Nothing to Fear

Sometime in the next week or two, very specific forms are going to be pulled out. I've seen them before. I know them well. But every time they leave, we must process them all again.

Sometime in the next week or two, my husband will review his will. He will check back at names and details, remake decisions, decide again who would carry him home if the unthinkable became real.

Details none of us want to know but somehow can never forget.

Those papers will be held, filed, kept still.

Kept still.

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This deployment will be different for us. We've never experienced something quite like it. He isn't going anywhere he's ever been. Isn't doing anything he's ever done. He won't be kicking down doors in Baghdad or living beside Afghans in Kandahar.

By all accounts and experiences, he is going to be safe. We joke that this is a long vacation rather than deployment. Hard work but "safe" work.

But then you look at that part of the world and you don't know if you can call any of it "safe".

I don't know if my heart will stop if the news shares that something happens somewhere over there. It will mourn, it will hurt, but that gut-wrenching, stomach-twisting fear ...

Because he will be "safe". I "know" he's coming home.

But in a week or two, someone is going to file those papers.

I won't freeze when someone rings my doorbell unexpectedly early in the morning or after the sun has gone down. I won't stand in my hallway and forget to breathe. I won't stand in silence while my son tells me there are people waiting outside.

I won't wonder if our life is changing in that moment.

I won't.

But in a week or two, those forms will be filled out again.

One more time, he will write his will. One more time, it will be filed and kept still.

One more time.

He's coming home to me. Always comes home to me.
How much I hate the waiting.

The House We Chose

"Which room does the crib go in?"

It caught me off guard. I knew somewhere in that truck was a very large wardrobe box with the baby swing I had just purchased after waiting for the "all clear" from my doctor. The LSU romper I had been carrying around for years just hoping. I knew in that box were the few things that were left, what friends had given me because we had so little still. Over the last three years, after each doctor told me how broken my body was, how not possible another child was, I had slowly let it all go. I slowly gave away the tiny little blankets and the supplies and the sling and the tiny little shoes and the adorable little towels.

I had let it go.

As best as anyone could. 

And the handful of friends who knew slowly dropped off the little things that they knew we would need. A precious ACU beanie for the hospital, maternity clothes because those were long gone.

I knew all of those things were in the box that I (thankfully) packed into one large wardrobe just days before we lost you.  I was ready for that box.

But your beautiful crib ...

When I chose this house - the house we just moved into. I chose it because of how close your bedroom was to mine. After seeing dozens of houses, I walked into this door and I knew. I knew this house was for our family of five. I knew this house was for you.

I walk by the room I chose for your room every single day and I miss you in a way I didn't know was possible.

I started losing you less than twelve hours after finding this home.

None of that seems fair.

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PCSing is hard. Moving across the country, packing yourself, making everything happen that needs to happen ... it's a chaos we all learn to handle. It's a mode we go into. A "must do" mind set.
I had to push through that while physically and emotionally letting you go. It's something I wouldn't wish on anyone.

I am finally mourning you.
I mourn you every time I open that door.
And I think that is why we still chose this house. Why we still put in the offer and signed those papers.

Because you are here. 

There is so much pain in that. There is so much sorrow.

But somehow there is still joy in that and hope in that and strength in that.

You were the one who could "never be" but somehow still were.
I put my hands over you when I walked through these doors. I chose it for you.

You were here.

What a beautiful gift. 

Speak Their Names

I've been at a loss for words for the attack on the protectors of this nation. I wanted our President to stand up and be strong for a nation. I wanted to see our nation fight for our troops for just once. I wanted to see our nation mourn. I wanted lives to STOP. I want a moment of silence. I want a televised address during prime time. I want a statement. I want a speech. I want condemnation. I want strength. I want anger. I want mourning.

I want the nation to feel broken the way that our military community is broken.

I want our nation's heart to break when terrorists work to break our military. I want you to care and I want you to be vocal. I want our nation to speak for us, and fight for us, and weep for us.

I want our worlds to be one. Our realities to be the same.

I want the country to stop. To take pause. I want you to SPEAK THEIR NAMES.

I want you to fight for us.

http://homefrontunited.com/2015/07/homeland-attacks-do-you-care/