If you asked me to sum up in one word my deployment experience so far, it would be 'disappointing.'
For anyone in the Army, there is a constant cycle of expectation and disappointment. Dates are always written in pencil. Addresses are changing constantly. There is no choice. You hope for the best but prepare for the worst. For family of a deployed service member, that cycle is only heightened. Every day. He'll call today at lunch....but he doesn't. We'll get to Skype... but we can't. He'll finally be home on that date. But he isn't.
And every day, it's the same battle: I will be happy today... but I'm not.
Perhaps I am most disappointed because I haven't met my own expectations for myself. I thought that if I just stayed busy enough, I would feel fulfilled. If I just made a list of everything for which I am thankful, I would never be discontent. If I just willed myself to be happy, I wouldn't cry. At the beginning of this deployment, I was my own biggest cheerleader... but I'll admit that now there are days when I look out my window onto a gorgeous summer morning and pull the covers back over my head.
Some days I am my own biggest disappointment.
I was feeling rather guilty and perplexed about this one Sunday morning, when God sent me an angel. A young bride like myself asked me tentatively how I was doing. She didn't want to intrude on the privacy of my feelings or act as though she had all the answers for me. Sensing her genuine heart, I, with equal hesitancy, shared with her the sorrowful heartache hidden behind my practiced smile. I hoped with all my aching heart that she wouldn't take advantage of my vulnerability by offering a quick, cliche response.
Her tender words brought healing to my heart.
She shared with me a card that she had been given during a trial in her life more intense than any I've ever known. On the front of the card was a picture of a little girl in a ballerina tutu and fairy wings. She looked longingly out the window. The card simply said, "Be gentle with yourself... you have a broken wing."
Suddenly, another line I had read elsewhere made sense. Before Dan deployed, I read the journal of another Army wife who had "survived" her husband's deployment. She said that she had to "learn to forgive herself" when she had a bad day. I didn't understand what she meant by that when I first read it. How do you forgive yourself? Isn't that just an excuse for having a bad attitude? Aren't you supposed to deal with the tragedies life sends you with bravery and determination?
When my friend shared with me that card, I understood what that Army wife meant.
I have a broken wing.
I can't fly as fast or far these days as the other butterflies around me. It's hard for me to stop and enjoy the beautiful flowers I live among, because I'm working so hard just to stay aflight. I get tired so easily. My slow pace and constant exhaustion frustrate me. Being happy used to come so easily, and now it's one more thing I have to work hard at.
All because I have a broken wing.
One of my two awesome sisters-in-law sent me a care package recently. I was a little embarrassed that I would need a care package, as if it were some sign of weakness in me. But, on a particularly difficult day, I surrendered my feelings of pride and took out a bottle of the pink glitter nail polish I had been sent. After I donned my princess hat and laid my princess wand next to me, I took a few minutes to paint my nails. It was just a few minutes of quiet that I enjoyed. Just some hideous, chunky, glittery nail polish. Just a ridiculous princess costume. But it was enough time for me to rest my broken wing. In those few moments, I laughed again- at myself- but it was a genuine laugh! For a few minutes, I was able to enjoy the flowers around me and bask in the glory of being a beautiful butterfly.
I look around me this week, and I notice something:
A dear family gave to Jesus this week an amazingly beloved wife, mother, and grandmother. My special friend Michele is saying goodbye to her husband tomorrow as he leaves for his deployment. Another friend's joy is delayed as her husband's return has been pushed back.
Broken wings are everywhere.
It's easy to miss them when I'm concentrating so hard on my own pain. But, I am not alone.
My dear butterfly friend, if you have a broken wing, come rest with me for a moment. Are you sad...tired...lonely...frustrated...angry...heartbroken...confused...disappointed? I invite you now to be gentle with yourself. Borrow my princess tiara. Make a wish with my fairy wand. Take your pick of pink or purple glitter nail polish. If you need a hug, here's one. It's ok to cry. It's alright to be quiet if you'd rather not talk.
Dear butterfly, you are very special. You are working so hard to do your job and keep flying. You have a broken wing, and that's nothing to be embarrassed of. We serve a God who specializes in healing. And that makes us blessed butterflies.
Dear butterfly, you will fly again. Some day soon, you will enjoy the beautiful colors around you with a free and unburderend heart. Just like my friend who shared with me this wonderfully comforting advice. Wings grow back. You will be whole!
But for now, dear butterfly, be gentle with yourself.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Welcome to the Army, Mrs. Filcik!
WARNING: This post may contain traces of bitterness and/or resentment. Please take this Army wife with a large grain of salt... perhaps the whole can.
I sauntered into the Verizon store, ready to take on the world. It was finally time to break the metaphorical umbilical cord in the form of the infamous "Family Plan." No more mooching off of my mom. I am a married woman! And I will pay full price for my own phone line!
As I explained the situation to the representative- namely, that my HUSBAND (I'm married, you see:) is in Afghanistan, but I'd like to start my own phone plan and add him on later- I waited for those magical words. Like the sweet strains of a classical symphony or the heart-warming giggles of small children running through a sprinkler, the words danced across the room. "We have a military discount!"
I stood a little taller as I handed my military ID across the counter. Someone's phone went off, and I'm pretty sure it was a rousing rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. I could feel the reverent salutes of the civilians surrounding me, and I graciously encouraged them to be at ease so I could hear the voice of the patient representative.
"Um.... are YOU in the Army?"
"Well, I mean, technically my husband is.... I'm just a ... a... dependent..."
My voice dropped to a whisper.
Like a sorry 3-day old helium balloon, my self-esteem deflated right before me.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry. The discount is only for those actually IN the Army."
This is such a confusing concept for me.
I was pretty sure that on December 21, 2010, I was sworn into the Army. As I recall, I passed under the gleaming sabers of 8 uniformed officers, and heard them say, "Welcome to the Army, Mrs. Filcik!" It was such a life-changing moment for me. There I was, just an innocent pledge-of-allegiance-reciting civilian, being admitted-welcomed- into one of the most prestigious, tight-knit communities in our nation! Let me tell you, I was proud to wear my camouflage high heels that day!
Looking back on our wedding pictures, my husband was a little surprised and disgruntled to see that his saber bearers were smiling! Smiling is not permitted in the Army. In fact, if you are seen smiling, you could be subject to having your lips cut off. It's a pretty extreme measure, but it fits the gravity of the crime. I secretly thought it was darling! and I made Dan promise not to tell on them. Knowing what I do now, though, I realize why they were smiling, and I don't think it's so darling anymore. The moment they welcomed me into the Army, they demoted me to the status of ....
dependent. (The word is deliberately left in lowercase letters.)
Army wives are called dependents because we cannot do anything without our husbands. It's a little-known fact that when our husbands deploy, we stay in bed. For months. With the curtains drawn. We do not eat anything except icecream and Dove Promise chocolates. We do not shower. We never even dream of shaving. Those pictures you see of us painting the house, moving furniture, juggling 3 kids single-handedly, sending care packages, and beating war protestors with our brooms? Those are staged. We have them taken before our husbands leave and then we periodically post them to make you all think that we're ok. But we're not. Because we're dependents. And we pretty much can't do anything on our own. That's why Verizon wouldn't give me a discount for my phone- because I would probably lose it or something without my husband there to help me find it.
Ok, ok, you all know that's NOT true. (Except for the part about not shaving and losing my phone. It's true. I felt really badly for the last Asian lady who massaged my legs when I got a pedicure. I tipped her extra.) The whole "dependent" thing is actually kind of a joke between us Army wives. My husband read a poem at our reception that poked fun at this idea. I love the words it finally used to describe us- FIERCELY INDEPENDENT! That doesn't mean that we don't acknowledge our need for our husbands. It just means that when we need to get the job done, by George, we do it, and we can do it all by ourselves!
Now, I'm not looking for handouts. I don't walk into every store and ask if there's a discount for underprivileged, lonely Army wives. Sometimes, I do wear my "Army Wife" T-shirt in the hopes that someone will notice that I need an extra pat on the back. But, as my well-meaning family reminds me often, I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this. (Thanks, guys, I feel so much better...) It's not Verizon's fault that they can't recognize a soldier when they see one. I am rather short and under-dressed for an active duty servicewomen. But, I would like to give a shout out to the jolly fellow at GNC for giving me his gold discount on the ridiculously oversized tub of protein that I had to buy for my Hulk of a husband... and I would like to personally thank all the people in the security line at the airport who let me cut in front of them so I could see my husband one more time before he left. And it's with tears in my eyes that I gratefully remember the couple who secretly asked that I be upgraded to First Class so that I could be first off the plane to see my soldier. It's people like that who get it.
My Verizon story does have a good ending. After all my ranting, the fact is that I did get my discount. Turns out that teachers get the same discount as military members. Turns out that Verizon DOES get it. Because teaching middle school is pretty much just as tough as facing terrorists armed with explosive devices. For that reason, I dedicate this "Hooah" to you, Verizon!
And, thanks for reminding me that it's just about time to roll over in my bed and eat another tub of icecream:)
I sauntered into the Verizon store, ready to take on the world. It was finally time to break the metaphorical umbilical cord in the form of the infamous "Family Plan." No more mooching off of my mom. I am a married woman! And I will pay full price for my own phone line!
As I explained the situation to the representative- namely, that my HUSBAND (I'm married, you see:) is in Afghanistan, but I'd like to start my own phone plan and add him on later- I waited for those magical words. Like the sweet strains of a classical symphony or the heart-warming giggles of small children running through a sprinkler, the words danced across the room. "We have a military discount!"
I stood a little taller as I handed my military ID across the counter. Someone's phone went off, and I'm pretty sure it was a rousing rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. I could feel the reverent salutes of the civilians surrounding me, and I graciously encouraged them to be at ease so I could hear the voice of the patient representative.
"Um.... are YOU in the Army?"
"Well, I mean, technically my husband is.... I'm just a ... a... dependent..."
My voice dropped to a whisper.
Like a sorry 3-day old helium balloon, my self-esteem deflated right before me.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry. The discount is only for those actually IN the Army."
This is such a confusing concept for me.
I was pretty sure that on December 21, 2010, I was sworn into the Army. As I recall, I passed under the gleaming sabers of 8 uniformed officers, and heard them say, "Welcome to the Army, Mrs. Filcik!" It was such a life-changing moment for me. There I was, just an innocent pledge-of-allegiance-reciting civilian, being admitted-welcomed- into one of the most prestigious, tight-knit communities in our nation! Let me tell you, I was proud to wear my camouflage high heels that day!
Looking back on our wedding pictures, my husband was a little surprised and disgruntled to see that his saber bearers were smiling! Smiling is not permitted in the Army. In fact, if you are seen smiling, you could be subject to having your lips cut off. It's a pretty extreme measure, but it fits the gravity of the crime. I secretly thought it was darling! and I made Dan promise not to tell on them. Knowing what I do now, though, I realize why they were smiling, and I don't think it's so darling anymore. The moment they welcomed me into the Army, they demoted me to the status of ....
dependent. (The word is deliberately left in lowercase letters.)
Army wives are called dependents because we cannot do anything without our husbands. It's a little-known fact that when our husbands deploy, we stay in bed. For months. With the curtains drawn. We do not eat anything except icecream and Dove Promise chocolates. We do not shower. We never even dream of shaving. Those pictures you see of us painting the house, moving furniture, juggling 3 kids single-handedly, sending care packages, and beating war protestors with our brooms? Those are staged. We have them taken before our husbands leave and then we periodically post them to make you all think that we're ok. But we're not. Because we're dependents. And we pretty much can't do anything on our own. That's why Verizon wouldn't give me a discount for my phone- because I would probably lose it or something without my husband there to help me find it.
Ok, ok, you all know that's NOT true. (Except for the part about not shaving and losing my phone. It's true. I felt really badly for the last Asian lady who massaged my legs when I got a pedicure. I tipped her extra.) The whole "dependent" thing is actually kind of a joke between us Army wives. My husband read a poem at our reception that poked fun at this idea. I love the words it finally used to describe us- FIERCELY INDEPENDENT! That doesn't mean that we don't acknowledge our need for our husbands. It just means that when we need to get the job done, by George, we do it, and we can do it all by ourselves!
Now, I'm not looking for handouts. I don't walk into every store and ask if there's a discount for underprivileged, lonely Army wives. Sometimes, I do wear my "Army Wife" T-shirt in the hopes that someone will notice that I need an extra pat on the back. But, as my well-meaning family reminds me often, I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this. (Thanks, guys, I feel so much better...) It's not Verizon's fault that they can't recognize a soldier when they see one. I am rather short and under-dressed for an active duty servicewomen. But, I would like to give a shout out to the jolly fellow at GNC for giving me his gold discount on the ridiculously oversized tub of protein that I had to buy for my Hulk of a husband... and I would like to personally thank all the people in the security line at the airport who let me cut in front of them so I could see my husband one more time before he left. And it's with tears in my eyes that I gratefully remember the couple who secretly asked that I be upgraded to First Class so that I could be first off the plane to see my soldier. It's people like that who get it.
My Verizon story does have a good ending. After all my ranting, the fact is that I did get my discount. Turns out that teachers get the same discount as military members. Turns out that Verizon DOES get it. Because teaching middle school is pretty much just as tough as facing terrorists armed with explosive devices. For that reason, I dedicate this "Hooah" to you, Verizon!
And, thanks for reminding me that it's just about time to roll over in my bed and eat another tub of icecream:)
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Who needs men? I do, but don't tell!
Almost 10 years ago, it started.
As the male population in our house began to disappear, I came to realize that it was up to us girls to hold down our makeshift fort. We surveyed the wreckage of the half-finished and never-started projects left behind by our male compatriots, linked hands in the bonds of female survival, and uttered those sacred words...
"I'll get the duct tape!"
Our initial efforts were, understandably, amateur- things like moving all the furniture on the 2nd floor into the bathroom, so that renovations could be done to the bedrooms, or somehow lifting all the furniture in the sitting room so that we could straighten out that big bubble in the carpet. Looking back now, I shake my head patronizingly at our sense of accomplishment over such trivialities. But, in that moment, we were invincible! We were going where few women had gone before! And there we coined our mantra: "WHO NEEDS MEN?!" (This was followed by a hearty high-five and a trip to Rita's or Starbucks:)
I soon learned that I wasn't the only woman who flexed her muscles behind closed doors and barred windows. I spent one summer living with family while they adjusted to life with a new baby. One day Mama Sara and I decided to tackle the landscaping while Baby was fast asleep. Mama was a farm girl, and I was already versed in the ways of independence, so we made a tough team. I grabbed the weed wacker and a pair of safety goggles and began to attack the waist-high weeds that had taken over the entire backyard. Mama grabbed the lawn mower and revved it up as she approached the front lawn.
The sweat glistened on our foreheads and our muscles flexed easily as we battled the elements.
We were women!
We were strong!
We were competent!
We were-
DANG IT! I just weed whacked my shin!
I paused from my rantings to run inside for some gauze or a tourniquet or something like that. As I glanced out the front window, I saw the epitome of female strength and determination:
There was Mama Sara whacking the mower with a broom!
Turns out our equipment was less-than-satisfactory, and she was doing her best to make that mower cooperate. (This is also the woman who, with a deranged glint in her eye, declared her new spatula to be the perfect future tool of discipline for Baby...) To this day, neither Mama Sara nor I will admit that we were defeated. We were merely hampered by the incompetence of those around us.
Inspired by such feats, I decided a couple years later to take on the job of ripping down the wall paper in the dining room. I chose a day when Mom was gone, hoping to surprise her upon her return. As I surveyed the large pieces of furniture around me, I pysched myself out for the heavy manual labor. I could do it! How hard could it really be to rip a little paper? Just then there was a knock on the door, and 4 of my West Point friends walked in. They'd heard I was attempting a project and wanted to help. Well, naturally, I didn't NEED them, but they were welcome to WATCH... or maybe go grab some supplies I didn't know were necessary... or perhaps help strip the walls...... after they possibly moved the furniture... but only if they WANTED to because it wasn't like I was asking or anything....
In the end we- I mean I- did a great job, proving once again that girls can do anything.
Just a few weeks ago, my dear mother and I were ripping up the carpets in our house. I started the project at 6PM, and we were nearly finished with the dining room by 9. As we knelt over the dusty wooden beams of the newly-exposed wood and pulled out the nails lining the perimeter of the room, I reflected again on how far this Dream Team had come. Surely we had arrived at a new level of professional independence. I mean, we could have rented ourselves out and started our own demolition company by this time! We were good, and we knew it! We could move furniture, we could strip wallpaper, we could landscape, we could rip up carpeting....
With a sense of satisfaction I nudged Mom, "Hey, who needs men, right?!"
And then I glanced across the room at the next room that lay before us- with three times as much furniture. I imagined Mom moaning as she fell out of bed the next morning. I felt my own weariness after a long day of work. Nonchalantly I whispered,
"...but I guess it would be sort of nice if the guys were around, huh....?"
"Yeah," she whispered back,"even though they got in our way and messed up our work, they were kind of fun to have around...."
The truth is that even we extremely talented, smart, and highly-competent (need I mention good looking?!)women occasionally need our men...
....but probably more often than we let on;)
Who needs men? We do! (But don't tell!)
As the male population in our house began to disappear, I came to realize that it was up to us girls to hold down our makeshift fort. We surveyed the wreckage of the half-finished and never-started projects left behind by our male compatriots, linked hands in the bonds of female survival, and uttered those sacred words...
"I'll get the duct tape!"
Our initial efforts were, understandably, amateur- things like moving all the furniture on the 2nd floor into the bathroom, so that renovations could be done to the bedrooms, or somehow lifting all the furniture in the sitting room so that we could straighten out that big bubble in the carpet. Looking back now, I shake my head patronizingly at our sense of accomplishment over such trivialities. But, in that moment, we were invincible! We were going where few women had gone before! And there we coined our mantra: "WHO NEEDS MEN?!" (This was followed by a hearty high-five and a trip to Rita's or Starbucks:)
I soon learned that I wasn't the only woman who flexed her muscles behind closed doors and barred windows. I spent one summer living with family while they adjusted to life with a new baby. One day Mama Sara and I decided to tackle the landscaping while Baby was fast asleep. Mama was a farm girl, and I was already versed in the ways of independence, so we made a tough team. I grabbed the weed wacker and a pair of safety goggles and began to attack the waist-high weeds that had taken over the entire backyard. Mama grabbed the lawn mower and revved it up as she approached the front lawn.
The sweat glistened on our foreheads and our muscles flexed easily as we battled the elements.
We were women!
We were strong!
We were competent!
We were-
DANG IT! I just weed whacked my shin!
I paused from my rantings to run inside for some gauze or a tourniquet or something like that. As I glanced out the front window, I saw the epitome of female strength and determination:
There was Mama Sara whacking the mower with a broom!
Turns out our equipment was less-than-satisfactory, and she was doing her best to make that mower cooperate. (This is also the woman who, with a deranged glint in her eye, declared her new spatula to be the perfect future tool of discipline for Baby...) To this day, neither Mama Sara nor I will admit that we were defeated. We were merely hampered by the incompetence of those around us.
Inspired by such feats, I decided a couple years later to take on the job of ripping down the wall paper in the dining room. I chose a day when Mom was gone, hoping to surprise her upon her return. As I surveyed the large pieces of furniture around me, I pysched myself out for the heavy manual labor. I could do it! How hard could it really be to rip a little paper? Just then there was a knock on the door, and 4 of my West Point friends walked in. They'd heard I was attempting a project and wanted to help. Well, naturally, I didn't NEED them, but they were welcome to WATCH... or maybe go grab some supplies I didn't know were necessary... or perhaps help strip the walls...... after they possibly moved the furniture... but only if they WANTED to because it wasn't like I was asking or anything....
In the end we- I mean I- did a great job, proving once again that girls can do anything.
Just a few weeks ago, my dear mother and I were ripping up the carpets in our house. I started the project at 6PM, and we were nearly finished with the dining room by 9. As we knelt over the dusty wooden beams of the newly-exposed wood and pulled out the nails lining the perimeter of the room, I reflected again on how far this Dream Team had come. Surely we had arrived at a new level of professional independence. I mean, we could have rented ourselves out and started our own demolition company by this time! We were good, and we knew it! We could move furniture, we could strip wallpaper, we could landscape, we could rip up carpeting....
With a sense of satisfaction I nudged Mom, "Hey, who needs men, right?!"
And then I glanced across the room at the next room that lay before us- with three times as much furniture. I imagined Mom moaning as she fell out of bed the next morning. I felt my own weariness after a long day of work. Nonchalantly I whispered,
"...but I guess it would be sort of nice if the guys were around, huh....?"
"Yeah," she whispered back,"even though they got in our way and messed up our work, they were kind of fun to have around...."
The truth is that even we extremely talented, smart, and highly-competent (need I mention good looking?!)women occasionally need our men...
....but probably more often than we let on;)
Who needs men? We do! (But don't tell!)
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