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.