sacrifice

On any given day, I put in 8 -12 hours into nursing school. My average so far has been 56 hours a week and I haven't even started clinicals yet. Nursing school is a huge sacrifice. My husband works just as many hours and it feels like I don't see him until Saturday. This new lifestyle means that I've cut out just about everything and everyone except the basics. As a recovering people pleaser, this has been hard. I've only been in school four weeks, but I've had say no to countless social activities and other commitments. I don't respond to text messages in a timely manner and I rarely answer my phone. I feel that people who haven't been here won't understand what it's like. I've heard from multiple people things like, "Let me know when you need a break!" or "You have to take breaks; we'll hang out then." These are true statements, but my breaks usually consist of exercising to ward off insanity, grocery shopping and meal planning to avoid starving, household chores to maintain sanitation, and spending time with my husband to nurture our marriage. (And the occasional blog writing, for my own pleasure.) Sometimes, I'll do something on Facebook, but that takes two seconds, I don't need to leave my home, nor do I need to engage in real human relationship... and it's usually done while stuffing my face with some brain fuel. It is unhealthy to completely isolate oneself, but the nature of the beast is that many things must go.

So all of this to say: If you are a dear friend of mine, I still love you. You are still important to me. I still think about you and I miss our times together. But I gotta do this for me, for my family, and for our future. And if you hang out with me you are volunteering yourself to let me practice my new skills on you.

a treasure from the pearl

I didn't know how much it would mean to me until it was here. I didn't know I needed it, but holding the dusty piece in my hand, I know I do. I don't know who arranged for it to be sent to me, but I'm so thankful for their thoughtful act.

In my lap, I hold a piece of my past. A piece of me. In 2007, I moved to a little island country called Haiti. In 2010, I was glued to the television as I watched it crumble down. Days went by without knowing if my friends were okay. Over 300,000 people died in the earthquake that January day, many while trapped for days under rubble. Two of them were my friends. Many structures were destroyed; 1 million people were made homeless. One of those buildings was the orphanage where I lived and worked in 2007. This is a piece of that orphanage.

This is the place where I decided to become a nurse. This is where I gave my first intramuscular shot. This is where Katie taught me how to draw blood on Angela's kitchen table. This is where I met my three youngest siblings for the first time. This is where I kissed sweaty heads at night, bunk by bunk. This is where I would cry pissed off that babies are dying because of stupid things like dehydration. This is where I fell in love with a baby named Rebecca, where I cared for her scarred skin, where I mourned over a positive HIV test, and then rejoiced after learning it was a false positive. This is where I watched her and many others plump up and get healthy. This is where I listened to a school age boy tell me about his experiences as a restavek, child slave. This is the place that I cared for a machete wound in the office while the clinic was still being built. This is where I broke up with a boyfriend who couldn't understand why I wanted "to be in that shit hole anyway." This is where I danced in the rain and got yelled at by the nannies for doing it.

One of the most devastating things about watching Three Angels come down was knowing that my husband would never get to visit the place that helped make me the woman he married. He has yet to see Haiti and a part of me feels like he will never know that part of me until he goes. I wanted him to see where his wife became who she is. I wanted him to see a place that I called home. An earthquake may have damaged that place, but now in our home we have a piece of my old home. The pieces come together.

As I look at my piece of the orphanage, I see layers of paint that were rolled on over the years. I wonder to myself which layer is the one I put on. I see part of a pink handprint and wonder if those are the fingers of one of the little girls who insisted on braiding my hair. Either way, I know that Haiti and this particular building has touched and shaped me more than any impact I ever had on it. Haiti is a beautiful country, "The Pearl of the Antilles." Her people are breathtaking and resilient. The earthquake was powerful, but not as much as what this treasure represents. Beauty from ashes.

loving a warrior

I was in the bathroom, eyes swollen, chest quivering with each inspiration. I told him to come in there and shut the door; don't turn on the light, I told him. I need somewhere dark to think and talk. Fear and emotion swell up in me like a bright, awkward light. Darkness is what I need.

He had just expressed desire to maybe try something different in his Army career. He simply wants to get more information and explore possibilities, but my fearful heart can't focus. He feels like maybe there is something more out there for him, something that would bring him fulfillment.

Why do you want to do something more intense? Isn't infantry enough? Do you really want to do something that will take you away even more often? 

I plead with him as if he's already made a decision, already signed on the dotted line. My head is telling me to be rational and to listen to what he has to say and jesucristo stop being so selfish. But I can't get over it. I can't let it go because I know he's a warrior and sometimes that's plain scary.

I know you would be like the guy in Act of Valor who lays on a grenade to save his friends. I know you're brave like that. Sometimes I wish you were a coward. 

As soon as it leaves my mouth, I know it isn't true. Of course I don't want to be married to a coward. No, I don't want that at all. But I'm scared.

But God didn't give you a cowardly heart. He gave you a warrior one. 

I say it through tears, quietly, trying to come to terms with it myself. Loving a warrior is hard. Women have had a romantic fascination with warriors from the beginning of time. It's easy to swoon over a man in uniform, but really loving him... really loving his true warrior heart, now that's the hard stuff.

I believe there is an assault on warrior hearts, especially masculine ones, in today's society. I believe much of that is created by women. We tell our boys to sit down, be quiet, and for heaven's sake don't do anything dangerous. We do it because we are scared. Danger is scary. It is costly. There are warriors in literal roles like soldiers, police officers, and fire fighters. But there are the less obvious ones too, like the man who chooses to testify so that no more children get molested. Standing up for what is right is costly, it is dangerous. It is scary.

Loving my husband's warrior heart and honoring it for what it is may cost me something. It may cost me everything. Or I can live in fear and beg him not to do anything dangerous. But isn't that exactly what we need? We need dangerous. We need fighters, warriors, righteous strength. We need trail blazers. We need men who will raise boys that respect women, so that maybe one day there will be no need for sex slaves because there isn't a demand for it. We need men who will put their lives on the line for the sake of others. We need men who will go, even when they are afraid. We need warriors and women who will love them, especially when it's scary.

I just love you so much. I don't want to lose you. 

It's all I can say, and really, it's all there is to say. The truth is, he isn't mine. God is just letting me borrow him for the time being. My husband is His. And who am I to try to put out the fire placed in him by his Creator? So I take a big, fearful, selfish gulp and put my head on his chest. His heart sounds like a beating drum, a warrior ready for battle.