I saw how much he loved YOU!

I was shopping online for the perfect Father’s Day gift for my baby daddy, when I came across this adorable plaque. It said, I never knew how much I loved your father, until I saw how much he loved you.

Now, I knew Dan for three years before we got married. I knew that his favorite meal is peanut butter chicken, that he owned only one pair of faded and rather oversized jeans, that he can’t talk and drive at the same time, and that he loves magic tricks. But I honestly didn’t know how well he interacted with kids. (Acting like one doesn’t mean you can play well with one!) I crossed my fingers and hoped it would be a dormant, if not already-developed skill.

After testing him out on the neighbors’ kids and a few church kids and four nieces, I was pleasantly surprised to find that he did a pretty good job! Granted, he had still to get the diapering thing down- you know, the skill where you fit BOTH butt cheeks into the diaper… and we had to talk about the whole Freezie Pops and candy for dinner thing- but overall, he was showing some great promise!

Fast forward two and a half years. And it’s our turn! We’re sitting in a cute room looking at a big screen, watching our baby squirm and kick on the ultrasound monitor. With just a few days left before Dan deployment, we decided to schedule one last look together at our little guy. The tech freezes the screen and points out the two cute little tushy cheeks. She hesitantly asks, “Mommy, Daddy, what do you see right there in the middle?”

… Puzzled silence …

“Um… nothing?” answered Dan.

And that’s when I start laughing hysterically. “Are you kidding?! Our boy is a girl?!”

For months, all Dan had talked about was having a boy. Because, boys can wrestle and play baseball, and you can throw boys in the air and splash them in the pool. Because boys are tough and adventurous and wild and… well… awesome, duh! When we found out that our little kidney bean was a boy, I breathed a sigh of relief and felt I had accomplished my duties as a dedicated wife.

And so at the word ‘girl’, I froze in the middle of my laughing, and looked over at my man to see how he was taking in this horrible disappointment.

Boy, was I surprised! Pure joy! That man was beaming! What in the world was going on?!

We laughed all the way home… we laughed telling our families… Dan told me he just couldn’t stop laughing and smiling to himself the entire next day.

I finally asked him, What gives?!

And he told me that while he was out walking the dog, he came across some pretty pink wildflowers and picked a handful. He imagined one day being able to pick flowers and give them to his daughter… taking her on Daddy dates… giving her such a perfect example of how a princess ought to be treated that she wouldn’t settle for anything less when she went looking for Prince Charming one day.

And I think that’s when it hit me. This man I married- this silly, crazy, weird, charming, darling man- was going to be a fabulous father!

My parents divorced when I was 14, and my usually acute memory can’t seem to dig up a lot of father-daughter moments. I remember beer-battered chicken and Sunday morning coffee cake… and I remember Dad’s hands. I remember thinking that the big caulk-covered, rough hands were the epitome of truly manly hands, and I liked them.

When Dan is away, one of my favorite ways to feel closer to him is to look through our pictures. And, do you know what my favorite pictures are? The ones where Dan’s hands are wrapped around me. I’ve always liked Dan’s hands because they’re big (and a little hairy) and strong, like the ones I admired in my childhood… because my little hand feels so safe inside his. And because those strong, competent hands know when to be tender hands, too.

I cannot wait to see those hands hold our baby girl for the first time. To see her little tiny fingers wrap around her daddy’s. To watch those chubby fists reach out for daddy’s hands to pick her up. To watch her take her first wobbly steps into those outstretched daddy hands. To see little and big fingers work together to learn to tie shoelaces. To giggle as daddy hands attempt a first ponytail in golden baby locks. Something tells me that a set of delicate little fingers will be wrapped around a big heart long after our girl has outgrown Barbies and Bumbos!

And I don’t think I’d have it any other way!

So, this Father’s Day I just want to send this message to someone special:

As our little family expands, I find my heart growing, too, to make room for the new joy we’ve been given. And, I find the impossible happening- I’m growing MORE in love with you… as I see you love our little girl so sacrificially and so tenderly. You are going to make a wonderful father, and I thank God for the privilege of partnering with you in this awesome journey! We love you and miss you… and we can’t wait to each claim one of your big hands when you get home!

Happy Fathers’ Day!

Let us not say 'goodbye'!

“Let us not say ‘Goodbye’, but as the French say, ‘Au Revoir!’ simpers the brazen George Wickham in my favorite five hour Pride and Prejudice movie. If you’re like I am, you cringe every time Wickham opens his stupid mouth to say that ridiculous line. As if anything he said in French could be better than his saying it in English! There are just times in life when less is more. When silence is better than sound. When you just need to say goodbye and leave, for heaven’s sake!

I can’t decide whether it feels like yesterday or a lifetime ago that I said goodbye to Dan before his first deployment. We had just been married a month and a half earlier, and our marital bliss had consisted of a great honeymoon and a couple weekend rendezvous, since I was in NJ and Dan was in TX. I am absolutely terrible at saying goodbye. In my mind, I prepare all these sweet, wonderful parting words of love and wisdom. And then about 6 hours before departure, I start simmering. My breathing becomes shallower and my tear ducts start leaking and my jaw clenches tighter to keep in all the emotions. And, in that magical moment when I’m supposed to wax eloquently and deliver my goodbye speech, I am reduced to tearful silence. Thus, I was waiting in line at the airport to go through security, trying to be brave, when I turned around for one more look and a wave goodbye. There was my soldier with just a hint of brimming tears, waving back. And I steeled my heart, grabbed a tissue, disappeared from view…. And feverishly texted all the sweet nothings I suddenly remembered I was supposed to say!

I deeply resented not being present for the official sendoff. I was intensely jealous of all the spouses who got to be with their soldier to the very last minute. I could be brave! I could handle the emotional roller coaster! Sure, I was new to this, but by golly I wanted to be the best soldier’s wife ever, and I couldn’t believe I had to say goodbye at the stupid airport…

Coming up on deployment number two, Dan and I talked about how we wanted to say our goodbyes this time. Part of me still resented that airport goodbye, and I was going to have it MY way this time. Since I was the one getting left behind again, I figured I deserved to be selfish, right?!

As per usual, the actual day and hour of sendoff changed a bajillion times in a matter of days. Til almost the last minute, we didn’t know when Dan would need to leave. Lucky for us, the Army chose the most convenient time of 2AM on a Sunday morning. Dan was part of the advance team, so there would be no official ceremony or sendoff- just a small group of guys and a couple spouses sprawled on the grass in the dark. I waited in the car as Dan unpacked his bags… and I started simmering… again… we were getting close to the crucial moment, and suddenly I needed to decide what I was going to do. It was my choice this time, just like I’d wanted. No airport. No security line. I could hold on to my soldier til the very last minute!

“Honey, do you want to come outside and wait with us for a while?” There was no pressure in his tone- just a genuine desire to accommodate MY desires this time.

And do you know what I found myself saying?

“You know… I think I’d rather just say goodbye. Here. Just you and I… Like we did last time. Would that be ok?”

And we held hands and prayed and cried together and said all manner of awkward last minute things that were totally not in our beautifully-planned speeches. Things like, “I’ll try to walk the dog every day.” And “Don’t forget to take care of the cars.” Or “Hey, we should really come up with a name for the baby.” And the ever important, “Try not to die, ok!”

What I realized in that moment is that everybody handles goodbyes differently, and that’s ok! And in that moment, I didn’t want to share my goodbye with anyone else. I wanted to cry and not feel guilty for it. I wanted to give my husband one last snotty, slobbery kiss and not care what anyone thought of it. I wanted to pray with him and know that it was just Dan and me and Baby and our heavenly Father. And I didn’t want to make small talk and pretend that inside my heart wasn’t breaking into a million pieces… again.

There are times when life is romance and butterflies and fireworks and pink ribbons and chocolate milk bubbles and trampolines. When you smile out the window and shout “Au Revoir!” because it does sound so much sweeter! And there are times when life is just a proverbial pile of poop. And ‘goodbye’ is ‘goodbye’, and the next person who tries to turn it into an ‘au revoir’ is going to get punched in the face. Poop stinks, and once you get over that, you hold your nose and get through it!

I’m so glad Dan and I got to say our goodbyes on our own terms. And, God forbid we ever have to do it again, we’ll figure out what will work best for us in that moment, too.  Every phone call and Skype session in the next 8 months will end in another goodbye. And it will still stink like poop. But I’m pretty sure when it’s all over, life will again be romance and butterflies and fireworks and pink ribbons and chocolate milk bubbles and trampolines… and maybe even unicorns!

Mothers' Day: Our Journey

Every week at church we pray for the pregnant moms and those who long to be pregnant. For the past year, I’ve cried silently through these prayers… in joy as I secretly carried a little one in my womb, and in sorrow as I twice lost my baby. Today, on my first Mothers’ Day, my eyes filled with tears for a new reason.

Our journey started just about a year ago. We knew, from the time Dan returned from his first deployment in 2011, that he would be off again sometime in early 2013. So we nonchalantly decided that we would enter the phase we entitled “not not trying” to get pregnant.  When I got pregnant almost immediately after that decision, of course we were happy… but in spite of my having watched other people’s children for 13 years, I was suddenly a little worried. Our decision to start a family was kind of a logistical choice- we would get pregnant and have a kid before Dan deployed, so he could be in on all the fun. But what if we weren’t ready? What if we hadn’t spent enough time together just as a couple? What if I was bored staying home by myself all day, instead of working? What if we ended up regretting our decision? I would say that my joy was a tempered joy- a hesitant joy- a frightened joy even. But I never would have admitted that, even to myself.

I’ll never forget waking up eight weeks later in the middle of the night, realizing that I had been tossing and turning for some time… feeling the pain in my abdomen. As I tiptoed into the bathroom and spotted the telltale trail of blood, I knew that there was nothing anyone could do for me. I quietly drove to the store for some pain killers and cried myself to sleep on the couch until I could see a doctor the next day.

We waited the prescribed number of months and tried again. I remember leaving the pregnancy test in the sink and coming back later to find the little plus sign smiling at me. I immediately praised God for hearing our prayers and resolved to be truly thankful for this little one, no matter what it meant for my future.  But, we only had a few days to enjoy our little secret before, again, Dan was holding me in his arms as we gave up our wills and our little one to God.

As I listened to the sermon today about Abraham, the father of nations, who waited decades for the fulfillment of God’s covenant, I was challenged by this statement: “Trials, to a certain extent, measure the level of faith we already have. But deeper than that, trials serve to FORM and INCREASE our faith.” The patience is the blessing. The waiting is the gift. For in those moments we discover new depths of God’s personality and love.

I learned through my wait for a baby that God is not out to trick me. He wasn’t punishing me for my unbelief by taking my first two babies. His heart broke along with our hearts, and He heard our sighs and counted our tears. For weeks after confirming this final pregnancy, I would hold my breath every time I went to the bathroom, expecting to see blood. I came to understand that God’s heart is full of hessed- overflowing loving kindness towards me- and that I didn’t need to live in fear of what His next move would be.

I learned through my wait for baby that God has a lot of work to do in me. No, he wasn’t punishing me for unbelief. But, He did reveal to me a selfishness and independence that needed to be rooted out of my heart.  I know it will be a lifelong process, and I’m grateful for a patient Teacher.

And, I learned through my wait for Baby that, no matter what joys or trials God brings into my life, His goal is always and forever to keep drawing me closer and closer to Him. It’s one of those principles we all KNOW… but it takes those dark, cold days for us to realize how incompetent we are to meet our own needs.

So, on this Mothers’ Day- my first Mothers’ Day of sorts- I sat in church and tried to keep the tears back as I participated in a responsive reading to my daughter. Reciting the words of the great kings, David and Solomon, I instructed my sweet baby to clothe herself in wisdom… to heed her father’s instruction… to forsake not the teaching of her mother… to let her father and mother be glad … that it might go well with her. And as I felt her little toes and fingers push back at me, I basked in the precious gift of life my Father has given me the privilege of carrying.

I still have lots of questions… What if God asks me to give up this little one, too? What if she’s born with physical or mental needs? What if her daddy never makes it back to see her beautiful face? What if we do our best to raise her, and it doesn’t pay off? What if… what if… what if…

But, I’ve found such peace in serving a God that isn’t intimidated by my what if’s! I can say goodbye to my soldier boy and I can carry my little girl and I can look forward to the future… all with absolute joy in the God who keeps covenants, and gives strength in the waiting.

Happy Mothers’ Day!

Sleepless in Harker Heights

My husband is currently in the middle of a new “phase”- falling asleep on the couch.

Now, it’s not the falling asleep part that’s new.

I’ve known for quite some time now that that’s not just  Dan’s talent- it’s his spiritual gift.

Just the other night, I was telling him a story while we were lying in bed. He responded with an “Uh-huh” and five seconds later- I counted!- was snoring. 

No, falling asleep on the couch or any other strange place is nothing new for him. The new part is that he wants ME to fall asleep on the couch, too.

Over the past 25 years, I’ve developed an optimal sleeping environment for myself. I consider myself solar powered. Once the sun goes down, I’m ready for bed. And, any amount of light that seeps into my room wakes my up. One of my pet peeves, in fact, was when a certain unnamed younger brother- ahem- would leave the hall light on after he went to bed, forcing ME to get up and turn it off.  In addition to blocking out light, my prime sleeping environment blocks out all sound. I recall not a few nights in my childhood when I would wake up from a sound sleep because certain unnamed younger brother and sisters- ahem- would have fallen asleep listening to Radio Disney or The Chronicles of Narnia. I would tiptoe across their creaky bedroom floors and gradually lower the volume, praying that wouldn’t wake up.

Now, I didn’t get my own bedroom until I was 18. As the oldest child in the house, I was given the choice of which bedroom I wanted. Naturally, I picked the one with the most light... and the bird’s nest in the wall.

That was a stupid choice!  

If I wanted to sleep past 5am on any given morning, I was going to have to take drastic measures.

And I did…

I developed a strategy for turning my bed into a cocoon- covers pulled up over my head to block out the light, and a tiny breathing hole crafted off to one side where I could breathe in fresh air. As for the sound of the birds or those darn garbage trucks, that was a more difficult problem. It required sacrifice. On chilly autumn mornings, I desperately turned on the one machine that could overpower the outside noises- my air conditioner. And I threw another layer on the cocoon.

Learning to sleep with another person, I hear, is a difficult task. Especially for someone like me, who has taken a quarter century to perfect my optimal sleeping environment.

Learning to sleep with Dan is another story. He’s not just any old person. He’s special.

First, he bought a projection clock. If you haven’t even seen one of those, it basically projects a digital image of the time onto your ceiling or wall. For days after Dan bought his prized clock, he would lie in bed and lovingly ask, “Honey, isn’t it so cool?!”

Well, Honey didn’t think it was so cool! Honey likes it to be dark in the room when she goes to sleep. And that clock was NOT dark! In fact, one morning after Dan climbed out of bed to get ready for work, I turned the clock so it faced the floor. As I drifted back to sleep, I heard a concerned voice mumbling to himself, “Hm… I must have messed up the clock…. Gotta fix that…” And the spotlight went back up on the ceiling… and I grimaced and growled as I retreated into my trusty cocoon.

The other thing that makes it difficult to sleep with Dan is the noise factor. I once saw a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip where Calvin remarks that his Dad’s snoring sounds like tractor trailers downgrading on the highway.

I think of that cartoon every night.

I honestly do not know Dan’s snoring reaches such decibels. But I’m finally thankful that he insisted on having a king size bed. Because, in those moments I want to be as far away from the rumbling as possible.

As if the snoring weren’t enough, there are the alarm clocks… multiple alarm clocks.

I am very proud of the fact that I wake up promptly and thoroughly the first time my alarm goes off. It doesn’t even have to be loud- I can wake up to my phone alarm on vibrate! And, I don’t need a snooze button. I am able to calculate exactly how much time I need to get ready in the morning, and I prefer to sleep to the last moment possible. Apparently, not everyone is like that… Apparently some people don’t hear their alarm clocks go off… Apparently, some people need multiple alarm clocks… Apparently, some people like to set their FIRST alarm for 45 minutes before they actually want to get up, so they can appreciate, at 5-minute increments, the fact that they don’t really have to get up yet. Apparently, Dan is one of those people.

I don’t consider myself a violent person, but I have had evil thoughts lately towards a certain cell phone, 2 alarms clocks, and a wrist watch, that I’m sure I’ll need to confess pretty soon. Especially since we now have a gun in the house.

So what’s the big deal about falling asleep on the couch?

I have yet to discover what makes it so much fun for Dan… but I know what makes it so NOT fun for Jussley. First of all, Dan is a couch-hog. Fair enough, since he’s at least twice my size. But, for someone who wanted a king size bed so badly, I’m feeling a bit jipped as my rear hangs a good 6 inches off the couch. Then there’s the whole contorting my neck to fit on the pillow but not be squished by Dan’s head issue. And how about when you’re just falling asleep, but then it starts to get cold, and the blanket is just beyond your reach, and you have to get up to get it, and then you’re awake again? Inevitably I wake up somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, and decide that I’ve had enough. I’m going to bed! The real bed!

My husband clotheslines me on my way off the couch. “I’m sorry! I was trying to catch you from falling off the couch!” Oh, the couch you were pushing me off in the first place?! He sits up, looks at me, talks to me, but goes back to sleep ON THE COUCH and in the morning asks me why I didn’t wake him up to come to bed. Go figure! I turn off all the lights and calculate how much higher our energy bill has been since this fun “living room campout” phase. I despair of the dinner that we once again forgot to put in the refrigerator. No leftovers, I guess. With a defeated sigh I peel back the covers and claim the whole bed to myself, not even caring that I didn’t brush my teeth or change into pajamas… again! It’s warm. It’s dark. It’s quiet. And my rear has plenty of room.

Somewhere between real sleep and dawn, an arm reaches across me and I feel a kiss on my forehead.

I smile.

I count to five.

And the semis start downgrading on the highway again.

I roll my eyes, put my pillow over my head, and remind myself that the best soldier needs to be able to fall asleep wherever, whenever, because a few minutes rest may be all he has.

…and suddenly I don’t mind the alarm that I know will go off in two hours… because for two more hours, that soldier is mine.

with 10,000 beside!

“Thank you, God, for napkin rings!”

This time it wasn’t hard. This time it floated up from a giddy heart, carbon bubbles of gratitude launching off the liquid surface and spraying my nose. It was just a napkin holder, but it was pure joy.

I had seen the colorful rings in the store a few weeks earlier while registering for my housewarming shower. Different-sized wooden orbs of hot pink, neon green, yellow and white, clustered into a ring. I imagined placing them on my new white square dishes, a splash of color to invite my guests into the new Texas house. But, I passed them up with a sigh, and pointed my scanner towards more “practical” items.

Tonight, in a moment of spontaneity, I raced back to the store, determined to find some small treasure that would cheer my evening. I spied the colorful rings in a clearance box-  99 cents a pop! I looped 10 of them over my fingers and smiled like a toddler, stifling a giggle as I hoarded my treasure.

Yes, on my way home, I thanked God for those napkin rings. They reminded me that I was a few minutes closer to being with my husband in our first home. I imagined God smiling back at me- winking even- and gently encouraging me that I was going to make it, and He was going to help Me!

Thankfulness. It’s sheer divine magic.

My mother-in-law let me in on that secret a few months ago when she gave me the book One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp. Ann writes like a magician herself- a poetic, freestyle, sometimes Transcendental flowing of an eager hand across friendly paper. The words appear out of thin air. She writes about chickens and overalls and dishes and dirty faces and schoolbooks and quiet moments with God and exhaustion and dirt under fingernails- everything that makes life less than romantic- everything that makes life, life! She writes about soul-withering sorrow and bloody hearts- and she writes about what she discovered on the day she met Life.

“A glowing sun-orb fills an August sky the day this story begins, the day I am born, the day I begin to live.”

Though she refers to her physical life there, she reveals in later pages the secret to living her new “emptier, fuller life.”

The secret is very simple.

“Thankfulness precedes the miracle.”

I read these words a few weeks before I met Dan in Cancun. My heart was bitter, disillusioned, unhappy, and not entirely convinced of Voskamp’s words. Poets have a way of exaggerating circumstances- making the dirt of life seem somehow beautiful in its dirtiness. Well, my life tasted of dirt lately, and it was not beautiful. It tasted gross.

“How do you count on life when the hopes don’t add up?”

Now she was talking my language. For over a year I had been waiting….waiting….waiting for life to start. My hopes had been growing, but like an incorrect math problem, 1 plus 1 plus 1 plus 1 kept equaling zero. Zero husband. Zero new home. Zero phone calls. Zero happiness. Zero. The hopes were not adding up.

“The hopes don’t have to add up. The blessings do.”

 I paused.

“Count blessings and discover Who can be counted on.”

Not what I was expecting.

The poet-magician explained. “Isn’t that what had been happening, quite unexpectedly? This living a lifestyle of intentional gratitude became an unintentional test in the trustworthiness of God- and in counting blessings I stumbled upon the way out of fear.”

Intentional gratitude. Ann had been keeping a list of things that she found each day to be grateful for. Little things- the sunlight gleaming through clean windows. The smell of clean sheets hanging on the clothesline. Count to 1,000. 1,000 gifts.

An unintentional test in the trustworthiness of God. Is that what this struggle in my heart was? Perhaps the zeros I kept coming across were merely reflections of the zero trust I was putting in God. Perhaps my unhappiness was fear- fear that God was not really looking out for my good. Fear that He was trying to trick me. Fear that He would wait until the last minute and take Dan from me. Fear that He would give me all these beautiful dreams and then tell me it was all a joke- a massive test to see if I was holy enough.

I decided that perhaps I needed to put the poet on trial. I would take her words to court and see if the evidence weighed in her favor. I would consider her guilty until proven innocent.

6 o’clock.

My first day back after Cancun, and my baby niece woke me up at 6 o’clock.

Thanksgiving precedes the miracle.

Now was my first court session.

I picked up the tearful bundle and wrapped her under the covers next to me. As I fed her her bottle, I took a deep breath and prayed, “Thank you God for this precious life warm and needy next to me. My niece.”

A faint smile as I stroked her cheek.

Thanksgiving precedes the miracle.

I glanced through the blinds at a new day.

Blue sky.

“Thank you, God, for blue sky…. I love summer.”

A smile. A real one. A whole one.

A giggle!

That was it! I laughed at myself for being so vulnerable! I had let my guard down, and the poet had been acquitted and left the bench before I noticed her absence. She was right! Thanksgiving DID precede the miracle. My aching heart could breathe. I was going to make it!

“Isn’t it here? The wonder? Why do I spend so much of my living hours struggling to see it? Do we truly stumble so blind that we must be affronted with blinding magnificence for our blurry soul-sight to recognize grandeur? The very same surging magnificence that cascades over our every day here. Who has time or eyes to notice? All my eyes can seem to fixate on are the splatters of disappointment across here and me.”

Thanksgiving in little things… thanksgiving in all things! The little things become the blinding magnificence! And in the blinding magnificence, true vision is restored.

Just the other night, I lay in bed “fixating on the splatters of disappointment” when I heard the whisper.

Thanksgiving precedes the miracle.

Dutifully, I began.

“Thank you, God, for the hum of the air conditioner that quiets my restless mind.”

“Thank you, God, for the soft covers that catch my tears.”

“Thank you God….”

…and a tangible peace flooded my body. A delicious drowsiness overcame my mind and with my last waking thought I noted once again that the miracle had happened.

I don’t know if I’m ready, yet, to say that I’m thankful for this deployment. I’m certainly thankful for things that it’s brought- like a chance to minister to others in similar circumstances, like my husband’s dreams being fulfilled, like an extra year to watch my baby sister grow up, like an opportunity to learn how to show “creative love” to my far-away man. But, am I thankful for this deployment?

Hmmmm…

I read on as Ann quotes Henry Beecher Ward: “Pride slays thanksgiving…A proud man is seldom a grateful man, for he never thinks he gets as much as he deserves.” Ann asks with me, “Dare I ask what I think I deserve? A life of material comfort? A life free of all trials, all hardship, all suffering? A life with no discomfort, no inconveniences? Are there times that a sense of entitlement- expectations- is what inflates self, detonates anger, offends God, extinguishes joy? And what do I really deserve? Thankfully, God never gives what is deserved, but instead, God graciously, passionately offers gifts, our bodies, our time, our very lives. God does not give rights but imparts responsibilities-- response-abilites—inviting us to respond to His love-gifts. And I know and can feel it tight: I’m refusing it. Proudly refusing to accept this moment, dismissing it as no gift at all I refuse God. I reject God. Why is this thanksgiving so hard?”

My foolish pride thinks I don’t deserve these moments of heartache. And in my ungratefulness, my joy is extinguished. I search for the grace- no, the common sense!- to thank God for this deployment. I don’t understand it, but He has given it to me wrapped in shiny paper and a sparkly bow- it is a gift that He has delighted to give me. I shake my head in wonder at this strange God that I serve… and I wonder  why I doubt His wise love still after so long…

So, tonight, I give thanks…

…for napkin rings

…for autumn leaves that fall like confetti and balloons on me, the winner!

…for “What are we going to do today?!”s

…for orange-painted toe nails

…for blogger friends who sympathize

…for soldier man who writes inappropriate comments on my Facebook wall

…for the smell of new books

…for “blessings all mine, with 10,000 beside!”

…and I wait for the miracle!!

Just Winging It....

It was at about 6,000 feet that I frantically asked myself, "What in the world am I doing?!"

Zipped into a bubblegum pink jumpsuit, with oversized goggles suctioned to my face, I looked out the tiny window as we penetrated the thick cloud layer.

I never was a huge fan of heights.

Yet, here I was, straddling a narrow bench, my back harnessed to a stranger's stomach, pretending to smile adventurously as I attempted to suppress the feeling of impending death that was rather quickly working its way from the bowels of my stomach to my esophagus.

And we were quickly nearing our destination of 12,000 feet above solid ground.

My Dan is a great gift-giver.
While we were dating, he sent me a big package of things that go well together- milk and cookies, peanut butter and jelly, salt and pepper. Labeled "open last" was a picture of him and me, obviously the best pair of the bunch. Another package came my way for my birthday- full of all sorts of unique goodies like a foot massager, a princess tiara, a jar full of chocolate kisses, and a pack of little Army men attached to parachutes. Dan puts a lot of care and thought... and humor... into his gifts.

Humorous isn't exactly how I would describe his "pre-deployment" gift to me, though.

On our last Saturday together, as we lazed around the house, Dan nonchalantly suggested we start our day, as he had plans for us.

No, it wasn't a car...
or a puppy...
He was taking me

skydiving

I enjoy surprises.
I am afraid of heights.petrified.

At 12,000 feet, the door to the side of the plane was opened and we slid into place. I looked across the plane at the impish face that smiled excitedly at me. There was only one person in the world for whom I would ever consider jumping out of a plane; and there he was, perched on the edge of the plane, ready to catapult into the cloudy white abyss. I didn't even know til I watched the video footage later that that stinker backflipped out of the plane!

I was alone.
And it was my time to jump.

I swung my feet over the edge, trying desperately to do anything but think about the fact that God didn't create me with wings. I jammed my head back against my instructor's shoulder and started to rock.

3
2
1

and I rolled into a freefall


Being married to the military is like skydiving.

In a matter of seconds, everything comfortable about living on the ground-- gently-blowing leaves, laughing children, eating watermelon in the park, watching fireworks and catching lightning bugs, the smell of slightly-burnt popcorn-- is savagely ripped from under you... and you're tossed into the cloudy abyss of the UNKNOWN, armed solely with the comforting knowledge that if your first parachute malfunctions, you have a backup chute that should work more effectively.

I was convinced I would live and die in NJ, unless I married a missionary and moved to the thick jungles of Africa, where I would labor in our tree hut to translate the Bible into native tongues and die young of malaria or dysentary or an attack by rabid baboons....naturally. The idea of giving up my cozy predictable life for the nomadic wanderings of the military wife never once entered my mind... surprisingly. I liked life on the ground. I liked its bustle and activity. I liked looking UP at the clouds and daydreaming about their soft fluffiness. But LIVING in those clouds...well, I didn't actually think that would be so much fun.

Perhaps what really suprised me about skydiving, then, was how much fun it actually turned out to be. How many people get the chance to swim through a cloud?! Or gently float on the breeze, surveying the expansive horizon? I thought the distance from earth would make me sick, but it opened my eyes to a view of the world that I had never seen before. It was beautiful. It was enjoyable. It was adventurous. It actually wasn't so bad...!

As I slowly picked up my legs for landing, a blue seran-wrapped figure ran toward me.

"Are you ok?
 Did you like it?
Wasn't that AWESOME?!
Want to do it again?"

Before we left to head back for dinner, Dan pulled out another gift. This one wasn't quite as expensive or shocking. He had brought along his Airborne pin to give to me. We held our own private pinning ceremony, and he told me how proud he was of me. He really didn't know if I would be up for the skydiving adventure...

Well, he should have known when I agreed to marry him that I'm not exactly a normal or completely sane person...

...and that I'm kind of head-over-heels for him...

Those wings pretty much sum up our foreseeable future.

People have a lot of questions about where the Army will take us-
"When does Dan come home?"
"How long will you be in Texas?"
"Where will you move next?"
"When are you going to have kids?"
(and my personal favorite) "When does he have to go back to Afghanistan?"

To all of these questions, I simply respond, "I don't know..."

You see- Dan and I- we're airborne.
We've been pushed out of a plane and we're not sure when we'll hit the ground or where.
But we have our pins.
So, we don't worry about the altitude. the wind speed. the weather.
We just kind of...

WING IT

There are still days where I ask myself what in the world I'm doing..
like when half of my students call me "Miss Martin" and the other half call me "Mrs. Filcik"
or when I get a text that says, "Rocket attack. Be back in a second"
or when I try to figure out how in the world Mom and I are going to move all that furniture to Texas by ourselves

But then I remember my wings

I have a good 12,000 feet to fall before I hit some kind of ground.
but...
I'm thankful to be strapped to Someone Who knows what He's doing and doesn't need a "backup chute."
I'm thankful for the clouds and the breeze and the opportunity to see new places.
I'm thankful for my bubblegum jumpsuit and the supportive team that will cheer me on from back up in the plane and from back down on the ground.
And I'm thankful for that crazy blue seran-wrapped GIJoe waving excitedly up at me.
I promised to follow him in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, through question marks and "we'll cross that bridge when we get there"s.

So, Dan, to answer your questions-
Yes, I'm ok!
Yes, I liked it!
It WAS awesome!
And I WOULD do it again!

And, somehow, I have a feeling that when our crazy adventure with the Army comes to an end- in 5, 10, 20 years- and we finally hit the ground... I'll be pretty thankful that I followed you into that itty bitty Cessna, strapped on those dorky goggles, held your hand...

and JUMPED!

Broken Wings

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.