No Gift to Be Owed

In no other life - no other life! - would it be normal to move into a new house, unpack, settle in, start over without your partner. In no other life would it be normal to do all of that - the packing, the moving, the settling-in without your spouse - twice in less than three years. 

In no other life would it be normal to do that without harboring resentment towards that very partner who boarded a plane and flew to the other side of the country - or the world - and left knowing what you would undertake. 

Or maybe to me it's normal. So many times people ask me what C "owes me". What I am demanding in return. If he knows how hard this PCS and time-apart has been.

I understand the reason for the questions. I do. And I have told C that when he gets here I need a day - just a day - where I can go off and breathe. I have never even asked before but this time, this time, I need a day to sit alone and do nothing, or to shop with a friend, or to get a pedicure, or to take a shower for longer than four minutes. 

Really, I would just take the shower. 

This move has been the most difficult we have ever had. This last quarter has been the most emotional that I can remember. But never, not once, have I harbored any anger or resentment at C for it. I don't think I have that right. I knew in this - and, no, not when I "signed up for it" but some time into it - I knew there would be a defining point where you had to choose how you would view this walk - how you viewed the "me," and the "you," and the "we".

I know how helpless C has felt knowing every single thing that has gone wrong. I know how much it hurt him to get that phone call telling him of Eli's diagnosis. I know how much he wants nothing more than to comfort and fix and make right. I know, I know, that it hurt every part of him that is a father and a husband and a protector and a man when I couldn't hold back my tears on that phone and he couldn't do anything but listen. 

I know that this is hard on him. I know he wants to be going through it with me - if we have to go through it at all.

 We are never living this life, living a marriage, alone. We are building and pushing through together - whether in different parts of the country or different parts of the world. We hurt when the other hurts. We struggle to balance those emotions, to place them, accept them when we cannot physically be together. 

In all of this, there have been a handful of times when all I wanted - all I wanted was for C to hold me. Just to hug me. I just wanted to be held by my husband. You have no idea how much you can miss physical touch until it is gone. It's why we cling onto them when they come home. Why they cling to us. 

The fact that he can't isn't his fault. The fact that he can't isn't even the Army's fault. It is simply what this life is. Simply the hand we are dealt at times. 

Sometimes they will be here. Most often times they won't. 

We have to honor the marriage that we work for. We have to honor the vows we speak. There is no room to resent - no healthy way to harbor it. 

That is what Promises was all about. Understanding what the other feels. Understanding that every part of this life is hard, every challenge becomes a hundred times greater when we go through it without the other physically with us - without having the ability to hold onto one another. 

You have to learn to love so wholly that you can feel each other's pain. You have to learn to know that the very knowledge of your hurt becomes their hurt. The very thought of their separation putting a greater burden on you - on us - binds their hurt to their guilt. 

There is no debt to be paid. No gift to be owed.

We do not hurt alone.

Acceptance

I sat down to write about the hellish move C and I have not completed yet. I sat down to talk about how the movers didn't show up to pack the first time, about how they packed on Christmas Eve instead, about how the day they were supposed to start we were notified by our next duty station that we would not be moving directly into our new house and that our items would have to be placed in storage. I was going to talk about how that meant I would be moving into a house, again, alone.

I sat down to write about how everything went wrong the day we finally left Fort Carson, how long it took us to get to the bajillion different places we needed to get to. How we had to pull over on the side of the interstate at night because the trailer carrying the jeep started to disconnect, or how we ended up dropping the trailer off half way to our destination because it was more of a hell than a help. 

I sat down to write about getting sick in a way that I can't remember getting sick before just two days before C had to leave for DC. I was going to write about how I couldn't get out of bed and I had two kiddos in a not-so-awesome Army hotel with a husband who left on a plane for two months away. I was going to write about having to take Eli to the ER because he too got the flu and how hard it was to drive there and how it took nearly 5 hours when it was all said and done.

I was going to write about all of it. In detail. And I didn't even include it all up there.

We still don't have a house.

When I sat down to write one word kept going again and again through my head and it just won't go away.

Acceptance.

There were a few days that I was at my lowest - that were really, really hard. I was alone in a place with no support system, no ability to go anywhere, sick beyond sick, unable to move, with two kiddos.  And it was hard. 

When C left for the airport, there wasn't anger or frustration that he had to go. I didn't ask him to find a way to stay back because this is just the way it goes sometimes. This is just the way it is. There will always be times - and sometimes the worst times - that they must go when we really need them to stay. 

C went to work hours after Logan was born. He was at work for much of the time that I was in labor. He had to leave while Eli was in the NICU to head back to Fort Benning. He has left me with Logan in Children's Hospital because the Army doesn't wait. I am so very grateful for the ability to accept that it isn't up to me. I am so very grateful that I know that him leaving in no way - in no way - means that he loves me any less, that he loves these kiddos any less. I am thankful that we have a partnership and understanding of what this life takes, of what it demands, and that we know what that means to our marriage.

I am grateful that him leaving doesn't make me question what his intentions are. I am thankful that I learned early on that acceptance doesn't make you weak. That not fighting that which you cannot change saves strength. 

I am grateful that sharing this journey has provided better understanding. I am grateful that for the dozens of civilian friends and acquaintances who have talked to me in the last week, not-a-one has raised a question about C still needing to leave. Not-a-one has questioned his dedication this family. Not one has asked, "Are you okay with that?" or "He couldn't stay?!" Each one has been understanding and empathetic and careful in their wording. I noticed the change.

I am grateful that so many have taken the time to listen and learn and understand. 

The hardest times show us our strength. They teach us how much we can do with faith and grace. The ability to not be angry, to not be resentful, to accept what we cannot change, is to be sought after and worked towards and held dear. 

I know my C loves me. I know he loves his children. I know that this job will take him when it is the least convenient for him go. I can't change it. I won't fight it. There is so much more worth fighting for.

Whatever the battle, whatever the struggle, you can make it through. You can survive this. You can thrive. 

Humbled

I hate taking out the trash. 

I really, really hate emptying the trash can. I will shove trash down until the bag is about to burst. I just hate it and I really hate that I have to do it when C is gone. 

Really.

I really hate that there have been break-ins on this post this past week. 

I hate that right when I got the boys back on a night-time routine I find myself picking them up and moving them to my bed so that I can lock them in my room with me at night just in case someone tries to break in. I hate lying awake thinking every noise is something to fear. 

I hate that he can't be here to check it out.

I hate that Eli started head-banging in anger again. I hate that C can't be here to balance out the lack of sleep with me. I hate that Logan and Eli got into their first real fight last night when I was already late for an event. I hate that Logan for the first time hurt his little brother out of frustration. I hate that C wasn't here to help me through it. I hate that I had to make it through that myself.

I hate that I haven't learned how to drive C's jeep like I planned to while he was away. I hate that I know that will continue to be put on the back burner when I really need to learn. I hate that I don't have enough time.

I hate that there aren't enough hours in the day. I hate that I am so tired.

I hate that I have to do it all.

I hate that I can't. 

I don't do well with failure. I don't think many people do but I fear it. Very often for me it just isn't an option. 

This life is humbling - not just because to serve is to be humbled before others, before God - but because there will be days where we feel that we have failed, that we couldn't do it, that we weren't good enough. We have to learn - sometimes repeatedly - that we cannot do it all. That the strongest among us will be weak.

Logan climbed into my lap today, kissed me, and told me I was a good mommy. In the last 24 hours, since Eli and Logan fought last night, I have not felt like a "good mommy."

I am grateful for this precious child. I am grateful for the littlest child clinging to my arm while he sleeps beside me, who still calls every soldier "daddy," who has been searching their faces for the one that belongs to him.

I am grateful for the friend and neighbor who took C's jeep around the neighborhood because it has been sitting too long. I am still thankful that she is the very first person that welcomed me to this village. She has been a blessing.

I am thankful that I have grown so close to people here that a handful know when my face is hiding sadness or defeat and they know to just give a hug because tomorrow will be better, tomorrow I will do better. I am grateful that they don't think less of me when I am weak.

I am grateful for this community - this intimately-knit community - filled with women willing to bend over backwards for one another. I am grateful for those who have been there, done that, get it. I am thankful that people are placed beside us for a purpose, that goodness and kindness always come at the most needed time (Thanks, D), that harder days provide for greater blessings.

I am thankful that I have been given a love worthy of such intense longing. I am thankful that I have been given a partner that I will fight for and thrive for and survive through this for. I am thankful that we are made worthy for the life we are given - that we are made strong for the journey we face. How incredible to be able to be given a love, to fight for a love, that makes the difficulties and the struggles worthy of the battle, worthy of the victory.

How humbling the Grace we are given. How worthy the victory won.

To Love Enough

I don't think there is a military spouse among us that hasn't heard the words, "Oh, I could never do that!" 

I don't think there is a military spouse among us who has never at the very least thought, "This, this is too much."

For a generation that far too often ignores limits, who so, so often believes and strives to do the impossible, I find it is those who are of my generation who are the first to shake their heads and say they could never do what I do. 

They they could never do what we do when we commit and marry a man or woman who serves.

I was one of the many who shake their heads and say, "No, I could never." 

I was raised in a family where marriage is finite. Where that commitment is a commitment. A sacrament. Holy. From above. Sacred. To be protected and nurtured and worked through. That that love must be and will be enough.

There was a time when I honestly thought something must be wrong with women who went a year at a time (or more) without seeing their spouse. I thought their marriages must be weak. That their love must not be truest. I didn't understand how a man could love a family that he would so "readily" leave. I didn't think that a military marriage could hold the values of marriage I was raised on. I didn't think that the two could exist in one. 

Lord, how you humbled me.

I know that there are people who look in from the outside and think what I thought. I know the friends and strangers who say the words, "I could never do that," are not necessarily saying them for the reasons I would in the past. I know that we don't ever get to feel the full extent of what someone else feels, to know what they know, to live how they live.

But for every woman that has looked at me and said, "I could never," I will tell you that you can.

For every new spouse that has said that farewell for the first time, I will tell you, you will make it through.

For every mother struggling to raise that new baby without her partner, or juggle and balance and keep the other parent present, I will tell you, you are able.

You can love across borders. You can love across war zones. You can love through IED's, and mortars, and patrols, and trainings, and road-side bombs, and nights alone, and black-outs, and fears and dread and tear-soaked pillows.

You can love enough to hold the hand of your partner as he writes out his will. You can sit beside him as his abled-body directs his funeral. You can love enough to hold the hand of a friend while you push through labor with out your husband. You can love enough to clap with all your might and simply let the tears roll while watching your first baby take his first steps without daddy there to cheer. You can hold your child back when his hero walks away. You can hold that little body as he kicks and screams and holds out his hands wanting nothing more in the world than for that man walking away to run back to him.

You can hold your little one to your chest when he wakes from a nightmare and all he asks is "why?" You can hold him, and rub his hair, and squeeze him to your heart without uttering a word. You can  freeze and say a prayer when that notification vehicle rolls down your street. You can hold your breath and then fall to the ground with that relief. You can struggle with the guilt and the gratitude and the confusion and the sorrow.

You can hold enough love to blanket your children with the love of two. You can cry enough tears to wash your pain away. You can scream and punch pillows and get back up and continue on. You can wait. You can live fully.

You can live through this day and the next and the next.

You can love enough to let him walk away. You can love him enough to hold your tears. You can love him enough to not allow resentment. You can love enough to love this nation as he does. You can love enough to understand that there are somethings you never will.

You can love enough to love completely. You can give enough to make you whole. You are able to live this life. You are given grace when you live with faith. You are given the promise that you can endure all that threatens.

You are placed where you are placed because you are able to thrive - you are able to do the most good. You are able to grow. You are able to love.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 

Love never fails." 

(1 Corinthians 13:4-8)

A Good and Safe Rule

Very often we hear people talk about, "Well, we are just going to move again." Or, "There isn't any point in meeting new people." "Why should I paint? We just have to paint when we leave." 

We are always looking ahead. There is always a move around the corner. No place is permanent. No home is one where you can put your sweat and time into creating a garden that you will get to enjoy three years down the road when it is matured and worth every back-breaking moment. Every friend you make you will farewell. Every unit you are in will one day no longer be "your unit." The families you consider your own will change. The people you cling to move away.

There is nothing permanent in this life.

I know that that can become difficult. I know that the moving and the changing and the starting again gets old. It makes you tired.

I read something yesterday that I had never seen before but so much of it is how I try to live my life. It was in the home of another army wife. From the framing I could tell it was a gift of some kind from a previous unit. It was so very fitting.

I don't believe in temporary homes. I strongly believe that we are a community with many homes. New Orleans is my heart. New Orleans is in my blood. Fort Campbell sits deep within me as well for far different reasons. My first homecoming was in one of its hangars. My first memorial. The birth of our first child. So much of that post is very much my home. Fort Benning allowed me to meet my husband, putting him just close enough to his home that our paths could cross. Three years later it introduced me to some incredible women who were walking the same path at the same time. It afforded me a handful of strong friendships. That Infantry-blue-blooded post holds a piece of home for us too.

Every place is temporary but home is carried with you. Every place you are brought to, every path set before you, is meant to become part of your "home". Yes, walking away from where you invest your time and your heart is painful. Yes, leaving the friends you make - or having them leave you - never gets easier. But it makes you love greater. I would take that heartbreak over numbness any day. It makes you understand the value of goodness and compassion and kindness.

The more invested you are, the more of you that you put into your parts of home, the more you find where you belong, the less temporary it all becomes. Every place this journey has taken us is carried along the way. Every house, every neighbor, every farewell, every welcome home, finds a place in the next. 

It is a good and safe rule to soujourn in EVERY place as if you meant to spend your life there.

Because you are spending your life there. Every place gets part of your life, but every part of your life will carry that place. 

LIVE in it. INVEST in it. Claim every second of it.

Spend you life, wherever you are, wherever you go.

Spend your life, LIVE your life, and love every home along the way.

The Arms that Carry an Army

Read my latest post for the Homefront United Network:

The Arms That Carry An Army

And then hop back a post to enter into the give-away TODAY ONLY!

Happy Military Spouses' Appreciation Day!

What's in an Age

I had a birthday a couple of weeks ago. I have never been big on birthdays. I don't dislike them, I just don't go crazy over them. But over the last month-and-a-half people have been trying to guess my age. For a very long time, I have preferred for people not to know. When I took a job in our first Army home state, it was in my job agreement that people would not know my age unless I chose to tell them. Weird, I know. 

I am younger than C. 

Throws people off all the time.

In three jobs I have had, I have been younger than most of the people I supervised.

It has always just been that way. 

I worked full-time through college. I sat on conference calls in the hallways between classes. I switched from jeans and t's to heels and skirts in the Lockett restroom at LSU. My bed was covered in literary theory and floorset/merchandising pages. 

To many people, I married young. And for my generation, yes, I did. To most of my old friends who are just getting married and just having kiddos, I was a young mom. And I was. For today, I guess I still am.

 I was talking to a newer Army wife last night who entered this life at the same age I did. Who was and is a "young wife". Whose friends are still very much living their youth, and extending their college lifestyle, and who worry about how to pay the $175 for the shoes they "have to have" rather than worrying over how you will hold your husband's hand as he fills out the paperwork directing his last will and wishes. 

This life ages you.

I am twenty-seven-years-old. 

You have no idea how hard it is for me to type that. I feel old but at the same time I don't. I cannot tell you how many times I have been reminded by some spouses in this life - or outside of this life - that I was only "twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five."That I had no idea what was ahead. That I was "too young" to know.

 I worry how many people will now take less value in what I say. How many people will question if my experience can really be what it has been. Because I married young. I had kiddos young. And to so many people - so many Army wives - people write others off too quickly because of the numerical age.

I have moved four times - so far - in this life. I have lived in four states - so far - in this life. I have lived through two deployments with another approaching. I have lived the emotional roller coster of a deployment that didn't come. I have watched my husband grieve for fallen comrades while at home. I stood behind him as he held the hand of the mother of the friend who took his place. Who didn't come home. Who could have been C. I have struggled through that guilt. I have watched my partner fight through that. I have felt helpless, unable to take that pain. There are no words. I have watched careers change in an instant. I have watched women bring children into this world while daddies fought in a war. I have held a friend's leg while she welcomed her daughter, while she pushed surrounded by women, without her husband to coach her through. I have watched my husband kiss his new baby goodbye. I have watched daddies kiss their new babies for the first time - months after they were born. I have watched my Logan's arm tighten around C's neck - knowing, somehow always knowing. I have whispered the words, "Come back to me," through trembling lips and the softest tears. I have watched him walk away. I have recognized the fear. I have stood beside other spouses at a memorial while a four-year-old boy kissed the photo of his father set high behind a set of boots, a standing rifle, and an empty helmet. I have sat beside my husband while he dictated his funeral. I have listened as he discussed his pallbearers, his burial place.

That changes you.

I have waited for life changing news for myself, while my husband was six-thousand miles away. I have hidden testing, I have battled between what truths I should tell if my diagnosis had been different. If it had been what the fear was at the time. I have waited for a phone call that would change the life of our little Eli without C here. I have watched my husband struggle with leaving both of our boys in the hospital on two different occasions to return to duty. I have survived the nightmares. I have cried myself crazy in a kitchen after thinking I heard my husband being shot over a phone line. I have learned how to pray in great despair. I have learned what it is to be body-trembling-grateful. I have been humbled again and again. I have struggled with the guilt of thanking God for the saved life of my soldier while nearly being knocked over by the guilt of the same thought. I have feared the doorbell. I have lost my breath at the sight of my Logan wearing dog tags. I have felt the unspeakable joy of two homecomings for my C and seven for others. 

I have bought a car - negotiated a price, fought a finance manager to get what was fair. I have moved cross country during a deployment. I have made a temporary house into a home. 

I have waited. I have lived the vows. I have honored a man in a life that many cannot understand. I have stood against ignorance. I have done my part to help others to understand. I have fought for my soldier, for my family, and for the families that surround us. I have learned day in and day out how important grace is.

I have taken a path that no one understood - that I didn't understand - and have embraced it. 

That ages you. 

It sets you apart. It gives you experiences most will never have. It changes you.

You learn you are able. That you are strong. That you belong to something great.

You learn that your twenty-seven is not the same as another's. You learn to be amazed by what you have lived through. What you have survived. Where you have thrived.

Age is a number. One day I may learn to wear it as a badge of honor. I am twenty-seven and I have thrived through this much. I am twenty-seven and I have loved this completely. I am twenty-seven and I have learned that I am able, that there is no place He leads us that we are not meant for.

Age is a number. Just a number. 

What have you learned?
And how old did you think I was? ; )