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.