bilingual

"Am I beautiful?" "Do you love me?" "Do you miss me?"

I found myself asking my husband these questions at the beginning of deployment, and not so subtly. Everything that I thought communicated love was stripped away. There were no hugs, no kisses, or any sort of touches. There were no dates, no dinners, and no laughter shared. I was practically begging for him to "voice" his affection because he wasn't here to show it to me. My baffled husband, in a much more subtle way, basically said, "I married you, didn't I? I'm faithful, aren't I? I wouldn't have married you if I didn't think you were beautiful or if I didn't love you or if I didn't want to be with you." I knew he was absolutely right. What greater expression of love is there than to be faithfully committed to another? My head knew that, yet my heart was still desperately hungry.

A few months into his deployment, he had to change locations which meant that communication would be cut off for anywhere from a week to a month. He was planning on sending me a box of some things he didn't want to transport to his new location and I had asked him to put a letter in the box so that I'd have something when all communication was gone. We were expert letter-writers when he was in Basic Training. He would write a couple pages each week. Some letters were just a run down of the things happening during his training, while others were romantic and sappy. I didn't care either way; just "hearing" his voice was enough for me. I obsessively checked the mail and holed up in my room every time I got a precious letter. I wanted to have a little bit of that romance and excitement to hang onto when we were in a period of forced silence.

He told me he had sent the box and there was a little something in there for me. I was again was obsessively checking the mail. It finally arrived and I practically ran home. Like a kid on Christmas morning, I ripped the box open with much gusto. CDs, DVDs,... but... where was my letter? I shook out every piece of newspaper and bubble wrap hoping my precious letter would float into my lap. Nothing. Maybe he was sneaky and put it inside a CD case, I thought. I searched and searched and searched; there was nothing of the sort to be found. Not even a sticky note with one sentence on it. But there was "a little something" in there for me. He bought me a cute stuffed camel and a beautiful carved elephant, my favorite animal. It was a thoughtful gift, so why was I feeling so... disappointed?

I didn't even want to acknowledge to myself that I felt that way because I knew I was being ridiculous. He saw something, thought of me, and used his spending money to buy it for me. He gave me something tangible, I could literally hold it in my hands. It was his way of saying, "I love you." It was then that I realized I was only well-versed in one language: mine. I had read Gary Chapman's popular book about love languages, yet I was painfully unaware of how limited in the linguistics of love I really was. I was disappointed because I didn't get something that I would have used to communicate affection. Which is a huge mistake to make because I was not understanding how he was communicating, at least not in my heart. My head understood that the gift was personal and thoughtful, but it didn't resonate in my heart, at least not in that moment.

I had to learn a new language: his. I had to become bilingual. I had to understand that even though he wasn't saying exactly what I wanted to hear, he was at least talking. He took the time to ask about my day even though he was exhausted, dirty, homesick, and had his life threatened hours ago and couldn't even talk to me about it. He only had enough free time to basically eat and shower, but he still waited in line to use the computers or phone. He felt like we were running out of things to talk about and that conversations became a bit forced, yet he didn't close himself off completely to me. Now I love that little elephant. I trace my fingers around the artist's details and think of how he once had it in his hands, and I feel closer to him. My favorite animal, decorated in my favorite colors, given to me by my favorite man; it is an expression of his uniquely personal love language, one that I'm studying frantically as to not miss a single word he says.

desert

I watch the sun set from above as red rays of light warm the desert clay. The rough canvas is scrawled with love letters written in river-water ink. It is moments like these that I am reminded of the life that is pumping through my veins. I'm alive and the barren desert tells me so. I have breath in my lungs even though the bloody sun teases me with its retreat. I do not fear the darkness it leaves behind, for I know the light within me has yet to be snuffed out. Bring it on, dear desert, I know the oasis is coming. Let's do this, dear darkness, it is only a matter of time before you scurry away. My heart is caged, but it is not enslaved; I can face the night.

There are wild creatures all around me, producing guttural sounds to warn me of their presence. No one needs to give them permission to be dangerous; they simply are as they should be. I fear them simply out of respect for their wild passion and unrivaled strength. A coyote spots me and stares at me with his dancing eyes. He knows he's respected and starts to wander off without a fight. In the darkness, he turns his head and nods at me, a courteous gesture from one free creature to another. A smile creeps onto my face as I begin my adventure into the wild, the dangerous, the passionate, the free. Come with me, dear brothers and sisters, your soul is yearning to be alive. Can you feel it?

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.