy, France, Haiti, India, Saint Kitts and Nevis, the UK, and Israel. That's pretty cool and also a little intimidating! Nothing like bearing your soul to the world. When I saw how many countries were being represented in my audience, it made me feel connected to the world, but also a little shy. Of course it's called "the world wide web" for a reason and I was well aware that anyone could read what I post here, I just never thought anyone actually was. So share a little love, introduce yourself, and let me know where you're reading from!

glimpes

speed marriage

With the shoddy internet and eight hour time difference, my marriage has become like speed dating. It usually goes like this:

-(Via a private Facebook message) Hey babe, how are you? I've got 3 minutes
-Good. Just missing you. How are you?
- It's hot here and the internet sucks. How are we doing money wise?
- We're ok, babe. Anything new?
-No, not really. I gotta head out in a second. I love you.
- I love you more.

And with that there is just enough time to send him a web cam pic of the goods and tell him the girls miss him too. Small talk, finances, sweet nothings, and sexy time all in 3 minutes. Speed marriage.

the unknown

My husband is finally overseas and it is clear to me already what the worst part of deployment is: the unknown. There are a lot of things I don't know, both small and large. On a day to day basis the most forefront unknown is "when will I get to 'talk' to him?" Since most contact right now is via Facebook, I don't like leaving my computer. I get antsy when I need to take a shower or, heaven forbid, go to the store. I just don't want to miss a chance to chat with him, or if his internet connection is good enough, video chat. Other day to day things are unknown like "what is he up to today?" or "has he had enough to eat and drink?" Of course the Army is feeding him, but a wife just likes to know that her husband is comfortable. Go a bit deeper and you will find the question "is he safe from harm?" There are a plenty of questions that go unanswered, including more long term ones like "when will he be home?" And the one know one wants to ask, but echoes in the quietest of moments: "he is coming home, right?"

This is where trust and faith comes in. First it starts with faith in my husband, that he will take care of himself and make good decisions. Trust also extends to the Army itself, that his training is sufficient, that his leaders are well equipped, and that his fellow soldiers have each others' back. Most importantly, I have to have faith that my husband is in the will of God, and to fully believe that there is no safer place to be. War zone or not, he is safe there because that's right where the Lord wants him. I find great comfort believing in a God that is far bigger than anything in this world. And whether or not he comes home, I know he's in His hands. Last night I prayed, "God, I know John is yours and that I'm just borrowing him from you, but will you please let me keep him for a long time?" And I trust that He will.

counting beats, days, and blessings

I've been feeling his pulse lately. At first it wasn't intentional; I was merely stroking his arm and my fingers naturally rested upon his wrist. But now the "thump, thump, thump" under my fingertips has been like a life line. I love the rhythm, the slow and strong pace of his pulse. I feel it every chance I can without getting caught because I know I won't get to feel it for awhile. Sometimes I count the beats, much like counting down the days until he leaves. Being an Army wife isn't easy; loving a man who runs to danger and not away from it feels like a heroic feat itself. There is something so precious about these days: The kisses are longer, the hugs sweeter, the dances closer. Arguments seem to work themselves out quicker and the dishes aren't really that big of a deal. He says he'll come back and I have to believe that. But while he's here, I'm stealing every moment I can. And whether you love a man like mine or not, I hope our experience encourages you to hug a little sweeter too. Ciao, I have a soldier to love on.

Conversations with C and J

J (jokingly): "Shut up."
C: "Hey, kind words."
J: "Close your beautiful mouth. Please."

~~~

J: "Babe? Why did you just fall to the ground?"
C: "Orthostatic hypotension."
J.: "I'm not a dictionary."
C: "I stood up too fast."
J: "Oh."

~~~

C: "That was back when you still romanced me."
J: "Hey! I still romance you! I did the dishes!"
C: "Good point."


~~~

C: "I love you."
J: "I love you too... even when you're being a nut sack."

~~~

I'm so blessed to have a husband that loves me even when I'm being a nut sack.
:D

dark angel

I don't remember much about that day, but I must have been looking at my feet a lot because I remember wearing brown leather sandals that made my feet stink and jean shorts. I also remember that Sal had stuck playing cards in my spokes and that half way there I stopped to take them out. The sound was annoying me. I also remember going to Nugget Market and selecting a small carton of Dreyer's coffee ice cream, my grandmother's favorite. I remember going to the deli area and asking for a plastic spoon and thinking how smart I was to think ahead. I looped the plastic bag on my handle bars and headed to the nursing home. My big green eyes could barely see over the countertop as I told the nurse I was there to see Helen Gray. She handed me a clip board to sign in. I looked at all the fancy cursive signatures and clearly printed mine. I bet they don't get many 11 year olds around here, I thought. The nurse smiled at me and said, "do you remember which room, sweetie?" I hated when people called me pet names like that. "Yes, ma'am." I remembered to say "ma'am." My parents would have been happy.

I know now that she was terribly emaciated and that her organs were failing, but the only thing I remember making note of was her lips. They were so dry and stuck to together and she struggled to part them. I was thankful it was hot outside because the ice cream was soft enough for my plastic spoon and soft enough for her to eat. I gave her one bite and she laid her head back and closed her eyes. I put the lid back on because I thought she had fallen asleep. She turned her head back towards me with open eyes and mouth. I smiled. She looked like a baby. This continued for a long time until she had eaten the entire small carton.

After she finished her ice cream, I didn't know what to do. She was staring at me and I felt awkward. I saw a Bible sitting on the table next to her bed. It was heavy and had a red cover. "Do you want me to read to you?" I think that's what people do when their loved ones are in the hospital. She didn't respond. I picked up the big Bible and opened it toward the middle. Puh-salms? No, I think the "p" is silent, I coached myself. I wasn't a Christian yet, but I did like to read. I started reading aloud until she fell asleep. I left and found my bike propped up outside where I left it. It was my idea to visit her, but I was thankful I could go play now. I rode home with a fury. My grandmother died shortly after.

A few years later, I learned about the Holocaust. Many kids in class, myself included, exclaimed that if we were those Allied soldiers we would have brought pizza or at least given them our food. The teacher then explained that when someone is so emaciated like that, they can't just eat a ton of food or they might die. She explained that it would be too much for their bodies' to handle. Oh no. It hit me. That's what I did with my grandma. I killed Grandma Helen. My parents assured me that I did not kill her, but that I gave her a wonderful going away present. I still felt weird. I shouldn't have done that. Why didn't the nurses say anything? Her body couldn't handle it. I killed grandma. I'm like that boy angel on Touched by an Angel that nobody wants to see because he's the one that "carries them to heaven." My teenage mind whirled.

I know enough now to know that I didn't kill grandma and that the nurses didn't stop me because they knew she was going to die soon anyway. I've dealt with death on many accounts since then and sometimes wonder why. I've had a very sick toddler die in my arms. I've witnessed a still birth and was instructed to handle the baby's crushed skull gently as I prepared it for burial. I've been to hospitals where children go to die and where the line between life and death is very fine. I've visited a woman bound to her sick mat in a small hut who died a just a few days after I prayed over her. She told me she could see angels. I cried. I cried a lot. Some people thought that maybe I couldn't handle the sadness of someone dying. Truth be told, that's the first time I've been in a situation like that and cried. Most of the time I worry why things like rows and rows of tiny beds holding tiny dying bodies doesn't bring me to tears. I hate injustice. I hate death. I hate disease. I once asked that God would break my heart for the things that break His and He did. But I know that with that broken heart, comes strength and boldness. I'm not afraid to go near death. I'm not afraid to take the time to find a spot on a child's skin that isn't covered in an open sore so that I can touch him there, skin to skin. Being surrounded by death and dying has caused me to live in a position that tries to balance God-given brokenness and strength. And I think that's exactly where He wants us.

Things My Mother Taught Me

- it's better to overdress than to underdress. when in doubt, dress up.
- do a "ten minute tidy" before dad gets home. everyone will be happier.
- dust before you vacuum and wipe the counters down before you sweep.
- how to make yummy guacamole and a mean margarita.
- wear pretty panties, even if no one is going to see them.
- don't be afraid to ask. you'd be surprised at how many yeses you will get.
- go pee after sex to help prevent a UTI.
- if it's broken, you can probably fix it. if not, oh well, it was already broken!
- sometimes people are mean because they are hurting. don't get so offended.
- change and wash your sheets often.
- tear lettuce, not cut it. it won't turn brown as fast.
- don't take no for answer. sometimes you have to fight for what you want.
- stay hydrated.
- just do it.

zumba, anyone?

I've been in Texas for a month and since I'm currently jobless and school-less, I decided I needed to do something to get my butt out of the house before I melt into the couch, never to be found again. I searched and found the perfect solution: Zumba. In case you're totally out of touch with social media (Zumba was featured on the Today Show, duh.), Zumba is an aerobic fitness class using moves based on Latin dance. It's loud, fast, and a more fun way to burn calories than to trudge on the treadmill for an hour.

So I drove my booty over to the community center on Thursday to pay for my class. The guy at the desk asked if I'd ever done Zumba before. He said, "Ok, don't worry, she's really energetic, but there are some older ladies in there so it's not as extreme as some Zumba classes." I didn't know I had cause for worry, but thanks community-center-desk-guy, now I am. I went home and YouTubed (yes, it's a verb) some Zumba videos. All the instructors are these sexy Latina mamas with tanned skin, perfectly round booties, and hips that don't lie. Envy. I must channel my girls J.Lo and Shakira.

I was getting ready to go to and the hubs asked "What are you going to wear?" He's learning. He knows this is a legitimate discussion. From what I saw on the videos, the appropriate attire is more along the lines of dance wear: tank tops, Danskin style tight pants, and sleek shoes that look like a firmer style of jazz shoes. I surveyed my clothes collection. Hmmmm....yoga pants, nasty t-shirt, and chunky running shoes will have to do. I got into my car and blasted some Peas. You're mine, Zumba. Let's do this.

I've never taken any sort of Latin dance classes. Expect that one time I went to a tango class with Justin Day at the Cascade Theater. But that doesn't count because he was super good and basically pushed and pulled me into submission. He might as well have been dancing with a broom. So besides that, these feet have never known salsa, mambo, merengue, samba, or cha cha cha. Ok, maybe a little cha cha cha.

I pulled up to the community center and there were quite a few women heading to class. I got inside, signed in, and waited. All the women were standing in the center of the room stretching. Man, this is serious business. So I sat up against the wall in the corner and did a little stretching. The instructor came in and was wearing a "Zumba: Join the Party" tank top. She put on a Brittany Spears-esque microphone and then said "Is tonight anyone's first night?" Like the chump I am, I didn't say anything. "So, everyone here has done Zumba before? Anyone's first night?" she repeated. My cheeks got warm. I mustered up a raise of my hand. "Anyone's first time?" This chick wasn't gonna give up. "Mine!" I finally yelled as I waved my hand again. I felt like someone from the Price is Right. She took off her microphone and came over to me. She told me to not worry about messing up, to have fun, and to just get the foot work down and the arms will come later. Gulp.

These women are insane. I shouldn't be staring at their middle aged booties, but I can't help it. These ladies can shake their thangs and I love them for it. It wasn't as scary as all the build up led it to seem. There were a few instances when I looked like a 13 year old boy at his first dance, but overall I kept up. I was definitely smiling and sweating by the end, which I think was the whole point. I think Zumba is a keeper.

pimples and insecurities

The other morning I woke up with a few zits on my chin. I know, "big deal Carsen", right? But here's the thing, I never had acne in high school so I thought I had dodged that bullet. Nope. I had it pretty easy in high school, zero acne for starters gets you a long way. I wasn't very popular, super smart, crazy talented, wildly funny, impressively athletic, or any of those things that high school movies are made of. But I had some friends, my grades were decent, and I didn't do too bad in the extracurriculars. However, the one thing I had going for me was my self confidence. Rarely was I haunted by any disturbing social rejections. On the rare occasion, I would come home and lament to my mom and say girls don't like me! Most of them would never even give me the chance. My mom would console me by telling that they are probably just intimidated by me. That made no sense to me. How can I be intimidating? I'm not even 100 lbs. My mom preceded to tell me that I have more self confidence and security than most people ever dream of, let alone awkward teenage girls. "I do?" I never considered myself to be any of those things. In fact, these girls that rejected me were prettier, smarter, better dressed, more popular, and seemingly more confident that I ever thought I was. I felt like the awkward one; how could I be intimidating?

Now here I am, with high school 5 years behind me and I'm feeling more pimply and insecure than ever and thinking aren't these things for teenagers? Aren't you supposed to grow up, leave old insecurities behind, get your braces off and laugh at your childish ways? Why is it now that after I've married my handsome husband, that I feel less than confident? I think it's because marriage is a bit invasive. When you're dating you can spend an hour getting ready at your place and your mate shows up to see the finished product. When you're dating, your boyfriend drops you off at home and you let out that big fart you've been holding in all night. When you're dating, you brush your teeth before you ever have to see that person. When you're dating, you filter your emotions and can keep the ugly ones concealed. Marriage is a whole 'nother game. Now certainly my husband saw me without make up, witnessed me angry or upset, and heard me rip one while we were dating. As he likes to affectionately remind me, "he knew what he was getting into."

I just can't help but notice that this kind of intimacy shakes my confidence. Bed head, morning breath, and gas is just the tip of the iceberg. I won't get into sex or emotions because those are much too private to divulge in public, but those can be the most unnerving of them all. I think pre-marriage I had a lot of neat little (healthy) barriers protecting from being too exposed. Now those are being ripped off, one layer at a time, leaving me often feeling like a teenager wondering who will take me to prom. And like a younger person, I still very much want to impress my husband. This crazy ride isn't for the faint of heart.

title-less

I was sitting in my bed playing solitaire on my laptop when she came into my room. She sat down on the floor by my bed, with her back on the wall. Her worried expression told me something was up. I closed my laptop and moved to the edge of my bed, waiting for her to speak. Words never came. In their place came tears. The hot, heavy, sticky kind of tears. The kind of tears that have been held back for so long that they have collected so much raw human emotion, you tangibly see their burn when they finally break free of their prison. The kind of tears you feel in your soul, not just your heart.

We've cried together on more than one occasion. The kind of job we had, where we lived wasn't easy. Especially for the ones we loved all around us, the ones we fought for on a daily basis. Many times we had seen each other cry. Injustice, death, disappointment, disease, frustration were all common causes of our sensitive hearts' tears. But this was different.

I held her as she sobbed. She said nothing except for a few words of exasperation. She knew that she didn't have to speak literal words or tell me what was wrong. Friends are like that. They just know. Except I didn't. I waited for her to tell me, but she never did. She quietly wiped off her tears and left. I sat on the floor awhile longer, wondering what just happened, wondering if I should go upstairs and talk to her. I had been urging her to take a test for so long that it never occurred to me that she finally did. I knew the possibility was always on her mind, lurking around every corner like a creepy stalker that just wouldn't leave her alone. I just didn't know that she finally faced him.

I woke up the next morning and went to her little apartment upstairs for breakfast and for answers. She was still crying and so was our friend who came for her shift that morning. I felt like a little child watching her parents' marriage fall apart, wanting answers, wanting to understand the adult world, wanting to know "is it my fault?" But I also didn't want to smother her with questions or prod or be in the way or do anything abrasive. We hadn't been friends long and in this highly intense situation, I felt like I didn't know what to do because I was afraid I didn't know her.

I had just kind of showed up one day and she was just kind of there. I watched her take command over the crazy ship she captained, intimidated by her position. I just wanted to please, to work with my hands, to make a difference. I thought this would be easy when I showed up. I showed up saying, "here I am!" heart and hands open wide, thinking that would be enough. I thought I could be a strong and hardworking deckhand, happily about my business changing the world. I had never imagined the storms would be so strong, nor the waves so large, so overwhelming.

We finally exchanged words and my dense mind wholly understood. "So you did take a test?" She looked confused, like her tears had already done the talking for her. "Yes, that's what last night was about." My nineteen years of life experience had failed me. My head understood before my heart did, as always; which is why I like it better. My heart is too slow to comprehend, to believe, to let go. It's finicky like that. So I followed my head. I quickly got the supplies I needed and asked her to pee in a cup. I walked over to the clinic with specimen in hand and performed my own test. I needed to do it more than I needed to hear it. It didn't take long to turn positive. And in that dark, damp, concrete clinic in a small country surrounded by a big ocean, I cried. I cried those same hot, heavy, sticky tears that had been collecting since August. I cried tears that burned when they broke free, the kind I could feel in my soul. My best friend was pregnant.

"Babe, if you're not good at something the first time you try it, you have to practice."
I gave John "the look." Silly man, when will he learn. We were about to go ice skating together on a quaint outdoor rink in Walnut Creek. It was no Central Park, but I've always wanted to go ice skating outside with my beau. John played ice hockey for many years, but this was my first time to try out the sport. Knowing that I'm competitive and am sorely grumpy if I suck at something, John was trying to give me a pep talk as we laced up our skates. "You can't be good at everything the first time you try it," he continued. "Is that a challenge?" I asked. (When you're competitive, everything is a challenge.) "No, I just don't want a grumpy girlfriend if you're not good at this." I grinned because it feels good to be known. I grinned because he was worried I'd fall on my butt. I grinned because that sounded an awful lot like a challenge.

There are a lot of things I am not good at. I've never been exceptionally good at sports, yet held my own because I am insanely tough, determined, and mostly stubborn. So while I can count on both hands how many points I scored my two years playing basketball, I was always the fastest down the court and if we were running man-on-man or a half court press, I couldn't be stopped. Just don't give me the ball. My coach actually told me if I ever had the ball, just pass it to a "big ugly." I guess that's what she called the players who could actually do something productive with the ball. Being five feet tall doesn't help my case either. I'm really not good at video games. As soon as I get a controller into my hand, the tongue comes out and before long I'm hurling insults at inanimate objects. It isn't pretty. And don't even get me started on my math skills. But the things that I am good at, I was good the first time I tried it.

I learned how to swim when I was 2 years old. It just sort of happened. My mom decided it was a good idea to enroll me into swimming lessons to hone the skill. In one summer, I passed all the levels that the swimming school offered. The instructor told my mom, "you need to get that girl on a team." And so she did. I certainly got better with practice, and I was never some Olympic star, but I was a "lean, mean, swimming machine" as my dad called me.

I felt awkward in those heavy skates. "It's just like roller blading," I tell myself, a hobby I enjoyed many years ago. The rink is smaller than I expected and there are so many children to dodge. We start out along the wall as John gives me a few pointers. I'm bored already. "Can we go faster?" He smiles that smile that sucked me in so long ago, one corner turned down, the other up, with his eye brows mimicking the same little boy cock-eyedness."I don't know, can you?" he smirks. I'm feeling a bit uneasy on the ice, but that doesn't stop my need for speed. I push off from the wall and start taking baby steps unassisted. With one fearless push of my feet, I'm gliding like an ice princess. He's ahead of me now, showing off his skills. Not to leave me behind, he turns around and waits for me. He sees that I'm doing pretty well for my first time around and shakes his head. I can't help but laugh. I love watching him skate, like he's in his element. He stops and carves into the ice gracefully, he shows me some tricks, with some prodding from me. My cheeks are flushed and ears sting from the cold air, but a smile is plastered on my face. He says "Babe, you get faster and faster with every lap." He knows how to make me smile. "Want to try backwards?" "Don't push it, buddy."

We're married now and I got the same lecture as I was tying up my tennis shoe laces, off to my first Zumba class. "Even if you aren't good, just have fun, ok?" His little pep talks always feel like a challenge to me; maybe that's why I love him so much. I think about this little conversation as I walk in through our front door. "Well how was it? Did you have fun?" he asks as I kick off my shoes. "Yes, love," I say as I bend down to kiss him. "And guess what? I was pretty good too."

sleepless

We've all been there. The clock is ticking and yet we can't will ourselves to sleep. Most of the time it's because we're too anxious, nervous, excited, worried, or just overall an emotional mess. Sometimes we've had too much caffeine. Sometimes our husbands are having a coughing fit. Sometimes the people in the apartment above you are getting down and dirty. Sometimes there's a loud noise outside that startles you awake. Sometimes...*sigh

My night last night started as usual. I brushed my teeth and got our allergy medicine and vitamins out of the bathroom as usual. And like every night, my husband and I laid down and played a round of Words with Friends. (That's not a euphemism.) And then just like every night, he fell asleep first and I followed shortly into the land of blissful sleep. (I promise we're not really 80 years old.)

And then it all fell apart. I could feel myself slipping out of sleep, like my mind was loosing grip on the rope of Dreamland and I was falling back into consciousness. I fought it, but to no prevail. I awoke to the sound of John coughing. But it isn't just coughing. Actually, no, the coughing isn't even the worst part. It's the SNIFFING. He sniffs a big one, and then lo and behold is coughing. I try so hard to be sympathetic. I'm able to muster up a sincere sounding "are you ok babe?" Sniiiiiff. Cough, cough, cough. Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiff. Cough, cough, cough, cough. I feel it boiling inside me, that feeling when you're about to burst. I manage to contain myself a bit longer and say, "maybe blowing your nose will help." All I can think about is the phlegm being sucked into the back of his throat and it further irritating the cough reflex. (Sorry, I hope you weren't eating.) He gets up and goes to the bathroom. I hear him blow his nose good and hard. "Thank heavens," I'm thinking to myself when...SNIIIIFF. Heaven. Have. Mercy.
Cough, cough, cough.
I inform him where the mucus relief/cough suppressant medicine is and pray that the next half hour before it starts working goes by at lightening speed.

Eventually, he stops coughing and falls asleep. I start to do that same, until...CLICK, CLICK, CLICK... It's coming from the ceiling. It's a loud "click" but a clicking sound nonetheless. We make jokes about the person(s) who lives above us because seriously it sometimes sounds like they're playing rugby or soccer or fighting bulls. We can joke about it because most of the time the nonsense happens in the afternoon or evening and isn't much of a bother. Ironically, I saw the inhabitant today. I call her "the little girl upstairs" only because she looks smaller than me, meaning that she probably shops in the little girl section. I wonder if she morphs into a 300 lb bronco-riding man when she walks through her front door. Or maybe the girl I saw was just visiting the 300 lb bronco-riding man that does live there. If that's the case, which seems more plausible, then the 300 lb bronco-riding man was not riding a bronco last night, if ya know what I mean.

I was determined to not let this keep me awake, so I went pee (hey, I was up), and looked for my iPod. I found my headphones, but not my iPod, so I just decided to listen to Pandora on my phone. The Pandora application wouldn't open. I'm not pleasant at 2:30 am, especially when my blood sugar levels are at about 30, and when I can't for-the-love-of-all-that's-holy JUST GO TO SLEEP. If someone had said something to me, I might of snapped their head of, literally. However, my stubborn self fixed my phone, found the Debussy station, and started to fall asleep with "Beau Soir" serenading me.

And then, because the universe hates me, a train drove through my bedroom. (Not really, of course, but it sounded like that.) I did what any mature, intelligent, composed woman would do and screamed into my pillow. It must of been a therapeutic, soothing kind of scream, because I fell asleep after that. My husband just texted me saying that he was tired and didn't sleep well last night. Ha.