The fourteenth of January

There was a mermaid dinner bell I'd ring when it was time to signal everyone to the table. We'd sit at the octagon shaped table with the rolling chairs that lost their wheels often. My room was a small add on. I slept in a handcrafted loft bed. A Princess Diana poster was taped to my closet wall. In the backyard, there was an orange tree that I loved to climb unless it was swarming with bees. Buddy the dog and Queen Elizabeth the crawfish were buried in the backyard. There was a long drive way along the side of the house. It's where my older brother locked me and my younger brother in the trunk of our parents' car. At the end of the driveway sat a detached garage. This garage was my favorite place of the whole home. It smelled of sawdust, it smelled of my Papa. It's where he lovingly made my loft bed. It's where he got distracted and forgot that he had left my dad inside holding up a piece of dry wall. I'd sit on a sawhorse and talk to him while he measured, cut, sanded, and listened to me, only every now and then flashing me a sparkly-eyed smile, his mouth barely moving.

I'd crawl into his lap after work and feel the whiskers on his face rub against mine as he quietly answered all the Jeopardy questions correctly. We lived with my grandparents for some time. It helped my parents save money and it helped my grandparents maintain and fix up their home. Even when we didn't live with them, we didn't live far. Kids on their street were my close friends. Sleepovers and day trips with my cousin and Nana and Papa were frequent. One January afternoon, I went over to a friend's house to play. Their phone rang and after a few minutes my friend's mom told me that I'd be staying longer. I went back to playing Break the Ice happily, never knowing that my family was dealing with the worst news of our lives. My Papa had suffered a heart attack at work and the adults rushed to the hospital. The prognosis wasn't good.

On January 14, 1997, my family lost its patriarch, its sparkly-eyed carpenter. My nana was his beloved, my mom his daddy's girl. My dad lost the only real father he'd ever known. My brothers, my cousin, and I lost our Papa. I was angry for a long time. My young little heart didn't have the capacity to process a death so close to me. My parents sent me to counseling. They had me write and draw and talk. It helped, but we would all be forever changed. I wish he could have seen me swim one more time. I wish he was there to see me graduate and get married. I wish I could hear him say he's proud of me for getting into nursing school. I know that he and John would get along well. He was such a young grandpa, not much older than my dad is now.

I was mad at God for awhile. I blamed Him for taking my papa so soon. But in His gracious way, he redeemed January 14th for our family. Three years after his death, a sparkly-eyed ray of sunshine came into our life: my sister, Kynsley. Her witty, silly, compassionate disposition helps to ease the ache of losing our Papa. Happy 13th Birthday, sweet girl. In those gray-blue eyes that sparkle right before a smile slyly breaks across your face, I see Papa in you.

a letter from my mother

It's an oval brass medallion covered in white lace with a small brass flower set off to the side. In the middle of the flower sits a small rhinestone. It rests at the bottom of a thin brass chain that lays a few inches below my collar bone. This pretty necklace was given to me by my mother for Christmas. More than a dainty ornament, this gift came with a precious letter from my mama.

"This piece of jewelry is beautiful, girly, spunky, and uniquely designed, just as you are. I have no idea what it looked like prior to becoming a piece of jewelry, but I'm pretty sure it went through a process of transformation that to some may not have seemed beautiful. But, the designer knew it would be. She saw her creation as it would be. God did the same with you. I know there was as time in your life that you didn't feel beautiful, sophisticated, and hate your uniqueness. But there was such beauty in your uniqueness and sophistication beyond your years. God designed a beautiful, creative, compassionate, loving and unique woman when He created you. I thank Him every day for allowing me to be the caretaker of His masterpiece for so many years."

I know many young women don't have moms or their's never spoke life into them. I know that many never got these words or have moms in heaven and wish they could get this kind of letter from a mother. Because I know that I have something rare and special, it makes it that much more valuable to me. I love this necklace because it is lovely, but the letter that came with it and how my mom thought it represented me makes it one of my favorite gifts.

one semester closer!

"...Hey, what are you doing?" I barely look up from my paperwork to acknowledge his presence. He's come into the office space where I work. "Just checking on you," he replies. He kisses the top of my head which is still down looking at my work. He sets a glass of water down and quietly leaves. Night after night he does this. He brings me water, snacks, tissue, and whatever else I may need. He comes in and quizzes me. He tells me there is no way I can fail because I'm smart and determined. He gives me tough love and demands that I get my butt back in there and keep at it. He intuitively knows when I've had enough and turns my swivel chair away from the desk. He gets on his knees so that he's eye to eye with me and tells me it's time for bed.

As we were making a grocery list and meal planning for the week, he declares that it makes more sense for him to go do the shopping so I can stay home and study. He repeatedly does this over the course of the semester. He clears my plate and says, "I've got the dishes babe; go do homework." He puts up with my emotional break downs and crying over pharmacology. He listens to me rant about my day, never mind the fact that he's been up since 3 am and worked a 12 hour day.

I finished my first semester of nursing school yesterday and as I look over my grades with pride, I know that I couldn't have done it without him. My husband is my perfect match and my biggest supporter. His easygoing demeanor is exactly what I need when my obnoxious perfectionist self is crying over a B. His consistent loyalty and encouragement help me stay anchored when so much in my world is shifting and changing. His faithfulness reminds me of God's character and His goodness to me. I can't boast about my accomplishment this semester without recognizing his huge part in that success.

John Joshua, I love you and I simply could not have done it without you. I appreciate you so much! Thanks for sticking it out with me. Only three more semesters of this craziness!

the ball

He tried to keep it from me, but girls have a way of finding out when there's a ball. He knew it would be a bit expensive and a lot of work to get his uniform ready; I just wanted to wear a fabulous red dress.  When I found out about the upcoming battalion ball, I coerced him into agreeing to go. He lamented that it was on his birthday and that everyone said balls boring events in which old soldiers gave long speeches. Ok, I said, but I have a dress... So we went to the ball! :)

I wore my old prom dress from seven years ago. Thankfully, as a 17 year old, I picked a pretty classic red floor length dress that I could pull off wearing again. I borrowed shoes and jewelry and had two friends help me with my hair and makeup. I didn't spend a dime on my attire! On the other hand, John had to pay a pretty penny to get his formal uniform ready with the proper ribbons, patches, and awards. 

The ball was held in a convention center. It was decorated beautifully and had a huge sparkling chandelier. There was a bar, but we kept it classy and brought flasks. They served dinner and dessert, but not before a litany of traditions. First, there was some sort of a receiving line to greet the Lieutenant Colonel and Command Sergeant Major and their wives. It felt strange to stand in line to shake their hands. When we got to the front of the line, John told a man my name. The man then introduced us to the Lieutenant Colonel and Sergeant Major as we shook their hands. We both respect them and their positions, but for me it felt too much like they were royalty. 

There was then the presenting of the colors and the national anthem. After that, there was a speech given in honor of Prisoners of War. More mingling and pictures took place after a few more welcome speeches and such. Then dinner was served and the main portion of the night began. The most memorable was the grog ceremony. Grog is a type of alcoholic drink with various recipes. The way it's done at the ball is that there is a big vat in which many higher ups pour ingredients into it to make a nasty concoction. For instance, one soldier added lemons to represent the bitter time of war. Each person gives a short reason why they've chosen their ingredient and adds it to the vat. Once the ceremony is complete, one man from every table rushes to the vat with a pitcher to get some grog to bring back to his table. However, the guys jumped the gun and started rushing to the front before they were done with the ceremony. (Good job, 11B.) CSM got really mad and grabbed a microphone and said, "Listen you mother f@?!$^s! I want to have a good time and get drunk like the rest of you, but you WILL NOT act like animals in the process! Sit down and wait like gentlemen!" It was silent after that until they got the go. John got a glass of the grog, took a sip, exclaimed that it tasted like his old jock strap and asked me if I wanted some. For the sake of tradition, I took a drink. I've never tasted a jock strap, but I would imagine that they would taste pretty similar. I left the grog drinking to the boys. 

Finally, the dance floor was open for business and that's where we spent the rest of the night. First my shoes came off, then my updo came undone, then off came my pasties (don't judge, but I was too sweaty for them to stick anymore). I think that's an indicator of a good time. We were literally the last people on the dance floor. The staff had already started cleaning up while we were dancing to one more song. When a woman brought me my bag and shoes, we got the hint and headed home. For a man who didn't want to go, I think he enjoyed the ball more than I did. 

PCS

A PCS, or permanent change of station, is the military's fancy way of saying that someone is moving. The acronym is used as a noun or a verb; for example, saying that someone is "PCSing" is fairly common. PCS orders can be a wonderful thing: a new unit, a chance to travel, a fresh start, a fun adventure. Other times it means leaving behind a place that has become home. We are hoping that John doesn't get any PCS orders until I finish nursing school. It's kind of stressful knowing that at any moment, he could be ordered to a new duty station. In order to maintain sanity, I have repressed the worrisome thoughts of having to PCS in the middle of nursing school. However, PCS orders are affecting me in a way that I hadn't given much thought to. This month, three of my good friends have moved or are moving due to PCS orders. 

Often times these types of orders come down at the end of a deployment. For those of us back home, deployment can be a time of new or strengthened friendships. Part of me wants to always make a clear distinction between who I am and what my husband does for a living. Because of that, I resisted surrounding myself with other Army wives. However, there were times during deployment when no friend married to a civilian could understand what I was going through and I simply wanted to be with someone who knew what it was like. I finally began to open up to the idea of having friends who were also married to soldiers. Most of the friends I made, although many were from different brigades, had a spouse that was also deployed. This led to many unforgettable girls nights and stories that I most certainly will not tell my grandchildren. The friends that were made over glasses of wine, junk food, loud music, laughter, and tears during a tough and emotionally charged time are difficult to part with. Sonja, Erica, and Heather, I miss you already! Thank you for being just the kind of friends I needed at the perfect time. I hope your new places have a spare bedroom. :) 

what the promise is for

This is not what I signed up for.

This is not the man I married.

I didn't agree to this. 

Those thoughts would creep into my head when I was looking at his blank, zombie stare through the computer screen.

That is what I thought when "they'll all be home by Christmas" turned into "most will be home by Christmas, but yours will stay until July."

That is what I would say to myself when my war weary husband lacked the physical and emotional ability to give me affection from thousands of miles away.

These are the things that went through my head weeks after he was home and I would still see a cold anger flash in his eyes without warning, when in an instant he literally looked like a different person.

But then again...

This is what I signed up for.

This is the man I married.

I did agree to this.

I came up with a lot of superficial things that were positive about deployment, but all of them seemed unimpressive compared to the massive suckage that deployment is. I really wanted to write something positive. I really wanted to encourage my friends getting ready to send off their husbands. It took me a month to figure it out: Deployment helped redefine marriage and put my promises to the test.

While we didn't have the exact words in our vows, we did agree that marriage was "for better or for worse." We promised that our marriage would embody a type of love that "bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things and endures all things." I didn't feel like bearing, believing, hoping, or enduring, but that is the promise I made to my husband. Deployment presents an opportunity to ask yourself, "did I really mean all those things I said on my wedding day?" I had to look in the mirror and ask myself some hard questions:

When your man is incapable of showing affection because he is so worn out, withdrawn, and going through a tremendous hardship, will you continue to give affection, even if he can't give it in return? 

When his job requires even more sacrifice, will you continue to bear the burden with him? 

Will you continue to love him even if this experience changes him? 

The opportunity that I speak of is a defining, "make or break," moment. Are you going to do it or not?For me, this opportunity was the most positive thing to come out of deployment. It was a blessing that I was forced to solidify my promises so early in our marriage and to put them into action. I chose not to give up during a difficult situation. I chose to believe that it was only temporary. I chose to hope for better days. I chose to bear the weight of war alongside my husband. My vows were no longer a hypothetical romanticized speech. I had to choose to live it out.

And at the end of it all you can say, "We went dancing in the minefields; we went sailing in the storm. It was harder than we dreamed, but I believe that's what the promise is for."

healing and hurting

I've been doing a dance between avoiding this post and really wanting to write it for some time now. I want to write it because I think it's important. I want to make it public because I think it may help others. I want to avoid it because it's personal. I want to avoid it because I don't want to sound overly dramatic. Deep breath... here it goes.

Everyone knows war hurts. It hurts physically. It hurts mentally. It hurts emotionally. It hurts relationships. It hurts the ones left behind, as well as the ones who have to go. Some people who have gone to war before would like to claim that the shorter "less dangerous" missions of recent are nothing to whine about. I agree that as a wife, the communication we had was much better than what spouses before me had. My husband agrees that the intensity of the violence he experienced was minuscule compared to past missions. I have no desire to get into a pissing contest about who had/has it worse. All of it plain sucks and all of it is a unique experience to each individual.

I experienced extreme loneliness while my husband was away. It was the kind of loneliness that I didn't even understand fully until it went away. It wasn't the kind of loneliness that could be filled with busyness and friends. This kind of loneliness is the kind you experience when a part of you is missing. Amputees learn to be completely functional, even excelling and thriving, but something is still missing. I don't want to cheapen the horror of going through that kind of physical and emotional trauma, but that's the best I can do to explain how I felt. I made do. I told myself all the "right" things. However, the man I am bound to legally, physically, covenantally, emotionally, spiritually... was gone. I often try to minimize what I felt because once again I know it could be worse. He came back. It wasn't permanent. I never want to be dramatic, nor do I want pity. But part of the healing process is allowing oneself to go to the depths, to be true to what one was experiencing, and that's what I'm trying to do here.

There are moments when I know I'm experiencing healing from that loneliness. My cognizance of it comes it waves. Just as the loneliness was the most overwhelming at night, the realization of healing creeps in during those dark, quiet moments. It comes with falling asleep next to the love of my life, night after night. It sweeps over me while he prays for our dinner. It seeps into the nooks and crannies of my heart when he makes me laugh uncontrollably. Unfortunately, healing isn't exactly a linear process and sometimes it isn't the only thing that creeps, sweeps, and seeps.

Sometimes the hurting comes back. It comes with news of a friend whose husband just got deployment orders. It makes no sense for me to be crying about someone else's deployment reality, except that it was and will be again my reality. It's that fear of the unknown and the feeling of the sweet, precious time together just slipping through the cracks of your angry, clenched fist. It all comes back because of some trigger, some illogical response to a stimulus. You can't make sense of it. You can either fight the current, or just ride the wave. As someone who grew up on the beach, I can tell you that the undercurrent will always win. I'm learning the skill of emotional surfing.

Healing isn't some neat flow chart or even a circular cycle. It's more like a plate of spaghetti, everything is messily intertwined. Just as I'm healing from deployment, so is my soldier. I've tried to stick to writing about my experiences, and not about him, but his healing is a huge part of mine. Things like him whispering,"It's like I never left" sew up little holes in my heart. However, his strong reaction to loud noises reminds me of the hurt that war can leave behind. Somethings may never be completely healed, but we've gone from needing to sit down and check his heart rate after loud noises to just a couple of deep breaths to let it pass.

To those of you who are at the beginning stages of the healing process or may be are just hurting, please know that you're not alone. Also know that sometimes just some love and time are all you need to seal up the empty places in your heart. Know that it's not always permanent. There is hope. To those who need a little extra help, don't feel like a failure. Don't feel weak. The levels to which we experience situations vary and like I said in the beginning, we each have our own experience. One is not lesser than the other, just different. Do what you need to do to get the help you need if it's more than a little separation anxiety or jumping at loud noises. We are lucky that that's all we are going through and are fully aware that the situation could be so much more devastating. And to those of you who are about to face a deployment, don't be frightened. A lot of positive and wonderful changes happened because of deployment, but that's for another post.