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.

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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.