Fun Size

2012-01-23T21:05:00.001-05:00

It's still so fresh in my mind. The nights alone, the caring for babies by myself, being the sole responsible person for the homefront. I'm still "standing down," which has proved so much harder than I had thought. But, life was starting to assume that natural and relaxed feeling. The joy I hadn't felt in a long time. Life was starting to settle down.

"Do you want to know where we are going next?"

I was sitting at the stoplight, preparing to turn onto the highway for our trip to the grocery store when he called. He had come home early. I nixed the shopping trip and headed home. I needed to hear it from him--not the telephone.

Huntsville. Three to four years.

My stomach burned, my mind reeled. We have to leave both of our families. Elizabeth's grandparents and aunts and uncles. We leave our parents, brothers, sisters. I am leaving some of the closest and dearest friends I've had. People who saw me and helped me through a deployment. We have to leave the most incredible parish community I've known. People who care about us. And our house, our dear little house. The one we spent evenings getting to know each other in when we were dating. We planned a wedding here. Brought two babies home here. We've held each other in grief here, and celebrated joys, too.

We are leaving a life behind. And it makes me sad.

But, we will make a new life there. We will make new friends, build new memories. Our new home will see more joy, receive new babies, gain it's own beauty.

Questions fly through my head.

Will there be a deployment? When? We don't know. How will Elizabeth handle this? I don't know. Where do I start with this move? I don't know.

There was a time, I would lament in tears at the chaos that is our life. I have vivid memories of crying, "Will things ever settle down? Will they ever be normal?"

Ha. Nope. And you signed up for this, sister.

In the last year and a half, I have learned so much. Life is not normal, period. But, it's especially chaotic in the military. But, it is this chaos, this upheaval, that gives me a sense of purpose now. I view it not as a defeat, but as a battle to be won. There's one constancy in this life, and it's the perpetual change that strikes when life feels most "normal."

And so, dear reader, another adventure commences on the Stravitsch Homefront. A new chapter. A new life. Stay with us, pray with us, as we begin our next journey.

Charlie Mike, ya'll.

2012-01-05T23:36:00.002-05:00

I came out from our bedroom after putting the tiniest one to sleep. I heard the crackling of a fire and came into the living room, seeing my Soldier and my battle buddy standing in front of the fire place. Something strange was in there.

"What is it?" I realized as soon as I asked--our Flag.

"It was tattered." he said, watching diligently.

That flag waved outside our home everyday he was gone. Only twice did I take it down, because of storms ripping through the area. As soon as they passed, the flag went back up. That flag represented so much to me. I saw it everyday that I came and went from our house. My daughter somehow learned to call it "Daddy's Flag." I was sad--it was a very important symbol for me.

It was tattered, though. Threads hung from the hem that was falling out. The strings were wrapped around the pole from the wind. The colors were faded, and the material dirty. It had fought hard and it was time to retire it.

Maybe that's why that flag was so important to me. That flag was new when he left--bright, clean, ready. It stood tall in the hot summer sun, the bitter cold, the occasional rain. Despite the circumstances, it never waivered. And it survived. The end of the deployment found it tattered and worn. But, so much more beautiful than when he left. It had scars. It had stories. It had pride.

I wound my arm around my Soldier's waist.

Yes, time to retire it. Time for calm. Time to hunker down and enjoy some peace. Tattered. But proud.

2012-01-04T13:40:00.000-05:00

I called the first one wrong. Totally wrong. I was scared to death, was calling the Nurse's Hotline at our Army Hospital. She'd been crying--screaming and writhing for over an hour. Refusing to get off the toilet. Grabbing at her stomach. Calling for Mommy, desperately. Hitting the wall in pain. Slapping irrationally at anyone who came close, then calling them back. She was in pain. I knew. I was prepared to take her into the hospital. Something was wrong with my little girl.

I handed her the scarf. That plaid scarf she's carried around the entire time I was in the hospital having her little sister. At that time, she wouldn't leave the house, go to sleep, or do anything without that blasted scarf. As soon as things settled down, I hid it. That night, while she was screaming, I handed it to her. She took it, and within thirty seconds, she calmed down and climbed off the toilet.

Yes, she was in pain. But, it was no pain a doctor could have fixed.

"Ma'am? Can I confirm you called the Nurse's Hotline? What symptoms is your daughter exhibiting?"

"It's fine." I sheepishly replied. "I thought she was having digestion issues, but her Daddy just got back from Iraq and didn't want us going on a date tonight."

Her responses were shocking to me. She was so nonchalant. "Oh. We get this all the time. Have a nice evening, ma'am." Click.

Really? She's two. They get this all the time?

It's glorious having my husband--my Soldier--home. I don't have to worry anymore. I don't have to live for my computer to ring. He's home--I can hug him whenever I want. Talk to him whenever I want. His name shows up on my phone when he calls.

But, I made a critical mistake. I thought that, as soon as we held each other on that parade field, this deployment was over. It's affect on my life--my family's life--would be over. I fell for the newspaper images, the media's portrayal. That the Soldier comes home and everyone lives happily ever after.

But, we are human. And life's events affect us. The younger we are, the smaller the ability we have to communicate the chaos, the suffering that this life brings, the harder it is to cope. We are still making sacrifices. My daughter is still sacrificing. She's still suffering. She lives in horrible fear that Mommy or Daddy will leave--suddenly. That Daddy will disappear. She has fought going to bed, panicking and screaming in fear. She has refused to get dressed because she does not want to leave the house--her comfort zone. She's scared to take naps.

She's been such a fighter--such a trooper in the last year. But, she's experienced more than most compitent adults do in saying good-bye repeatedly to her father, to her source of security and love. And it has taken its toll.

At first, I was angry with myself. Why wasn't I just happy that he was home? Why was I complaining? I felt I had no right to feel the negative feelings--the worry, the fear, the anger. But, it's not over. He's home, but it's not over.

We are readjusting. Reintegrating.

Oh, joy.

As tired as I am, as emotionally burnt out as I am, I will not lose. Unfortunately, this time, the battle lies not within me, but within my daughter. But, I stand firmly knowing that we will win this fight, too. Don't mess with my family; don't mess with my innocent children. I will give her all the love, the structure, the routine I can. We are slowly seeing progress. She will be okay. It just kills me that she--so innocent and so young--must still suffer.

I do this for him. I committed to this for him. But, why? Why must it hurt the little children?

2011-12-13T21:27:00.001-05:00

At first, there were hundreds of days ahead. Many weeks. 12 months.

All I could do initially was count the weeks we survived. Celebrate each Sunday that we'd made it through another week. Then, the weeks got easier. The months glided by. Calendars were filled and life was lived. Easter. Mother's Day. R&R. Road Trips. A Birth. We struggled through Crosses and reveled in the joy. Through it all, one image remained constant in my mind: meeting him on that parade field.

And now, it's practically here. I unpacked that footlocker. I am cleaning the house, buying groceries for everyone, putting together outfits, and waiting for that phone call.

Boots on the Ground.

Before long, I'll be standing on that parade field, throwing my arms around him. I'll watch him pick up his two girls. We'll take him home. And we'll live together again. As a family. The constant worry of the doorbell ringing will be over. The perpetual absence will be filled. We won't live by the phone and computer anymore.

I've grown. I'm not that same woman who panicked when we got order only four months shy of his brigade's departure. Who wondered if she'd remember to take out the trash every week, how she would take care of a daughter alone, how she would live through each second of a year without her best friend. But, when I had to stand in a children's cancer unit and demand answers for my daughter's health, it happened. When I climbed into an empty bed each night, it happened. When I got up each morning, determined to finish the day with a smile, it happened. It happened when I celebrated Valentine's day, our Anniversary, our daughter's birthday without him. When I felt so low halfway through the deployment that it brought me to my knees. It happened each time I cared for our newborn daughter in the middle of the night alone.

I learned to live without him, by living for him.

But during those moments, something else happened, too.

People helped.

Pictures of his departure were met with comments of encouragement and affirmation. A blog post about my daughter's health caused a firestorm of promises of prayers. Friends purchased plane tickets. To come see me. My mother took my newborn daughter for two nights into the guest room so I could get some sleep before I started flying solo. My father became Mr. Fix It. My in-laws drove up on a regular basis to stay. Wives from Church made us dinner, threw me a baby shower. Many other acts of kindness occurred.

And people prayed.

I can stand proudly on that parade field because I survived. I can stand confidently because I allowed this year to improve me instead of destroy me. I cared for my child, which became children. I held down the homefront. Earned my title Military Wife. Gained that strength only those in this life have.

But, I would be a sham if I took all the credit.

The truth is this. I couldn't have survived this year without my friends, my family, the strangers. They helped--cleaned fish tanks, baby sat, fixed panels on my car. They built bookshelves in my den, reinstalled the disposal in the kitchen. They sat with me in those oncology appointments. Bought plane tickets. They helped clean my house. Left words of encouragements on post it notes around my house, on my Facebook wall, and on my voicemail. A precious few answered the phone when I was so tired, so worn down, and listened to me cry and helped me stand back up. And everyone prayed.

We military wives like to say we are "alone." And in some sense, we are. Our Soldiers are gone, which leaves a gaping hole in our lives few can comprehend. We learn by heartache not to take them for granted. We sleep alone, we wake alone, we live alone.

But we do not survive alone.

We survive because other military wives band around us, especially in our weakest moments. We survive because a friend takes a prayer request and makes it go viral on the internet. We survive because friends--true friends--don't forget about us, don't try to understand. They just listen. We survive because family steps in and does what our Soldier would have done. Fix things, clean things. We survive because we realize that our Soldier isn't the only one who loves us. Loves me.

I have learned one thing this year: I am never alone. On the contrary: I am very, very loved.

For those of you who helped my family, helped me, this year: THANK YOU. You know who you are. The acts of kindness, the words of encouragement, the prayers. I am so moved by the love and support four people were shown this past year. There is still a "United" in our States, there is still a love in our country--for good. As I sprint across that parade field, I do not do it alone. Rather, I will sense the love all of you showed--I will feel you standing behind me, cheering me on.

Because I did not survive alone. I did not win alone. I did it with you--because of you.

2011-11-30T16:49:00.001-05:00

We all have our individual survival methods. Techniques we develop and fine-tune to make sure we survive this life. Because it's hard. While we military spouses develop them individually, we find that they are similar to many others', which sparks long conversations about why one technique works and another doesn't.

I can't count months! Even though it's a smaller number, somehow counting weeks makes it seem shorter.

Me, too! Months are too overwhelming.

Each day, I post a positive status on Facebook. My goal is to finish out this deployment having never posted a negative status. Recently a dear friend of mine commented on this, saying she hoped that they were all true and the life had been going well for us. I laughed inside. Most of the time, the statuses are true--I am able to find a joy in the life I have built and live for my girls. The laughs, the stolen kisses, the games, the snuggles all provide a joy I've never known. It's a joy that is confident, defiant. Because I am winning despite the great struggle.

But, sometimes, I post positive statuses in spite of my day. When tantrums, spills, potty accidents, and fussiness fill my day. When I cannot get ahead with the housework because I am going crazy chasing after a toddler and shushing a newborn. I step up to my computer, force myself to find something positive about my day, and I post it. And then I feel better. Because I am winning. I am still finding the joy, even if it isn't as prevalent.

I am not perfect.

Recently, someone commented on a post of mine, intimating that I was a hypocrite, that I was proud and touted myself as perfect (signed anonymous--isn't that funny?). Feeling the sting, I removed the post. I have since reposted it.

I never want to portray myself as perfect. In fact, the point of my blog is to take my imperfection in this life and succeed despite it. That I am trying my hardest to change my imperfection to some sort of attempt at bettering myself for the sake of my girls and my Soldier.

I do not have all the answers.

And so when "bad days" turn to a "bad week" or "bad string of luck," what's a girl to do? I am at a loss today. I can't win the potty training battle. She's still having accidents. I can't win the "keeping it all in control" battle. I am barely keeping it together between a tantrum-prone toddler and a demanding newborn. The house is barely staying clean and I haven't done anything enjoyable for myself in weeks. Emotionally and physically, I am exhausted. This is tough.

A lot has happened during this deployment. I look back on the past nearly year. And I have survived some intense moments, prevailed through some heavy times. So, when I don't have the answer for surviving the right now, I just look backward and realize that through all of the Crosses, the many weeks, the long months, I have remained standing. The good times. The not so good times. And the couple of really rough patches, I have stood standing. Even though my footing has been uneasy and my confidence faltering, I have finished the day, the weeks, the patches, looking heavenward and still standing.

I will make this. To the end. As imperfect as I am, I will survive. And all the more joyful, all more wonderful will be my victory. For it is the imperfect who are more likely to fail, more likely to fall. But, despite it all--in spite of it--my gaze remains heavenward and my feet stand firmly on the ground. Though it feels like my insignificant Crosses are crashing about me at times, though I feel as though the light at the end of the tunnel is a train, I will prevail.

Hypocrite? Never.
Proud? Ha. Not me.
Perfect? Not yet.

But, I will get there eventually. Until then, I fight the daily fight for my girls, for my Soldier. And victory will be mine. Because though I may stand on that parade field with my feet unsteady, I will still be standing there. And my Soldier will finally be there, too.

Charlie Mike.

Precious Moments

2011-11-17T21:11:00.001-05:00

This has probably been one of the worst weeks since my Soldier left. Period. Anything that could have gone wrong, did. With a vengeance. All week, I've felt like I was running around putting fires out. Big fires. Little fires. And then my fire extinguisher was empty long before the job was done. That's been my week.

"The very last part of the deployment is the hardest." My daughter's pediatrician told me. Good to be in a military community--it's like family. They always understand. And they never sugarcoat things.

"Ma'am? Do you know how fast you were going?" The speed limit. "You were going 12 over." I knew that wasn't true. I monitor my speed like an old lady. In fact, as he was tailing behind me, a pick up truck sped past me like I was standing still. My first speeding ticket ever. And I didn't even deserve it. But, he wrote down the wrong make, model, and year of the car, that the roads were dry (funny, because it was pouring rain), and he also penciled in that I was black. Ha. Anyone who knows me, knows you can't get any more white than me. Now, I have to find time to contest it. With two kids. Awesome.

"Yup! Media otitis. Ear infection. I'm going to give you antibiotics, and you should be good to go." Not. Three days into the ear infection, and I go to the doctor...and got antibiotics that didn't work. Back into the doctor two more times this week, and started better antibiotics. I am only just now feeling better. I have great respect for those who struggle with ear infections. They are wicked.

"Why aren't you online?" Internet was down. For two days. You want to make a military wife angry? Shut down her internet and refuse to fix it. I had been dealing with them already for three weeks, when the internet was spotty. Then it crashed altogether this week. And that just added fuel to those fires. A lot of fuel. From numerous four-hour phone conversations with the internet provider trying get it fixed, to a dinner time trip downtown to get a new modem that made it worse, I was infuriated by this afternoon. And I let them know. As nicely as I could.

And then I stopped.

As we got out of the car last night, the train whipped down the tracks just down the road. My toddler started jumping up and down, clapping her hands. "Choo choo, Mommy!" Even though the internet store was closing imminently, even though it was dinner time and throwing off my schedule, even though it was cold and I was irritated and tired, I stopped. I knelt down. And we watched and laughed together.

It made me realize something. Life gets way out of hand sometimes. And flying solo without my spouse makes those times harder. Everyone is depending on you and expecting their chunk of time. Everything and its consequences are on your shoulders. You run twice as fast, work twice as hard. And you come last, if you "come" at all. But I cannot let those precious moments of innocent joy pass me by, regardless of how "bad" a week it has been. Because the memories are too valuable to ignore.

Some day, she'll be grown. She won't remember the year we spent getting each other through, comforting each other. She'll never remember the precious moments we had together while Daddy was gone--in spite of Daddy being gone. The late night cuddles as she cried, the hugs she gives me when she can tell I'm struggling, the games and laughs we have shared each day. She'll never remember them. But, I will. When she's grown and doesn't have time for Mommy anymore. When she's a Mommy. I'll remember when she was tiny and stood next to me as we laughed over the train speeding by. As she stood in my arms encircling her and mimicked the sounds. I'll remember.

In that moment--for a moment, life stood still. The stress and negativity of the week disappeared. All that mattered was she and I. Watching that train. Speed by. And in a moment, it was gone.

2011-11-09T21:54:00.002-05:00

Everytime we see one, she says it--yells it--without fail. At the park, in someone's yard, driving down the highway, as we see it waving over a car dealership.

"Daddy's flag!"

I did not teach my daughter to refer our country's flag as Daddy's flag. I am not sure how she made that association, but it's a beautiful one. We have a flag hanging on the outside of the home. It never comes down. Only once in the last year, have I taken it down. A horrible storm hit us, and I knew that flag would be destroyed. I could not allow that, especially in his absence.

It was one of the first aspects I found to be a very attractive and beautiful quality of my husband's. His love for the Flag. He knows that it's never supposed to touch the ground, and is not to be displayed in the dark unless a light is shining on it. He grows indignant when people are flying tattered, worn flags, since they are supposed to be retired once they are in that condition. What I initially saw as a rare and strong respect for our Flag in my husband, I realized much later that it only represents the stronger love he has for our country.

And my daughter sees that.

Only someone who loves their country so much could leave his pregnant wife and daughter behind, could leave again when their second child was less than a week old. Only a man of that caliber could step into his boots, don his uniform, and walk through airport security smiling and head held high, as his wife stands behind him sobbing. As his daughter screams for Daddy.

Bravery. Love. Patriotism.

He stares at his family through a horribly pixelated screen. He talks to his newborn daughter as she stares at the computer. He plays peekaboo with his toddler, and she giggles and "hugs" Daddy wrapping her arms around the computer. Only he could keep smiling as she yells, "Night night, Daddy! Love you! See you soon!" Only a man like this could look daily into the face of his wife left at home and tell her everything is going to be okay, that she's doing a great job.

I could never do a Soldier's job.

Leaving behind everything they know, everything they love, everything familiar. Entering a war zone, living daily with the possibility of this being a one-way trip. That they might not make it home. To their families, their homes, their lives. They live in tents, sleep in dirt, eat out of bags. They watch friends suffer atrocious injuries. They lose limbs.

Or their life.

The ball caps give the older ones away. Only a few of us can pick out that familiar haircut on the young ones. They don't wear the ball caps. They don't want to stand out. I know--I'm married to one. Instead, they blend into the crowds when they are off-duty, wearing street clothes. But that high and tight haircut is their ball cap.

As Veteran's Day approaches, I find myself without words to express my gratitude to all those who serve. Because I have seen the cost, I've lived life next to a Soldier. I've seen him off to war, waited for his phone calls, prayed for his safe return. Every night, my daughters and I pray, "Dear Lord, we just ask that you bring Daddy home safe, sound, alive, and in once piece.

Safe. Sound. Alive. One Piece.

Some, many, are not so lucky. They find themselves in danger, explosions, attacks. Some come home in many pieces. Some come home missing pieces.

As you sit next to your spouses, remember those who are living without theirs and those who will never see their spouse again. As you lie in bed next to your best friend, remember the Soldiers who are lying in dirt and tents praying to come home alive and their spouses at home sleeping alone. As you sit down at your table with warm food and your entire family, remember our service men and women who are ducking into foxholes and leaning over MRE's and cafeteria food. When you pick up your cell phone to call your spouse at work or see their name pop up on your phone, remember those Soldiers who go weeks and months without being able to call home, or watch their children grow up before them through a computer screen. During the Holidays, remember the families who are separated and are struggling with loneliness.

Daddy's flag. Our Flag. The American Flag. The United States of America.

It's what our Soldiers stand for, what they daily risk their lives for. They button their uniforms, they tie their boots, they enter war zones for our country. For us. And all give some, but some give all. Some never make it home to their families. Some never see their children's faces, hold their spouses, again. They are sent home in a box and laid in the ground under a white stone. For you. For our country. Because they love this ground that much.

As you celebrate Veteran's Day this week, remember those who have given some, and especially remember those who have given all. God bless them. And God bless America.

(Thank you to my own Soldier, still away from his family defending this country he loves so much. I am so proud of you, so inspired by you, and so in love with you. Thank you.)

2011-10-30T15:46:00.000-04:00

I am selfish.

I have been given so many graces and blessings lately--God has been far too good to me. Despite several threats, Mary stayed put till her due date. Richard was sent home at the last minute for the birth. And, my little girl's arrival was healthy and quick, despite some potentially very serious complications. Mommy, Daddy, and our girls were able to get some serious quality time in before and after the birth. And my Soldier was there, holding my hand, as we brought forth another blessed life into this world.

What more could I ask for? Ask God.

Yesterday afternoon, as I hit Crazy Time (late afternoon/early evening), Richard called from Iraq. He had made it back safely, and had some news for me. It wasn't the news I wanted to hear. I had prayed for better news. I was upset and angry. Once I got off with him, I finally cried. It's been a really long time since I have cried. And I couldn't stop till I ran out of tears. Which took awhile. I had a long one-sided conversation with Him.

Then, I called my family.

"Adrienne. This is quite an honor for Richard. You have to be strong for him. It's not easy for either of you--but think how hard this is on him. He needs your strength and support right now, especially."

My dad was right. I was so selfish! The news Richard had was much better than anything I could have imagined 12 months ago, as I was preparing to ship him off. It was better what I knew a month ago. We were being given a huge blessing...and it wasn't good enough.

Poor God. I don't know why He keeps letting me come back. I am trying to be okay with the news. I am selfish, and that's something I've realized won't change over night. I will work on coming to peace with what I was told, while being here with two young children. But, rather than focus on the negative, I've got to focus on the positive. What God has blessed me with--two beautiful children, an amazing spouse, a chance to see him again. I have to focus on the blessing in the news, not the negative I added to it.

I will be strong. For him.
I will be supportive. For him.

Because I wouldn't do this for anyone else. My Soldier is the only one who makes living this worth it. Who makes surviving and thriving possible. And God? He's the one who gives me the strength and grace to fulfill the mission. And lets me keep coming back.

2011-10-14T22:34:00.001-04:00

"Build a routine. Stick to it."

"Especially the children need structure. But, you'll find yourself needing it, too."

He left in February, taking any and all structure to our days, weeks, and months with him. I had to rebuild our lives from scratch. Figure out ways to break up the day, split the week and weekend. Fill the months so that time moved. And we did.

Each day have our routine, the two of us. Wake up, open the windows, make coffee, eat breakfast together. Get ready for the day, play in the yard or run errands, naptime, dinnnertime, etc. Though the months have brought small adaptations to our days and weeks, largely our structure has remained the same. And it's comforting and safe. For her and for me.

I would never go back and repeat the time he's been gone. I choose to move forward, towards the day he gets home. But, I've learned so much, grown so much. Through struggles and challenges, scares and Crosses, through joy and victories, I have found myself stretched, put through fire. I've become more flexible, more willing to bend. Before, naptime would never have been missed. Now, every once in awhile is okay; sometimes, it's fun. I'm not in control. I just maintain a normalcy. Those little moments of wisdom have taught me much.

But, it's all been a preparation for a greater test. And it's here.

After I had my daughter, everything changed. Everything. I had thrived on normalcy, on being in control. Structure that I dictated. Routine that I managed. Motherhood taught me how little control I actually had. And it was a huge adjustment for me.

I feel like that woman who struggled to understand the massive change in her life is vastly different from the woman who sits here now. Life has been anything but normal in months, and yet I've striven to inject something of it into our daily lives. The husband and father is gone. I do everything myself. I am raising a daughter, managing a household, surviving a deployment. That woman I was nearly two years ago would have broken under this pressure. I am surviving--even thriving.

But huge change is upon me--upon us.

I am getting ready to bring another life into the world. And chaos will reign again. No more routine, no more structure. Normal, as I have known and created it, is over in the next couple of days. No more days of just my battle buddy and me. No more will I be so comfortable and confident in how I can handle life with my one child. We will, again, be starting from scratch.

Will everything I've learned, all the ways I've grown, be enough for handling two children? Will there be enough of Mom to go around? Will I be able to give my attention to both of my darling children? Will I survive? Thrive?

Yes.

Because if I've learned one thing, it's this. I do not have the final say, I do not control life, its structure or routine. I am not in charge. But, there is one thing I can control. Me. My reactions. My attitude. On that score, I call the shots. So, in those moments where life seems harried, out of control, I will stop and breathe. Just as I do now, in moments when I feel my grip failing. I will renew my promise to make a joyful home, a happy life for the two, er three, of us. I will love, smile, laugh. And occasionally, as I do now, I will cry.

But, we will still win. We will survive this. The end is near, and this has not beaten us yet. Not even close. So, as my "normal" life with just my battle buddy suddenly vanishes, I welcome and create a new "normal" with my Battle Buddy and my Happy Thought. Because life never stays the same. It's always changing. With the struggles and Crosses, come greater joy and victory.

Victory.

Yes, it's coming. But, before then, I've got to bring my baby home.

2011-10-04T16:20:00.001-04:00

My eyes flitted open, my skin felt excited. I felt the chilly fall morning, even inside, and looked towards the window where the Fall sun was desperately trying to circumvent the shades. I smiled. What a beautiful morning! Across the house, my daughter was sleeping, and I could hear my in-laws stirring from their room. There were guests here, which always makes days more exciting.

I sat up, and opened my computer. I checked my email, saw some from him. And I smiled. I love waking up his emails. I meandered over to Facebook...

And I saw it.

A letter from the Colonel, posted on the unit page. "Redeployment Letter." My heart started racing, and my fingers were shaking. I clicked...and it didn't work. The link was defunct. Nineteen eager spouses posted the same underneath, and I knew I could only wait.

Wait.

For the last eight months, I've waited. Waiting for the phone calls, the video chats, the emails. Waited for days to pass, for weeks to turn into months. Waited for Baby. Waited for R&R, the halfway point, and news about them coming home.

I could wait some more. I had to wait some more.

I didn't want to be rude and keep checking my computer during their visit. I had emailed my Soldier, asking if he knew any information. His response email came back through:

They posted again. And I read it, in black and white. Christmas. He *could* be home by Christmas. My heart flew into my throat, tears poured from my eyes, and I couldn't finish reading it out loud.

I remember last year. Christmas was a struggle for me. I did not want the Holidays tainted with the dread my stomach was feeling. I did not want us looking back on the precious little time we had left at that point, remembering how scared we were, how soon he was leaving. I made it through Christmas, able to ignore it. But, I was haunted constantly by reminders that he would not be home the next year.

And now this. There's hope.

And so we wait some more. Wait for a final word. Wait for confirmation.

And I pray. That much sooner, he could see us again, be with his little buddy again. That much sooner, he could meet the darling baby he left with me. That much sooner...he could be part of our lives again.

And so begins our Advent. We will see if Christmas brings our Soldier home. Until then, I pray. And wait.

The Battle Buddy and The Happy Thought

2011-09-28T21:23:00.001-04:00

She's been by my side from the very beginning. We've seen each other through sickness, and trouble. Through sad days, hard days, through the happy days and holidays. We've been inseparable and have made the Separation bearable for each other. Even in my loneliest moments, she was there.

But so were you.

The day he left, you were there. We had no idea. My first night broken and alone, you were there. And I had no idea. Then, he called for R&R dates, and I realized. He didn't just leave two people behind. He left behind three.

I lived in fear of losing you. I was so busy taking care of everything and maintaining some constant sense of normalcy, that I hardly had time to enjoy you. Running after her all day, trying to clean the house. Classes. Doctor's appointments. Meetings. Trips. Life has been full the past eight months. Mornings full of tidying up after the toddler, afternoons of stolen naps and skyping with Daddy. Evenings found me making dinner, getting her a bath, putting her to bed.

But, after that--those were our moments. I would sit on the couch and wait. And it would come. Kick. Poke. Squirm. And I'd smile. I'd pray I could make it through the remainder of the pregnancy without him, through the delivery. Scared to death of going it alone, without my best friend. Saddened that he would miss such a special moment in your life--the beginning of your life. Terrified of being a mom to two, alone.

But I forged ahead. For you.

And now it's time. You could come anytime. I can't wait.

Because while she's been my source of constant strength, constant companionship, you have fulfilled your own special role. You have been my constant Light. My Happy Thought. In the dark moments, on the days when I felt like I couldn't keep up. Despite feeling like I'm always third place in a constant race. You were there. In the evenings, when I was alone, you kept me company with your prenatal dances. In the middle of the night, when I'd wake up lonely in that big bed, I'd feel your presence. I could dream about holding you the first time. Kissing you the first time. Of him coming home to us and holding you--for the first time. And it made me happy.

I hope to be a wonderful mother to you. I pray to be what you deserve. I promise to always love you, to always try to be the best mom to you. As we face this new beginning together, I am excited. Finally. I cannot wait to meet you, to hold you for the first time. To bring you home and love you.

My tiny tagalong. My happy thought.

It's time. Welcome to our family.

2011-09-22T22:09:00.001-04:00

"We're pregnant!"

I never saw his reaction. I just heard it.

He'd been gone less than a week, and I had been suspecting for several reasons. I was waffling between absolute fear and ridiculous excitement. To say that was an emotional week is an understatement. So, I kept waiting to take a test. Until he needed R&R dates.

"When do you want to do R&R?"

"Well, here's the thing. I think I might be pregnant." My voice was shaky over the DSN line.

"What? Have you taken a test? Well, then take one!"

And we were. I heard his happiness, I heard his joy, his elation.

But, I was never able to see it. And that made me sad.

I moved forward. The pregnancy has helped The Year fly by faster. And, despite the constant rush, responsibility, and struggle to maintain joy, there's always been my ever-present Happy Thought. Moving, wiggling, growing. My middle started slim and trim, and now resembles a small watermelon. Through worries, scares, and stress, my little trooper has hung on.

He won't be coming home for the birth. It wasn't an option. At first distraught, I remained positive. The military hospital had just built a new delivery unit, complete with internet access. All the military wives were talking about it, especially those of us left with an impending arrival. The rooms were supposed to look like civilian hospitals and Skype was a commodity available in every room. I was counting the days until I could go for my tour and see it for myself.

The other women all had their husbands there. I had my little Battle Buddy, who was making an awful lot of noise. We stood in the new delivery room, more than twice the size of the room I'd delivered my daughter in at the same hospital. Nice flooring. Windows. Room to walk around in. Wow.

"Any questions?"

"I'm sorry, the new commander nixed the wiresless internet. We don't know why, but there is no internet up here."

I'm scared. I can't lie. I can't pretend. The thought of giving birth without my husband had me in such fear that for months I couldn't even talk about giving birth. Not having him next to me. Holding my hand. Cheering me on. But, I consoled myself. He'll be there on the video chat. You'll still be able to see his face, hear his voice. This time, you'll see his reaction.

And then that came crashing down.

Someone will post pictures. Someone will let the news out as to the sex of the baby. Before I can get to him, before I can see his reaction.

He won't see video of his baby until we get home.

This is one of the hardest moments I've faced. I feel as though all the previous struggles and Crosses I've overcome during this deployment have been a mere hill as I come increasingly closer to this mountain. And it keeps getting harder. Larger.

But, I do it for you. Your daddy does this for you. You, who was microscopic when he left. We didn't know about you when he left. You were already hanging on strong. Quietly. Consistently. Against all odds, through immense stress. You are still here. I've been so busy, so rushed, that sometimes I forget about my little tagalong. But, during those rare quiet moments, I lie down and feel you moving. Feel you living. And I smile.

You have hung on for your daddy and me. Now, I will do this for you. My darling child. I will get through this so that I can hold you, love you, bring you home. Let you meet your father.

Despite the hardships, through the odds, you and I will get through this. We will climb the mountain. We will arrive on the other side. And you will be surrounded by your sister and me, who love you so much. And soon, your dad will join us, too.

And then we will all be together again. A different family than when he left. But, bigger and stronger. Happier. More grateful.

I'm doing this for you. For your Daddy. Because you both deserve it. Because I love you both.

2011-09-15T16:46:00.002-04:00

"She'd take Colorado if she'd take her with him, closes the door before the winter lets the cold in...."

I feel like somehow, he's left frozen there in time. The winter. The cold. Snow still barely on the ground from a few days before....

"She wonders if her love is strong enough to make him stay....She's answered by the tail lights shining through the window pane."

The bus doors closed, I ran after him that day, a sick and sleeping baby in my arms. I just made it to the side of the bus and found his seat, as the bus pulled away. The tail lights still bright in my mind, as the white bus pulled around the block, his head and arm hanging out. Until I couldn't see him anymore.

"He said 'I want to see you again, but I'm stuck in colder weather...'"

The winter. We lived together. Shared a life together. I see the coats in the closet, the scarves hanging inside the door, and shudder. A long time ago. A long time to go.

"She said 'you're a rambling man. You ain't ever gonna to change. You gotta gyspy soul to blame and you were born for leavin.....'"

This is his vocation. A Soldier. To leave. To defend freedom and the lives of the innocent. And I was called to be left behind. To support him. It hurts so badly to watch him walk away, to leave you. Alone. And for a long time. But, I would do it again, if he asked me. I will do it again. I committed to that the day I said , "I do." I don't regret it. I'm proud to do it.

"He thinks of Colorado, and the girl he left behind him..."

He misses me. I know he thinks of me, thinks of his little family. I know he wants to see us again, but right now, he's stuck in colder weather. That life we had, that we shared, is stuck in that colder weather many long months ago. But, we wait in his stead.

And we trudge forward.

"It's a winding road...you're a lover, I'm a runner and we go round and round."

"And I love you but I leave you...you know it's you that call me back here, Babe."

Winter will come again. And with it, him. That man we left behind when the weather turned warm right after he left. Who left us to follow the call of duty. Even now, the hint of fall in the air in early morning finds me momentarily hopeful. It's coming. The cold is coming. My soldier is coming.

"I want to see you again...but I'm stuck in colder weather..."

It's coming full circle. We go round and round, until we are together again. Then the warm can come, the Spring can dawn. We'll still be together, sharing life again. Sharing moments again.

"When I close my eyes I see you..." Yes, in the night, when I'm alone and the house is dark, I see you. In my dreams every night, I see you. Always. Thank, God.

"No matter where I am..." On a trip, far from home. In our own home. Having our child. I see you. Always. I do this for you. You are my constant motivation.

"I'm with your ghost again..." Awaking from a dream again at four a.m., reaching for you. Smiling painfully. Again. He'll be here soon enough. It's not cold yet.

"It's a shame about the weather, but I know soon we'll be together...

And I can't wait till then. I can't wait till then..."

Oh, God, I can't wait till then...

Song and lyrics: Zac Brown Band, "Colder Weather" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oouFE51HcqM

2011-09-09T23:24:00.002-04:00

It's funny how words take on such a different connotation.

For most of my life, it was that dance. My mother would talk about it. Her memories from the night. The dress, the date, the corsages. Going out to dinner. The big football game against their rivarly. I would dream it in my head--my Homecoming someday. Then, they came. I had the dresses, attended the dances, cheered at the football games and stood before our bonfires. Homecoming Dance. Homecoming week--full of its Spirit Days, costumes, contests. I remember feeling so grown up--I had made Homecoming memories that I would share with my daughters someday.

I stood in Target today, trying them on. Eight months pregnant and nearly tumbling over as I fastened them on my feet, while my daughter looked on from the giant red card. I pulled at my lengthy maternity skirt, as I paced in front of the mirror.

"What do you think, Elizabeth?" I asked, agonizing.

She blinked. "Shoes!" and bumped the sides of her fists together for the sign.

"Do they look good?" I paced some more. Excitement in the air.

"Ooh! What about these earrings, Elizabeth? And look at this bracelet!" Into the cart they went, alongside the shoes.

Homecoming. It's taken on a different meaning. Still, I will put together a gorgeous outfit, agonize over my hair, meticulously apply my makeup. But there will be no bonfires, no football games. We will not dance with flowers on our wrist.

We will count down the days for weeks. Instead of one outfit, I will painstakingly choose three. I will wash and re-wash the outfits, iron them repeatedly. We will wake up ridiculously early, arrive long before the event will start. I will stand on a parade field, instead of a gym. I will wait for my Soldier to enter, instead of praying for a date. And I will have two beautiful children--our children--in my arms as we finally meet again.

I am so excited. I still have months to go. The last few weeks of a pregnancy. A birth. Transition with a newborn and a toddler. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's.

But, it's coming.

It's like looking forward to Christmas and to your wedding day. Combined.

When the lights are out at night, and the house is silent, I play it over and over in my head. That day. That moment. In my outfit. I envision Homecoming, in its truest sense.

2011-09-07T22:13:00.001-04:00

I knew who to call. Right away. When the day went sour, and I could feel every second of the five months lying before us. I picked up my phone and dialed. Within an hour, she called back.

And we talked. Again.

We talk everyday, usually. For over an hour. Until bedtime. Or one of our children starts screaming. We laugh, we cry, we vent, we advise, we listen. And it's so comforting.

I read on a blog once, right after Richard left, that battle buddies cannot live faraway from one another. In order to properly fill the role, they must live in the same town, thereby being constantly accessible to one another. I disagree completely.

She lives four large states away, and it's a 13 hour drive without stopping. I live in the Lone Star State and she calls the upper midwest home. But, she's always there. Always answers my questions, quells my fears, and makes me laugh. She is my battle buddy. She has understood every word, every emotion, every mood, and never disagreed or taken offense. I do the same for her, and it's comforting.

She gets it. And so few people do.

I can laugh about the latest insensitive statement someone has made, and she laughs, too. We have talked about kids missing their dads, screaming through the night as they struggle to understand why he left. We've discussed post-deployment plans, current frustrations and victories, and taken our masks off when we can't take it anymore. We've promised drop everything and be there for each other should the worst ever happen.

This life has its beautiful moments. Victory of making it through another day, of surviving another week, of crossing another month off the calendar. But, it has its dark moments, too. Moments when we still feel the pressure to put on a good face and look confident, look joyful. But, sometimes, we need that person who understands. Who gets it. Who can't make this year end, who can't bring our husbands home. But who can give us strength, understanding.

And she does. She's heard me at my best, and comforted me through my lowest. I never have to explain, I never have to impress. My faraway battle buddy lives this life, too. We are in this together--through thick and thin. We will cheer each other through our bright days, and encourage each other through the dark days. We will move forward dutifully through the ensuing days and months. And we will celebrate together, when the winter brings our Soldiers home.

I don't think I'll ever feel closer to someone who lives so faraway. And I don't think I'll ever be able to fully express how grateful I am for her presence in my life during this chapter. But, I think she gets that, too.

2011-08-29T20:36:00.002-04:00

Sunday. And she was being worse than usual. I was wrangling her, wrestling with her, shushing her. And she was talking, yelling, playing. She wanted up and she wanted down. She wanted to sit, stand, lie down. And I felt exhausted. And huge.

I took her out, finally, and found the bridal dressing room open. We went in and I put her on the couch, where she instantly laid her head down. She was tired. I figured. I couldn't hear the Mass, and felt removed from everything. I didn't like it.

Then, she came in. I'd never seen her before.

"Hi. I come down here to visit my son and his wife every few weeks. I just want to say that you are the most beautiful pregnant woman I've seen. That you still come to Church, even when you are juggling a toddler and everything else alone, is so beautiful. And I am constantly praying for you and for the safety of your husband. Can I help hold her?"

I don't know how I didn't cry, but that was the nicest thing I had heard since my husband left. It meant so much.

I never want to look like a victim during this deployment, because I'm not. I chose this. And I am proud of that. I never want to look beaten down, depressed, or weary. I may feel like that some days, but I always try to put on a cheerful face, a joyful countenance. Because my family deserves it, my Soldier deserves it. But, this life is hard, and sometimes it is a juggle--sometimes, being the only parent is a wrestling match.

And the prayers are what get us--get me--through.

I am so touched when people tell me they are praying for us. It means so much. Because, despite having toughed through 204 days, not one of those days has beaten me, has beaten my family. Despite the distance, despite the limited communication, despite not having held his hand in a long time, we are still moving forward. Happily, healthily, faithfully.

Thanks to the prayers.

So, those of you out there praying for my little family: thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Those I know, those I don't. Those who are dear friends, and those who watch from afar. Thank you.

I've said it many times: the prayers are what get us through.

2011-08-20T16:39:00.004-04:00

I imagine it'll be pretty weird.

My bed time routine is very strict. Get up off couch (where I've likely fallen asleep after having folded laundry, done sewing, cleaning the kitchen, and doing housework once Elizabeth is in bed), check on my sleeping daughter, make sure doors are locked, porch lights are on, and house alarm set. Grab it--the computer and charger--and head back to the bedroom. I plug it in next to my bed...just in case. And even though it whirs all night long, the price is totally worth the occasional pay off that comes in the form of a rare skype call.

When he gets home, I won't have to do that anymore--take that thing everywhere. On trips, to the living room in the morning and the bedroom at night, keep my cell phone in my pocket when I absolutely must be away from the computer.

I never was one for technology. I'm not a "texter' nor do I own a smart phone--a difficult and personal decision I made when my Soldier left. I have standard phone. It makes phone calls. It might have a camera on it, I'm not sure. Our satellite doesn't DVR and we don't own an i-anything.

But my computer and cell phone have stayed next to me the last nearly seven months. And they still have five more months duty.

When he gets home, I will finally be able to shut off the computer. Put my phone away. And that will probably be as weird as it is wonderful. No more whirring all night next to my bed. No more near-panic attacks when I realized I've left my phone in the car, in another room. No. He will be here. And I won't need them anymore.

Until then, I stay leashed to the electronics. Only about five and a half months until I can cut the cord...er, cords.

2011-08-17T21:55:00.002-04:00

I thought, at first, I had become a "different person" when that second pink line appeared. I remember, shockingly, when it did (only two weeks after our wedding--honeymoon baby, anyone?) that I looked up into the mirror, my face white and my eyes like giant saucers. I was carrying another life inside of me.

While physically things began to change, I didn't change. Not until that moment. 11:09 pm. They laid her in my arms. And my life was never the same.

She was screaming--who can blame her? I pulled her in to me, and I cried. The entire room, everyone, everything disappeared. All that existed was she and I, together. Scared, in pain, and new people.

"I promise to always be a good mother to you." I spoke aloud. "I promise to try to always be the best to you. I know I'll fail sometimes, but I never want you to go to bed feeling unloved. I promise, Elizabeth, to always love you. I want to be such a good mother to you, okay? And I am going to try so hard. Because you deserve the best. You are beautiful. Never forget that."

I was sobbing.

Because I was a mother to an innocent person. To a person.

That was the most beautiful moment of my life. The most changing.

I hope I have made good on my word in the nearly two years that I have been a mother to her. I hope that she is a better person because of me. That I have improved her, helped her, aided her physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Because I live constantly with the fear that I am not.

That fear follows me in every action I do, in every word I speak, in every choice I make regarding her well-being. Regarding her. I hear the voice in my head, sometimes, telling me I'm not good enough, not trying hard enough. But, ultimately I know that, when my actions, words, choices are fueled by that love that was ignited in the delivery room that night, I'm doing alright.

When Richard deployed, that fear became stronger, more defined. I knew my patience was going to be tried to it's breaking point, that I was going to be the only parent she had for a year. I am responsible for providing all aspects of parenthood to her, something normally two parents do. If I run out of patience, there is no back-up, there is no one to tag team it. I do it alone. Constantly.

God, I hope I do it well.

She deserves the best. The best love, the best comfort, the best hugs and kisses. When I watch Richard parent her when he's home, I am left speechless by the caliber of the father he is. So loving, so gentle. It has brought me to tears. He never hesitates to get on the floor and play with her, even when he's getting ready for work and already wearing his uniform. He has no problem climbing on a rocking chair to hold her steady. He is the finest, most humble father.

And, to a certain extent, I have to make sure she gets that while he's gone, too.

I don't know if I am doing a good job. Only time will tell. I pray at the start of each day that I am a good mother, and at the end of some days I am left counting the ways I could have been a better mother.

Elizabeth, I love you more than words could say. I have been completely responsible for providing all comfort, love, joy, strength, and constancy to you for the last several months. Many times, you've melted into tears, crying for Daddy. Many times, you've gotten frustrated after skype calls, because you just don't understand. Many times, you are angry because you miss your Daddy and can't communicate it.

I expected all of this.

I expected the tears, the frustration, the anger. I knew that those times would surface. That I would have to drop everything and just hold you. Provide comfort. Give love. Offer strength. Be a good mother to you.

I never foresaw what I'd get. When I hold you, I feel comforted. When I love you, I feel loved. When I give strength, I get some back. You make me a good mother. I never expected that.

As much as it scares you, Tiny Girl, to be separated from me, it scares me as much to be separated from you. We are, truly, Battle Buddies. We are inseparable. When people joke about taking you away to live with them, my heart stops in fear.

No. I need her.

I still look into your eyes everyday, and get that breathless fear I had the day they laid you in my arms. But I try to prove it wrong. Because you deserve the best; you are beautiful. When I give love to you, when I make you feel whole, you do the same to me. I am creating a beautiful person, still. And you, in the same way, are creating a beautiful mother.

Thank you.

2011-08-15T18:50:00.003-04:00

It's all about the little things.

I'd been looking forward to this morning for weeks. I am spoiled, though, so I knew what was coming. Especially if I just asked.

The appointment was early-ish. I was up at seven, showered and dressed, with my breakfast eaten by eight. The house was quiet and the early morning sun was streaming through the kitchen windows. I tip-toed back and saw her. Sleeping. So peacefully. So I let her continue. And I cleaned in silence. I read the paper. I just soaked up the sunshine and quiet.

We finally got called back. My doctor is the kindest man--he saw me during my daughter's pregnancy and delivered her the night she was born. He knows us. And he calls Richard "his friend." So, I asked. Mostly I just wanted to know if the baby was head down. But, I also wanted a peek at my baby.

So, he turned on the machine. Baby is head down. And moving. The giant knot I have felt in my right side is Baby's bottom. And the tiny moving swishes I kept running my fingers along last night were the feet. I knew it. Then, I saw my favorite part--the profile. Such a beautiful, cute baby profile. Baby flipped and faced us.

I can't wait.

I soaked that in, too. The baby--our baby, it's movements, that it's head was down. That we are only two months from finally meeting each other. That my daughter saw the picture on the screen and excitedly yelled out, "Baby?!"

I soaked in hanging out with a dear friend, spending time with the wives at the FRG meeting. Laughing. Talking. Relaxing.

I soaked in the skype call--just in time. I had just gotten home. He and I laughed. We talked about Baby. About coming home in several months. Such sweet conversation.

Each day, we have a choice. We can focus on the negative, or choose to soak in the positive. I can dwell on what's going wrong, or I can find the joy and beauty in front of me.

Today, I chose beauty, happiness, joy. Today was a beautiful day! Baby, friends, love. I am so blessed.

2011-08-06T23:52:00.002-04:00

I was sitting there in the breakfast room, feeding my daughter from the continental breakfast. We were feeling good. Six months in to our deployment today. I was feeling content. And then, I heard it. The News.

Thirty-one U.S. Soldiers died in a helicopter crash.

Thirty-one mothers, fathers. Sons, daughters. Wives, husbands. People.

And thirty-one doors were knocked on today. Thirty-one families' worst fears were realized in a single moment. He's not coming home.

Most days, I am confident, determined. I move forward, towards that date. So far away, but still there. I keep a happy face, I push through the difficulty, I operate a househould and raise a family alone. And I feel content. Most days.

But, everyday, I mask that fear. I ignore the torment.

What if???

I am not supposed to think about it, not supposed to dwell on it. We spouses ignore the fear, pretend it's not there. But it is. Deep down, and rooted firmly. That's why we live email to email, skype call to skype call. Because we know. They are still there. And those days that the calls don't come, the inbox is empty--

They scare us. Scare me.

I saw his face today. Laughed with him. Hoped with him. Talked with him. He's okay. For today.

But, each day is a new day. Each day is a new wait, another unit of time to hope through, pray through. Beg God that your Soldier makes it through.

They didn't. And their families were just living another day. Laundry. Nap time. Meals. Play dates. And in the midst of living, hoping, praying, their doorbells rang.

Tonight, as I crawl into bed, knowing that today my husband is okay, I pray for the souls of the fallen Soldiers. I pray for the wives left behind. I pray for the children, who will wonder where Daddy, where Mommy has gone.

I pray. I pray for the safety of all our Soldiers. Of all the families with loved ones deployed. Because all of us lost a members of our large family. All of us were shaken to the core. All of us were reminded of that God-awful fear. That our Soldier might not make it home.

God bless our Soldiers and their families. May the souls of the faithfully departed rest in peace.

2011-08-05T17:28:00.002-04:00

I saw him, sitting across the restaurant. Alone. He got up, walked to the drink station, and I saw his rank emblazoned on his camouflage--the same as Richard's. My heart hurt for a moment. His walk was wearied, proud, determined.

I finished lunch and, on the way out, I stopped at his table. He looked up.

"Sir, thank you for your service. I really appreciate what you do."

His tired face lit up. "Thank you, ma'am. I just got back from Afghanistan and..." he smiled bigger, "I'm on my way home to see my family."

"My husband is deployed--we're halfway through now."

"Oh--Congratulations! Each day is a challenge, but you'll make it."

There was a sudden ease, a sense of understanding. We talked a few more minutes, and went our separate ways. United in the service, humbled by gratitude.

In this lifestyle, understanding is so important, because so many people cannot completely understand. It's not their fault. Unless you walk this path, there's so much that cannot be explained, cannot be fully comprehended. But, when you see the uniform, sense the family-like tie, there comes with it a sense of acceptance that cannot be put into words.

This tired, wearied soldier was heading home to see his family...and was eating alone. A military wife approached him, and thanked him for his service. And from that moment, both gained a sense of determination to finish, a commitment to see our missions through. His is very nearly done, because he's not fully Home until the Soldier is in his family's arms. Mine is on the second half, and I am finally seeing a very blurry distant light.

We both were wearied. Each day is a challenge. But we will make it. We will prevail. Because in this world of camo and combat boots, in this calendar of counting down and counting up, each Soldier, each military wife and child is a family. And through that sense of understanding, we will make it. We will prevail.

Please remember to thank our Soldiers for their sacrifice...

2011-07-28T14:12:00.004-04:00

I remember I felt vulnerable, awkward. Like someone had torn my clothes off and shoved me naked onto a precarious stage where not only was I supposed to stand, but where I was supposed to look good while doing it. Look Happy. Confident. I was supposed to make it look easy.

Richard had just left.

And we were on our second or third Sunday alone at Mass. We'd made it through another week, but we were also starting another. I felt the small victory of a Sunday, of a week, but also sensed the pressure of another looming week. We were surviving. Barely. Adjusting. Still.

"Hey! How are you?" I looked over to where the conversation was unfolding.

"Good--hanging in there."

"How long has he been gone now?"

"About six months."

I was struck for a moment. All I could do was stare at her. I noticed the resiliency mixed with weariness that appeared for a few moments on her face. I remember thinking, "Wow, she's halfway there." I had a long road before I could claim that victory, I thought. But, she had made it. And she was still standing.

And now, I find myself staying the same: "About six months." And the fatigue from the last half appears on my face, mixed with the victory of still standing. And we still have another six months.

Six months ago I saw a hero, an inspiration, though she had no idea. Today, I see myself in her. We are a week shy of Half Way Day, which is scrawled on all of my calendars in huge letters. Six months. I survived six months. And feel a sense of victory...and I feel a little tired. I have walked through fire, as I stood in doctor's offices alone scared that my daughter had cancer. I've spent nights terrified to fall asleep because I haven't heard from my husband and I'm praying those uniformed officers don't show up at my door. I've gotten that dreaded message: "in the hospital, and bleeding... [rest of message cut off]" and waited, sobbing for the rest of that sentence to come through. I've been dragged to my knees in cold sweat and hard tears, simply from loneliness. I've sat up, covered in vomit with a sick toddler. I've nearly made it through a pregnancy alone, despite that dark moment that I thought I was losing another child.

I've stood on that stage naked and, despite the darkness, I made it look good.

I've held it together, put on a joyful face even when that was the last thing I wanted to do. I've made it through winter, sweated through a summer, and am gearing up for Fall. I've survived six months without my best friend, and our relationship has grown. I've been through fire--Hell--and I'm still standing.

Yes, I've got six months under my belt. Yes, I've made it to Half Time and survived. But, I've got another six long months ahead of us. I still have to deliver a child by myself, adjust a household to a new member, survive six weeks of no sleep. And I have to do it alone. I have to juggle that, while lovingly raising a toddler. And there is, I'm sure Crosses facing me that I cannot yet see. We still have time left to get through.

But, despite that I will celebrate. I will dance. I have survived the first half of my First Deployment, and am truly a better person for it. Because, despite the distance, the heartache, the fear, I have grown, my marriage has grown. My daughter smiles, laughs. We have built beautiful memories together that I cherish. We've overcome obstacles, big and small. And we are still standing.

So, next week, I will take a moment to stop. Thank God. We four in this family are still here, thank God. Though separated by half a world, we are still here. Elizabeth still plays and laughs. I still survive and hold down the homefront. Our unborn child still kicks and moves. Richard still stands and fights. Thank God.

We will survive the last part of this deployment. By God. Nothing has beat me now. And, sure as my word, nothing will beat me--beat us-- in the next six months.

Charlie Mike, baby.

2011-07-27T18:11:00.002-04:00

They're just over there to kill people.

Nothing makes my heart hurt more, my blood boil faster, or my family pride ruffle more quickly. My husband. His brothers in arms. Over there to kill people.

Really?

I understand people don't agree on the war. People don't agree on politics or presidential administrations. People don't agree on military presence in the middle east. I understand that. People will never agree on these things. And that's what makes America beautiful. We are entitled to our opinions, our beliefs, our arguments.

But have some tact, people.

My mother always said, "It's not what you say, it's how you say it." So true. When I discuss the wars, the administration, the politics, typically I am not the one to bring it up. I also do not tend to advertise my husband's profession and my current situation. I just argue my point, when pressed. And then I quietly back out. I've been involved in respectful arguments, where the other person expressed their beliefs without insulting or degrading the military.

Then I've heard, "Well, they're just over there to kill people." And I've heard it a lot. Sometimes, they don't know my story. Other times they do. Either way, I do not understand.

My husband did not sign up for the Army to kill people. He did not pack his bags for a year-long deployment three times now, to kill people. He did not board a bus, he did not leave his young daughter and pregnant wife, he does not serve his country to kill people.

He does it because he loves his country. He does it because he loves his friends, his family, his wife, his daughter. He serves because he has such a profound love and respect for what it means to be American.

I've met many of his Army buddies, with whom he's served--fine, upstanding young men and women who inspire me and for whom I have the utmost respect. The same applies to them: they serve because they love.

Whether or not you agree with the war, with the administration, with the current politics. Whether your arguments lie more conservatively or liberally, tea party or Obama's party, I encourage you to exercise your right to your opinion--that which my husband and his fellow Soldiers fight so hard for. But, I implore you to choose your words carefully, tactfully, respectfully.

These men and women do not choose their vocation lightly. And nor do they do it to "kill people."

2011-07-22T17:03:00.002-04:00

"Let me just tell you." I got closer to the camera. "The wife and mother you left at the beginning of this deployment is very different from the wife and mother you will come home to."

I remember vividly, standing at the beginning. Wondering how I would get through all the inevitable challenges and Crosses that would befall us while he was gone. Wondering if I was truly as strong as everyone was saying. Wondering if I would break.

I haven't broken. Not yet.

I've grown. Stretched, which is a painful process, but rewarding afterwards. During the moments, either through chance or choice, that I felt like my entire body and soul were being pulled and stretched in ways unimaginable, I honestly didn't know how I would come out on the other side. Bitter or victorious? Angry or relieved?

This deployment--this war--is filled with smaller battles that Elizabeth and I have endured together. Scary battles, annoying battles, personal battles. But, despite doubting myself at the start of each, I came through each a stronger and more flexible person. I've learned so much about myself. Realized how much truly I can endure. More than I had thought. And we are still here, still fighting.

I am stubborn.

And so, this last week, when we tackled potty training amidst fluctuating pregnancy hormones and a very confused toddler, I didn't know if we were going to pull it off. Tuesday night, I was ready to pack it in. Raise that white flag.

"Give it one more day, Adrienne." My far-off battle buddy encouraged me. She must know what she's doing. She's gotten three children out of diapers.

And we did it. Laugh if you want. But moments like that--hard-fought battles that we win--are the very moments that make me realize I can survive the last six months. That I can endure the remaining battles, whatever they maybe. I will make it through giving birth alone, through the first six weeks with a newborn and toddler. And we will come out the other side stronger, better, victorious.

So, I move forward. Maybe a little tired now, maybe a little weary. But, I move forward. Battles will be won, the war will end. And we will come out of the other side victorious.

2011-07-17T14:17:00.003-04:00

Sundays are always good days for me. The day that our Soldier left, was a Sunday. If he had to leave (which he did because I tried compromising with Uncle Sam. Don't bother trying to compromise with him--he's very stubborn), I am glad he left on a Sunday. It was the start of a week, and as a church-going person, I am grateful for the graces at Mass every Sunday. It's kind of like a celebration with God--we've made it through another week and are pepping up for another one.

But, Church alone with a toddler can be...well...an adventure. It's much like a precarious game of dominoes: getting up on time so I can get ready on time. Get daughter up so I can get her ready on time. Get out of the house at a certain time so I can arrive on time, get a parking place on time, and get a seat on time. Mess even slightly with one of the dominoes, and the entire set comes crashing down. And that makes me mad.

But, this morning, our adventure took it's own path, much to my chagrin. Everything in my power happened on time--the shower, the breakfast, the waking of daughter, the leaving...only to discover that some moron had siphoned my gas tank in the middle of the night. So, picture seven-months pregnant me, careening down the road on "Ten Miles Till Empty," screaming a tirade of profanity-free comments to the thief. Needless to say, we did not make to Mass on time this morning.

Regardless, Elizabeth was mostly well-behaved. She got fussy a few times, but by the sermon, I was beginning to relax a little. Big Mistake. Never relax with a toddler. Especially at Mass. I let my guard down.

Elizabeth has a growing vocabulary. She is also clearly ready to be potty-trained. She started whispering to me, "Mommy. Stinkies." I winced. Not now. I looked in her diaper. Thank you, Jesus. She was all clear. "You don't have stinkies, Elizabeth." Five minutes later again: "Mommy. Stinkies." "No. You're fine."

Don't ignore a toddler.

After several attempts at whispering to me about her nonexistent dirty pants, she finally lost it. Lifting up her full skirted dress, she pointed to her diaper, and yelled, "Mommy! Stinkies!" Everyone in a five-pew radius around us laughed. And you know what? So did I.

2011-07-16T18:36:00.002-04:00

"Gr! I hate when they say that, Elizabeth! 'Come home soon!' Like the guys have any control over that! You know what I mean?" Before I could even glance down to my 20 month old, she responded emphatically,

"Uh-huh!"

Best. Battle buddy. Ever.

We want it to end. We do our utmost best to make the uncomfortable, the painful, the drudgery end. And it's awful when we realize that we have no control. Instead, we are left with a clear choice: whine and be miserable, or keep walking forward with each painful step. It can only be compared to walking in the desert--we bemoan our fate, or we move closer to that unseen but undeniable end.

Recently, I have walked through two deserts of my own. Silent but miserable, I trudged forward, doing what I could to ease the suffering but knowing that ultimately I could not avoid it. I had to finish the journey through the wasteland. No one knew the intimate darkness that surrounded me. I realized very quickly that there was no answer to quickly end it. I had to give all to Him and just move forward on faith.

I finally found some semblance of peace and relief to my little Crosses.

But, it made me realize I am powerless. While these little splinters were resulting from the deployment, and fairly short-lived, I could do nothing to make them end. The same goes with this year separated from my Soldier.

I can whine, be miserable, complain. Much like our biblical ancestors, I can question what in the world God was thinking when He gave me this suffering, took my husband from me to a dangerous place. I can complain there is no relief, no water, no end in sight. And, sadly, I have had a few days like this.

Or, I can trudge forward. Through the light days, when joy and peace abound, and through the days when it's tough to get out of bed. I can find grace in the suffering, joy despite the dark, happiness in knowing it's temporary. I may not know exactly when he'll be home, but I move forward all the same. Because he will be home. God will get us through. And we'll be out of the desert and in our little promised land.

So, now I focus on cultivating and maintaining an attitude of fortitude and patience. Maintaining now not only a joyful countenance, but also a joyful heart. After all, a smile means nothing if there is no true happiness behind it. Despite the dark days, there will be happy days. Despite the lengthy time we still have, the days are moving forward towards Homecoming. And even though this life gets weary and hard, I still have this life. With my daughter, my husband, and our unborn child.

Lord, help me to continue building a positive attitude that, ultimately sees You at the end. Because without You, we have nothing.

I did it!!!

2011-07-10T22:29:00.002-04:00

I used to be Miss Independent. Going places alone, doing things alone didn't phase me. I could drive to the store alone, I slept in my own bed. I spent evenings and nights alone with no problem.

Then I got married.

And I quickly adjusted (and happily so) to driving places with my husband, sharing a bed with him, and spending my nights and evenings with another person. And the more time that went by, the more ingrained that joy became.

You can do this. It's not a big deal. It's only four hours. You're being silly.

Pulling out the suitcases, my pulse started racing. Finishing the laundry, my breath was quick. Gathering things into the den, my mind was racing. And that infuriated me!

You've already committed--and you need this!! And Elizabeth will be fine. Even if she gets upset, it will pass.

I began putting clothes in the suitcases and the suitcases in the car. I wanted to get out of town, I wanted to spend the weekend with my aunt and her family. But, I was terrified of driving there and back. Alone. And that mortified my pride. I was so surprised how intimidated I was, so I forged forward. As I pulled out of town, as I merged onto unfamiliar highways, as Elizabeth began to fuss, part of me wanted to turn back to that which was familiar, that which was comfortable. But, I pushed forward.

And, four hours later, I pulled into her drive. Victorious. Today, three and a half hours later, I pulled into my drive, victorious again. I had done it. I had done a road trip with Elizabeth. Admittedly, this prospect had terrified me since Richard left. He made me promise to go places. And the first chance I had, I did. And I overcame an obstacle. I grew.

It sounds silly. But, for a wife and mother who's best friend is missing, the comfortable and familiar becomes a lifeline. Being away from home, entering unfamiliar territory is terrifying. Elizabeth goes with me everywhere, because she is my battle buddy. She's my family--my 20 month old is my security. I can't imagine having made it this far without her. But even stepping out of our comfort zone together can paralyze me with fear. And it did.

But, I did it. I drove four hours, had a blast of a weekend. All the stress from the past six months that had built up into ten 900 pound gorrillas on my back disappeared as soon as I hit the Tatum city limits. I spent three days in a place so relaxing and removed that I forgot to carry my cell phone with me and missed some text messages from my husband. I got out a few hours for some time with my aunt while Elizabeth played with the horses and my uncle. I slept--well. I ate. I laughed. And then I drove home.

This life is so hard. It's full of overcoming fear and emotion. It's constantly putting others before me for the sake of my husband. It's pretending to be strong when I feel weak, and pretending to be brave when truly I am a coward. But, it's also an opportunity to grow, to overcome. To take chances. To let little things make a big personal impact.

I did it! And I grew. Again.

2011-07-03T13:20:00.003-04:00

I love Independence Day. The barbecues, the swimming, the fireworks. The colors--red, white, and blue. The songs that warble all day long. Driving through neighborhoods and seeing the Star Spangled Banner hung on most homes. The flags lining the sidewalks. The solidarity. The pride.

This year, Independence Day is really hard for me. I see Old Glory, hear the songs, listen to the speeches and sermons, and it all reminds me of the tremendous sacrifice I am making for what all of those symbols represent.

I stood in the back of Mass this morning with a very fussy toddler, not feeling my best because of the baby kicking me from the inside. I was counting down the minutes until Mass was over, could take my screaming daughter home. "Sorry, Jesus." I thought. And then I looked down and saw her hand snake under his arm and enter his. My heart hurt.

I miss that.

"Remember the sacrifices that are being made so we can keep our everyday liberties. The love for this country, and the responsibility that goes with it..." the priest encouraged.

I understand that.

"What's that?" The older lady asked her grown daughter, pointing to it. "Her husband's gone--it's a Daddy Doll." She whispered back.

I love that.

"How are you holding up, sweetheart?" Our parishioner-friend gathered me into her arms. "Fine--hanging in there." I replied, attempting to maintain my image. "Really?" She could see right through me...and held me a long time.

I need that.

It's different this year. It's all a very painful reminder of the man who I've sent off twice now to go defend the flag, the songs, the fireworks, the people. The solidarity and pride. It's an achy reminder of the girls he left behind, missing their lives while we miss his. It's the getting up every morning and fighting my way through another day, it's staying strong as we journey through the doldrums. It's striving to find the joy, the happiness, the peace God places in our daily lives despite what is temporarily absent.

I'm proud to be an American where, if nothing else, at least I know I'm free. I will not forget the men and women who have fought far away, some even dying, who give this right to me. I may wake up in an empty bed, but I have a bed inside a home. I may eat at an empty table, but I have a table in a kitchen. I may sit in a pew with a cranky toddler, I may lie awake at night, I may shed hard tears when no one is looking. But that is my God-given right, those are my God-given blessings. And it is my husband who provides those blessings, first by his job but moreso by fighting for my freedom.

As you sing along to the songs this year, as you bite into your burgers, as you enjoy your day off, remember the men and women who have given so much for your very freedom. Remember the families, spouses, children, babies they leave behind. Remember those who, after having given all, are laid to rest under marble while their families look on.

It is not the fireworks, the anthems, the food we celebrate this year. Instead, we celebrate victory, and the constant battle for it. We honor those who fight for this, and we remember those who have died for it.

God bless America.

2011-06-30T20:57:00.002-04:00

"A leper came to [Jesus] and kneeling down begged him and said, 'If you wish, you can make me clean.' Moved with pity, he stretched out his hand, touched him, and said, 'I do will it. Be made clean.'"

As I read through Mark's Gospel tonight, I found that passage so touching. Oftentimes I pray, demanding God to help me, or begging his help. Wanting the control back. Wanting to maintain power. This man knelt before Jesus, and left the power where it belongs: Jesus. And he was rewarded...he was cured.

I've struggled since Richard left. After our good-bye, I refused to admit that it hurt as badly as it did; I refused to admit I was vulnerable and alone. So, I pretended...and crashed. This last week has been super tough for me, and I was literally brought to my knees in my sadness over Richard leaving again. I frantically searched for answers as to why I was so sad, in my desperation to maintain control. I begged God to take away my sadness.

And then, I hit bottom. I sat in the corner of my room, sobbing. I looked up and out my bedroom window into the evening sky and finally admitted it. "I miss him, God. Will you please help me?" And He did. He has given me such graces the last few days, and made clear His message. "It's okay to hurt--it's going to hurt," the old Irish priest said. And relief entered me. "It's what you do with that hurt--give it to Jesus." And I have. Repeatedly. It's not gone, but I feel better. Each day, I feel more peace.

No one told me this chapter was going to be easy, no one told me it would be short. No one told me I'd have a beautiful year without my husband. They were honest. It's going to be really hard, they said. It's going to seem like a lifetime. It's going to hurt. And it does. But, it's what I do with that hurt, with the occasional grief, that matters. And I know, now. Humbly present it to Jesus, and He will give me peace.

If you wish, Lord, you can make me clean....

2011-06-19T18:38:00.002-04:00

Hope isn't just a virtue. For some, it's a way to survive.

I sat for two hours looking at them. Dreaming. Hoping. Envisioning the three, er four, of us living there. Living there together. At the same time. Imagining the feet walking through the rooms, the dinners around the table. Scouring the floor plans, drinking in the photos.

In one, the morning sun streamed through giant windows into the room--across the wooden floors and up the sunshine-colored walls. It took my breath away. In a moment, I could see myself standing there in the morning, holding my coffee and watching my husband finish his breakfast while the children played in the other room.

I felt peace. I felt hope.

And those virtues get me through.

I must have something to cling to--some happy thought or possibility. And there are some right now. Most known to one person, who is a world away wishing for the same dreams, hoping for the same possibilities. Little things. We speak of them often the last few days, and that makes me feel worlds closer to him. Makes me feel more happy and the days more bearable. Especially right now.

And so, as we move forward, I continue to dream those quiet dreams, foster that intimate hope. I imagine our lives. Together. In the same house. Finally living the same life.

2011-06-15T15:33:00.002-04:00

"I breathe in...

I breathe out...

Put one foot in front of the other...

Take one day at a time..."

I am a control freak. Having a firm grasp on day to day life and my foreseeable future gives me confidence and, yes, control. So, when I feel as though the rug has been torn out from under me, when I feel like I am having to start again, it's the most frustrating thing.

"Old habits die hard." Not always. I thought that, when Richard left, I'd be okay. Cry a little, go to bed that night, and wake up in the groove which we'd had for four months before he came home. After all, that's a long time--four months. Especially compared to fourteen days. So, I thought we'd enjoy his time home and revert to our previous routine.

Wrong.

I'm not as discouraged and saddened as I was the day he boarded that bus--that was probably the hardest day and week of my life. However, I am surprised just how sad I am. He was only home two weeks. Yet, in a matter of days, that man had ingrained himself back into my life, our daughter's life, our home life. Part of me wanted to fight it, especially knowing he'd be going again. But, I caved. I made myself cave. Even with only fourteen days at home, I wanted as close to normal as we could have.

And we got it.

And now, I am left, once again, readjusting. And I hate readjusting (Yes, that did just come from a former military brat and current military wife). I feel...out of control. The tears, the ache, the loneliness. All of them are signs I am not on top of things. So, I slowly tighten my grip on what I do have in my grasp.

One breath. One Prayer. This moment.

And I move one putting one foot in front of the other, this time having the comfort of knowing that I will again gain a sense of confidence and routine. Knowing that this time, I will see him again, that we will be a family again. That may be a long time off, but I am just working on today. Right now. This moment.

The rest will come. And, before I know it, I will be okay again.

2011-06-14T21:38:00.002-04:00

It felt like a prolonged sunset--there was a sense of relaxation and letting go after long and arduous work. There was a definitive and nearly tangible sense of evading peace, something that had been missing before. He was home.

I'll never forget seeing his real live self walk into the airport. Seeing our daughter instantly recognize her Daddy and leap into his arms. I'll never forget the feeling of that first hug--a real hug from my husband. Giving him a kiss for the first time in months. The whole way home, I kept wanting to reach out and touch him, to make sure it was real. We were finally whole again, in so many ways.

I prayed time would crawl. And it did. As I look back, R&R seemed to have lasted a month, instead of a mere fourteen days. But, oh, was it sweet. Mornings of sleeping in with my husband, sliding over and cuddling. Waking up our daughter together, having breakfast, lunch, dinner. Together. Everything. Together. Vacations, family visits, Mass. Together.

He felt the baby kick. Elizabeth played with him on the floor. I hugged him. So much. I wanted to take very opportunity to touch him as possible, and I did. Hugs, kisses, holding his hand. We cooked together, talked together, prayed together. We shared laughs over silly things again.

And now he's gone. Again. The house has that pervading emptiness, and my heart aches deeply. The man I love has returned to the mission. And now, I sit by a computer and phone constantly again. I wait and worry. Again.

This lifestyle is so hard, with its ups and downs. Watching my daughter frantically search for Daddy all afternoon and evening, desperately calling his name. Hearing her scream from her crib every few minutes this evening, hoping he'll come in again and snuggle with her in the dark. Feeling as though this pain in my chest will never subside, that seven months is awfully long time to go without seeing one's best friend.

I will never take my husband for granted again. I did before. His presence, his realness. The constant opportunity to tangibly feel his presence. The help, the silent little favors done everyday. Someone to talk to, sit with, live with.

I know that will come. I know we will be family again someday. Until then, I move forward for the same reason I shared with him in the car today: I move forward for him. When the chips are down, when I feel as though I can't go on, I tell myself I must. For my Soldier. And I do.

So, tonight, as the pain and heartache tear into me, I move forward. I take each breath and put one foot forward for him. We will get through this, just as he said. We had to say good-bye so that we can say hello again. And, God willing, next time we say hello, it won't be followed by another good-bye.

2011-05-28T16:02:00.002-04:00

It's personal this year.

Every other Memorial Day was for me a day of national pride. It meant pulling out the red, white, and blue clothing, and eating Dad's steaks on the back deck. It meant being a little prouder of my dad because he served over 20 years in the Armed Forces, wearing the uniform. It was an exciting day.

Then, I married him. A Soldier. He'd been in for a few years, and was a Soldier of the new generation--the Soldiers who go to war. He'd been deployed multiple times. And I knew when I said yes to his invitation for a relationship, yes to his proposal for marriage, yes to his wedding vows, that he'd go again. It's not a matter of "If." It's a matter of "When." And he's deployed again.

So, this year is different. Exciting? Yes. Patriotic? Yes. Sad? Yes. Because this year, I understand the sacrifice required in living this lifestyle. It's a constancy of doing without, of giving up something or someone dear for the betterment of others. It's comforting my daughter or family when I could use some comforting myself. It's nights alone in bed, dinners at an empty table. It's Sunday Church in a lonely pew. It's treasuring five minute skype calls and cards that come in the mail with familiar handwriting scrawled across the envelope. It's calling a friend when life seems dark, or receiving a similar call from a dear friend who just dropped her husband off. It's constant prayer, hope, fear, and solitude.

For the love of a Soldier.

The last four months have been hard. We've kept a joyful countenance, moved forward and focused on daily blessings. But, there have been dark moments. Scary moments. Afternoons in pediatric cancer offices alone, getting that phone call from the unit that he's very sick. Moments I didn't think I could carry on. But, I did.

For the love of a Soldier.

He motivates me. He drives me. He wordlessly encourages me to move forward. When the nights are scary and the days are lonely, I trudge forward. Proudly. Doggedly. When I get the phone calls from friends, I commiserate. I felt the same way, I tell them. And then I vent myself. Get it off my chest, out of my heart. To keep marching forward.

For the love of a Soldier.

Because, if given the choice right now, would I do this again, I would absolutely say yes. My country is worth it. Our fallen men and women are worth it. My Soldier is worth it. I leave the negativity behind at the end of the day. Each morning is a fresh start. A new chance to make the day a better experience, to leave a stronger impact on the world around me. To hold down the homefront, to continue mission.

For the love of my Soldier.

This year, as I pick him up from the airport for R&R, I will remember all those who never got to come home. As I wrap my arms around his neck for the first time in months, kiss his face, smell him, I will think of the spouses who will never have the chance to do that again. Because they gave all.

For the love of their Soldier.

I will think of the brothers and sisters in arms who died protecting their country. Died protecting each other.

For the love of their soldiers.

I welcome home my hero. My Soldier, with the awareness of how blessed I am, how fragile and transitory this joy is. I will thank God for his safety thus far. This Memorial Day, I will garner strength, take rest, and gear up for the remainder of this deployment. I will stop, and honor those who have died while serving our country.

For the love of our Soldiers.

2011-05-27T00:29:00.002-04:00

"You know, with everything this family has suffered through, we really are quite blessed. Even with that year in Kansas..."

My mother was dabbing on her make up while my father and I listened.

"Yes, we are." I chimed in. "I think about it daily: Richard's deployed. Even though there are hard moments--excruciating moments--I feel very blessed nearly all the time."

And it's true. I am overcome frequently with how great God has blessed me. When I peer into the face of my daughter--healthy, happy. When I feel the kicks of my unborn child--life actively moving within me. My husband. He is not here. No, I am so blessed there, too. He's off sacrificing so much to defend his country and family. Though he's not here, I have an amazing man as a husband. This man trusted me with his home and family while he is gone. Trusted me to carry on and maintain the home front until he gets home. I am the mother to his children.

Yes, life is full of Crosses and struggles. Some of these last a very long time. But, despite it all, I can still see the blessings amongst the thorns. Thank you, Jesus, for my blessings and also the constant reminders of how good You are to me.

2011-05-19T21:15:00.002-04:00

"Are you hoping it's a boy? So you can be done?"

"No." I laugh. "My husband and I want to fill our house."

Horror.

"Why?!"

Because I only get to live once. Just one time I get to walk through this world, one chance in this journey. You can fill your life with the smart phones and iPads, you may have your fancy four seater cars and yearly resort-island trips. You can choose to have a few years of those pattering feet, desperate calls for Mom-mie or Dad-die, the giggles, the snuggles, the laughs, the cries. You can choose to spend most of your life without children.

But I see it differently. I only get one shot. And I want to live it for all its worth. I don't need the smartphones, fancy computers, Nordstrom clothes. I will forgo the small cars and far flung beach trips. Instead, I want a lifetime of life. Of babies, of children and, yes, even of teens. I want to surround myself with people--my people. I want to give as much love to this world, to my world, as physically possible. My daughter tapped into a mine of love, and there's so much there. I feel compelled to give it.

So, when you are digging your toes into the sand while contemplating if you are ready for children, I'll probably be awake for the fourth night in a row staring into eyes that trust me unconditionally. While you purchase your Prada shoes for your evening at the five-star restaurant, I'll likely be cheering on my child as they go-go on the potty for the first time. As you desperately fight for your one teen's attention, my children will surround me demanding mine.

You see, you think your life is so full, and that mine will be so empty. But, when we both reach the end of this life, you will not be surrounded by the beach, the clothes, the electronics. No. Those will be at home in the photo albums, in the closet, on the shelves. You will be surrounded by what you helped create, which was a lifetime of selfishness. I will be surrounded by people. My people. My precious souls that I committed this one life to. I will not live alone, die alone. I will be surrounded always. By my full house.

Little Rituals

2011-05-16T20:35:00.002-04:00

We would walk there in the mornings on our honeymoon, hand in hand, basking in the joy of being newly married. The traffic whipping by us, the smell of the beach not far behind us, we felt as though the world had nothing on us. The walk was less than five minutes, and we'd arrive at our breakfast place.

Little Rituals.

Even then, I found the name indescribably comforting. I am a person who derives great comfort and satisfaction from just that--little rituals. That this had become such a ritual for us was no coincidence.

That memory ran through my head as I meandered down the sidewalk with Elizabeth today. Our daily afternoon walk to get the mail, with cards to send off as well, we basked in the beauty of the coming evening. I felt such joy and comfort as she held tight to my finger waking along side me. It was precisely these moments, these emotions, I had wondered at the possibility of feeling before he left. But it is possible. And that brings me additional comfort.

Waking in the morning and drinking my coffee while she eats, as the morning sun shines through the windows. Naptime, and the quiet in the house as I clean. Cooking dinner for the two of us, as the evening sun envelopes the kitchen. Bedtime with its prayers and stolen giggles and kisses. These little rituals each day bring us comfort, bring us joy, bring us hope. We continue through our days, striving for something great, something far away yet always slowly coming. We work and do our chores for the same reason. Because some day, he will come home. Because each day that we fill with joy-filled tasks and comfort-infused moments are days that are successful, days that somehow bring him greater joy. Because he knows we are living happily, even in his absence. For we who are left at home, living days like this make us feel closer to him, make us feel as though we are fighting for him.

Tonight, as the evening sun shines lazily in the sky, I write letters, pen notes to Baby in my journal, listen as my little one falls asleep. Quiet. Comfort. Joy. Little Rituals, in his absence. In his honor.

2011-05-05T23:11:00.005-04:00

Time to come clean. I have a major flaw. *Gasp.

I hate asking for help.

This is not a good trait for anyone, but especially a mother and a wife of a Soldier. I insist upon doing everything myself, and as quickly as possible. Last August, when we found out Richard's deployment had moved up six months, I immediately went outside in 110 degree weather, and mowed the yard. I am surprised I didn't pass out. Boy, was I in trouble when the husband got home. But, it needed doing, was bothering me, so I did it.

This morning, I decided to scrub down the entire kitchen. A lofty goal, yes, but not impossible. I broke it down into smaller tasks and was lenient: I gave myself the entire day. I would wash the countertops, put all the dishes away, move appliances and clean behind them, and pull everything out of the fridge and freezer to sort it all. I was motivated! I began my task and was just reaching my stride, when it happened. I went to clean the disposal with citrus fruit, and the entire unit fell into the bottom of the sink, spewing orange pulp water everywhere.

Then, the adventure started. I pulled everything out from under the sink, only to realize there was significant water damage from a previous leak. Bummer! I began sopping up moldy, citrus water and wringing it into buckets. My daughter was penned up, but demanding my attention. Once the mess was contained, I stared at that blasted appliance lying under the sink mocking me. I was going to fix this. By. My. Self.

I called my brother, who instructed me that "all I had to do was lift the disposal back into the sink and twist the collar." Ha. "Watch out. They can be heavy." Not too heavy for me, I thought. I went into the kitchen and lifted it. I got it maybe six inches in the air, and it weighed heavy in my arms and I put it back down. Crouching in a new position, I tried again. I got it back into the sink, and attempted to twist the collar. It wasn't lined up properly, and was too heavy to maneuver. It came crashing down. Onto my knee cap. I let out a tirade.

I can't do this, I thought horrified. I need a second set of hands. Hence, second tirade against appliance for deliberately breaking while the husband was gone. I stared at the royal mess in my kitchen. Not even my stubborn pride was strong enough to fix this. I looked at my gash. Well deserved, I thought. I should never have thought I could lift that thing alone, especially pregnant (and my back has suitably punished me for this all day, as well).

"Hello? Adrienne?....Oh, of course! Let me call your dad. We'll bring some dinner over and we'll help fix it!"

They came, with hot food and two sets of hands. It took the three of us to figure out the problem and reattach it to the sink. It's fixed, though. And in less than ten minutes. And between the three of us, there were no backs thrown out or knees gashed. Go figure.

So, hopefully, this has taught me a valuable lesson. While I have gotten better, I still struggle with asking for help. It's not my pride, completely. It's also a guilt of imposing on others. Imposing on those who have spouses with whom to spend time, their own problems to fix, and not a lot of free time. But, when I do ask for help, the most surprising thing happens: people usually say yes!

So, I will continue to work towards squelching my pride, and working on my humility. Because gashed knees and aching backs...well, they are just not worth the stubborn pride. At all.

2011-05-02T10:52:00.003-04:00

I was on the phone with the TV muted last night, when the words on the bottom of the screen changed to USAMA BIN LADEN CONFIRMED DEAD. Goosebumps pricked up all over, and a sense of anticipation rose within me. I yelled the news to my mother over the phone, and we hung up as she ran towards her television to turn on the news.

Ten years. We have lost thousands of innocent civilians and military troops at the hands of this man. Americans and the world have lived in fear daily because of him. My husband is away fighting a war because of his influence. And now he's dead. Finally.

I am "happy." I am "joyful." I am "relieved." Unashamedly so. Many are criticizing others for their celebratory attitude. Bible verses posted about not taking pleasure in the death of the wicked, the negativity of a Christian rejoicing in another man's death are all over Facebook. I felt compelled to respond.

Yes, I am thrilled this man is dead. I am relieved that someone who took joy out of destroying others as violently as possible has been stopped. I wanted to grab my American Flag and run down the road cheering last night. I am so proud of the group of Soldiers who fought a fire fight with this evil man and his henchmen, and not one of them fell in the process. Thank God. I am even more proud of my husband and our military friends who have played a long and vital role in finally gaining this victory. I am proud--so proud--to be an American today.

I guess it's just different for me. My husband and his peers have been putting their lives on the line for ten years to ensure this man's capture. Countless lives have been lost. I rejoice that a man who stopped at nothing to kill others has met with justice. This is not to be confused with taking joy from a man's death.

At the same time that I am digging through and pulling out my patriotic and military wife shirts and am planning mini-celebrations with friends, I have a cold fear for this man's soul. At the moment of death and that opportunity to repent for his numerous and grave sins, likely he will not do so. I pity him. I almost feel sorry for him, for the eternal fate he is meeting.

No, I do not rejoice in a man's death. I fear for his soul. I celebrate that a man of evil has met with justice. After ten years and countless lives lost, we have achieved a great victory, in that a man who was a catalyst for thousands of deaths, separations of families for nearly ten years, and a daily fear for Americans and those around the world has been killed. While an attitude of "responding with love" is a Christ-like response most of the time, Jesus too grew justly angry at times, and acted justly as well.

So, while I pray he repented in his final moments, I unashamedly rejoice in the elimination of a threat to our peace, safety, and security. I celebrate the annihilation of a man who worked tirelessly to kill thousands. I am so proud of our troops stationed around the world who all played a vital role in achieving this victory, especially those separated from their loved ones.

God bless America, and God bless our Soldiers.

2011-04-30T00:08:00.002-04:00

Life is crazy. I know. I'm pointing out the obvious. But, even when the husband's home, it's so easy to let life get in the way and take each other for granted. Children, housework, work, all get in the way. With my husband deployed, I knew I'd miss those "special moments" even more.

"Those Moments," where, suddenly your heart grows three times as big and the air catches in your chest. Where you're smiling from ear to ear, remembering precisely why you married him. Where you feel extra poignantly that overwhelming love for him. It happens for no reason--a particular jovial conversation, just "clicking" more than normal, support you desperately needed to hear.

I have felt "that moment" several times this week.

The first time was, after my husband had been out of his operation less than twelve hours in Landstuhl, when I mentioned my husband that it was my sister's birthday, he insisted we call her via Skype. Wow. This is why I married him--he's so selfless!

Even before that, as he was airlifted from base to base, in attempts to figure out what exactly was wrong, I felt it. He never complained. He was in pain. He was in foreign places. He had no idea what was going on. But, he comforted me in my panic, and told me how proud he was of me. Wow. I don't deserve him.

When, in the middle of the night he couldn't sleep because of the pain, he called me. I'd just gotten a grade back on my paper and was disappointed. Instead of telling me he had far more to complain about, he cheered me on to finish the semester. Wow. What a sweet man.

Even from so far away, I am reminded daily as to how committed this man is to me, to our family. He sacrifices daily his precious time (during 16-hour work days) to make sure we hear from him. He made sure that Mother's Day gifts went out in time so they would get here before next weekend. He had every right to forget, but that's not my husband. He says constantly, in the midst of pain, exhaustion, or stress, how proud he is of me. He thinks of others, not just me, always before himself both through his job as Soldier and as Richard himself.

I am truly blessed. I remember that, each time my heart swells, my breath catches in my chest, and I grin from ear to ear. What an incredible man to do all he does for his family, for his daughter, for his wife. He's an incredible man, and I am truly a blessed woman. He's still here, still committed to doing his best to serve us. I truly feel, because of this, that when he comes home for good, that we will be able to pick up like no time passed.

2011-04-28T11:26:00.003-04:00

Every Military Spouse dreads "that phone call;" we literally live in fear of it daily. We are gripped with fear each time the doorbell rings. When I see "Unknown Caller," or "Withheld" my stomach tightens. But I never, for one second, thought it would actually happen.

"Mrs S--? This is Sgt. P---. I want you to know your husband's okay. But, he's in the clinic here with...." I didn't hear anything else.

Then the text message: "Hey. I'm in the clinic. Lots of pain, blood in---" It was cut off.

Yes, I panicked. Yes, I sobbed. Yes, I ran back into the FRG event I'd just left because my "family"--the women who understood, who could tell me what to do, were just inside. They hugged me, they comforted me, they walked me through the steps...of waiting.

Horrible, horrible waiting.

What started on Saturday is still far from over. My darling Soldier, in so much pain, was airlifted to three different bases, finishing his travels on Tuesday in Landstuhl, Germany. He did a lot of waiting, and so did I. We waited together, though separated by miles and an ocean. I waited for updates, for his instant messages. I longed to see his face, hear his voice. Yesterday, I saw it on Skype. There was that face, the one I miss so much.

We had tough decisions to make--I had to put my selfish desires to run off to Germany second to his need to rest and recover...it was like tearing my heart out knowing I wouldn't see him when he needed me most. His health was most important, but their was a desperate yearning to be at his bedside, hold his hand, to pray with him. But, as a wife and military spouse, I must always put my Soldier first.

Now, I wait some more. Wait to hear how the surgery went, wait to see how long recovery will take. Wait. "Hurry up and Wait." And I hate waiting.

While, praise God, this could have been much worse, the whole ordeal was a little too close for comfort. It could have been a different scenario, a different reason for the phone call. Thank God. But, I have not felt the need for him to be home safe since he left, as I have felt the last four days. When he's home, in this house, at his work on post, I know he's fine. I see he's fine. I can touch him, hold his hand, and take care of him. But, this will come in time.

Now, I just wait. Wait for news. Wait for R&R. Wait for his homecoming.

Hurry up. Wait.

2011-04-20T23:15:00.003-04:00

When he walked away that Sunday morning, when he boarded that bus, I had no idea. As I drove home through blinding tears as Elizabeth slept in the back, I had no idea. I had no idea when we came home to an empty house, with Army gear scattered around. I knew my heart ached, that my chest was tight, and that I felt lost. I had lost my husband for a year. But, much to our surprise, he left me with something very special.

Less than a week later: PREGNANT

I gasped. And gasped again. "Tell me! Tell me!" He breathed across the DSN line. "Adrienne, what does it say?" "We're pregnant!"

And then I bawled.

He thought I was upset. "I'm sorry! I know you didn't want to do this alone." He couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. "No! I'm really happy!" Tears of absolute joy. Another child, another life. A mission of great importance, I was in charge of nourishing the life that Richard had left in his stead. I had been so terrified of losing connection with him, but the tangible proof of our love was growing in my middle without either one of us knowing.

So, over the last three months, I have fought fear of miscarriage, nausea, exhaustion, and instead continued mission. Continued caring for our beautiful daughter, desperately seeking adequate health care for her, spending time with her and enjoying the laughs, smiles, tears, and hugs. I have dutifully gone to my doctor's appointments, nervously waiting for the other shoe to fall. Like last time. But, it has not. I have, thus far, ensured mission success.

I have a child growing within my womb--what a privilege! My deployed Soldier's son or daughter. And I am humbled that he gave me the honor of nourishing this tiny life. What have I done in life to deserve the gift of my husband, of my daughter, of this new life? I smile with happiness, with joy. Because part of my husband never left. No, he left a piece of himself, a piece of us, in his stead. In my care. We have our little deployment baby. Thank you, Jesus.

What Can I Say?

2011-04-13T23:52:00.005-04:00

Recently, an interesting and legitimate question was posed to a group of military wives (including me) via Facebook. To note, this impromptu question-answer session followed an article regarding really insensitive questions and comments people make to spouses of deployed soldiers (most of which I've been asked/told). One of the women asked what one should say to a military wife when her husband is deployed. I think this is a totally legitimate question, and deserves an honest answer.

Offer small help. And mean it.
When my daughter became terribly ill while my husband was off at deployment training and I suddenly and desperately needed some help one afternoon, all the people who'd offer to help were busy or could not come. You don't need to rope the moon, but making a dinner for the family or give them the gift of your company makes all the difference. The other night, a friend stopped by with a tub of ice cream. I nearly cried.

Put yourself in our shoes.
If your husband were in a dangerous place for an extended period of time with severely limited communication, what wouldn't you want to hear? "Are you afraid of your husband dying?" "You are so blessed [to have Skype] or [that he's in Iraq]" (from a civilian). Not helpful. This should be common sense. No spouse of a deployed soldier wants to hear this form a civilian wife who has her husband at home in their bed every night. Think before you speak.

Pick up the phone.
Simply calling and checking on us means the world. It's so easy for us to feel forgotten, like you are swimming against the stream alone. For someone to remember you in their busy lives is so reassuring and comforting. And you'd be surprised how easily people forget to do this.

If you life far away from a military spouse, send cards.
When Richard left, I was overcome by all the mail from others that arrived in our mailbox. People who I was close with, and people I hadn't spoken to in years were offering prayers, Masses, thoughts. It was the nicest gesture.

Admit you don't know what to say.
Military wives don't expect anyone to have the answers or magic words to make this lifestyle better. To tell the painful truth, we don't have all the answers. Each day is a guess, a gamble. If you don't know what to say, say that: "I am sorry. I can't imagine what you're going through." How comforting, how reassuring, oddly, that statement is. You aren't trying to tell us how good we have it, or how blessed we are. This lifestyle stinks, and it's nice to hear from others the same thing.

Pray.
I firmly believe, at least for our little family, that the prayers have brought us thus far. The last two months have been difficult in moving forward through this deployment, and we've had a lot on our plate. I can feel the prayers when I start to get overwhelmed. It's also nice to hear someone is praying for you.

I can't imagine how tough it must be to respond or communicate to a military wives when coming from a totally different perspective. Our lives are so strange and, admittedly, abnormal. It's tough. But, the aforementioned suggestions might hopefully help others reach out. Because, though we are a proud and sometimes defiant group, we secretly long to have someone reach out to us. Oftentimes, that's the only thing that gets us through.

2011-04-11T22:35:00.003-04:00

Most of the time, I'm moving so quickly, I hardly have time to notice it. I move through the days at ninety miles an hour. Cleaning, studying, changing diapers, bathing my girl, feeding her. Dinner time comes, and goes. Bedtime for her. Then time slows immensely. I throw myself into my studies. I keep running.

But, sometimes, the quick pace is overcome. The nagging pain surfaces. And I remember how much, how intensely I miss my Soldier. My husband.

I have been struggling with this the last few days, which is frustrating since I'd been doing really well the last few months. I missed him, yes. But, I kept moving. Quickly. The last few days, I've been stumbling a bit.

I stood outside the other night during intermission of a play. I stared into the sky, watching the thumbnail of the moon. He has the same sky, I tried to comfort myself. But, I wanted him to have the same square footage, the same piece of concrete, the same moment. Tonight, I looked at his pictures, the ones where he is sitting in our living room, our den. My mind is confused; was he here, it asks. It's odd how quickly it seems like eons. He was here, I tell myself. And, God willing, he'll be here again.

I know in a few days I will be back to my breakneck speed. I just have to acknowledge this. But not wallow. After that, I will be at the top of my game again. I just needed to reset, I guess.

So, I miss you. A lot.

Now, to finis that silly paper.

2011-04-08T21:11:00.002-04:00

Sitting here writing a paper, I notice a light outside the window next to my desk. I look out, and realize it's the light my husband had put up to light up the American Flag that perpetually hangs outside our front door. As I stare out and look at the flag in the fading night, I watch it wave and dance proudly. My husband diligently goes outside daily to straighten it, and makes sure the light never goes out. He will take it down and place it respectfully in the closet when a nasty storm is heading our way. He gets upset each time he sees the flag disrespected or hanging tattered. He strapped his boots, packed his bags, and left his family to defend that same piece of cloth that hangs outside our house.

And now he might not get paid. This seems so unjust.

When he left, I knew I'd worry about how the deployment would impact my daughter. I knew I'd worry every second about his life and safety. I would worry about making sure all the tedious and important household tasks were done. I would worry about a lot. But I never thought I'd have to worry about whether or not he and I would get paid.

The same man, who treats the flag like a small child or aged person--so lovingly and respectfully--will likely be working without pay. The man who left his family behind to defend freedom, who said good-bye to his young daughter, who hugged his wife outside of a giant white bus, that man will not be paid.

But, he will still do his job.

He won't do it because he has to. He will do it for the same reason he make sure to unravel the tangled flag on the doorstep. He will do it for the same reason he bought the most expensive light at Wal-Mart for the flag. He will do it for the same reason he tied his boots, stuffed his bag, left his wife and daughter and walked tall with his head down towards that God awful bus.

He loves his country. He loves America. Despite the fact that his own country won't pay him, he'll still stand in defense of them. He stand tall and continue mission. Without one word of complaint or resentment, he'll fulfill his mission. Pay or no pay.

My husband will do this, because he's an American Soldier. It's in his blood.

2011-04-04T23:41:00.002-04:00

I entered the waiting room, pushing her bright red stroller as she grasped her Daddy Doll. Stopping behind the red line, I noticed him. He sat, straight up, in his chair. A handsome, confident face laced with kindness. A high and tight haircut. Strong arms that occasionally reached up to adjust his baseball cap. A toned torso that seemed relaxed and also ready. And that was it. No legs. His wife, tough and vigilant sat next to him, holding his hand.

What if that were Richard?

The question came into my head so quickly, I hardly had time to process it when I glanced up at the TV screen. The words floated across the bottom:

Two killed and 20 injured in separate Iraq attacks.

My stomach fell to the floor, my heart stopped beating. I couldn't breathe, and my hands curled into desperate fists.

Please God. Let him call this afternoon. Don't let that be him.

The phone rang in the middle of lunch. My stomach lurched, heart started beating again. I could breathe and my body relaxed.

Thank you, Jesus.

They weren't at work, they weren't out banging down doors. The soldiers were supposed to be in a safe place, a place that was supposed to protect them. But, in a moment, two of them were gone. I prayed it wasn't Richard, and later felt guilty. Someone had to be behind those words, letters. Two persons had to be the reason that chaplains knocked on the doors of two spouses this week, telling them their Soldier was not coming home. Twenty families were told that their Soldiers were badly injured. I prayed it wasn't Richard. It wasn't. So, it had to be someone else.
I can proudly say that we are staying brave, that we are moving forward in this life confidently, happily. But it's such a different happy. A forced, strong happy. For him, my Soldier. For her, my daughter. For me. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I am fine--I'm great. But moments like that, seeing the man who gave his legs for my freedom, reading that two people died and 20 more men and women lost limbs, sustained injuries. And you don't know if those numbers include your husband. You wait. You either hear the doorbell ring, or you get his phone call. You can only wait.

This is by far the scariest and most terrifying thing I've ever done. And only a military spouse can understand fully what it means to live a day at a time. Each day, each night, praying that the doorbell doesn't ring.

I'm sorry, ma'm. He's not coming home.

He's in a hospital....

What do you do? What do you say? How do you stay strong when fate takes a fatal stab at your soul? You can't plan for that.

I cannot prevent it. I cannot hold my arms about him to protect him from harm. All I can do is pray. That is simultaneously the most comforting and most frustrating thought.

God, I ask you to hold your mantle of protection around all of our deployed men and women. Be with the families left behind. Keep the doorbells from ringing, stop the numbers from climbing. Bring our Soldiers home safely. Soon. And protect my husband. Please keep him safe. Keep them all safe.

2011-04-01T01:36:00.003-04:00

Recently, I was a guest poster on the blog To Love a Soldier. It's a truly wonderful blog, with great resources for military families and where I can empathize with the author's lifestyle and vice versa. I believe that this vocation is much easier when surrounded with people who can completely understand. But, that's a blog for another day. Below, is my posting.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As I stood on the brink, in the midst of the boxes, camo bags, groceries and general mess, the reality of it all would grab me in the gut. Fear of living without him, of losing him, of losing connection with him. Anger at him leaving, being so brave, and feeling so insecure. I was terrified at the prospect of not just surviving life without him for a year, but living life without him for a year. Of living life joyfully. Truly, this seemed impossible. Living life without my husband and enjoying it seemed impossible.

But, we are doing it! This morning, I sit here with my cup of coffee, not just content but truly happy. He's not home, but I have a fantastic husband fighting a fight that not many can. Though she missed her Daddy terribly, I have a beautiful daughter, with whom I've been given a chance to bond in a way I wouldn't have. Together, she and I fight together. Who knew a sixteen month old could bring me such comfort, love, and security? Though it takes longer to clean and keep up, I have a stable home full of fond memories with my husband and our child.

I have realized that happiness doesn't depend on someone else. Happiness is not my husband, not a clean house, not stability, structure, and schedule. Happiness lies not in a cooked meal set on the table, steaming hot. Happiness does not disappear when the husband leaves, when the daughter struggles to understand why her father vanished.

Happiness lies in you.

Every morning, when my alarm pierces the air, I have a decision to make. I can wallow in self-pity and remain in bed. I can pull the sheets over my head and cry about the empty space next to me. I can be miserable and mourn my husband's absence.

Or, I can decide to be happy. When my alarm pierces the air, I can choose to be giddy about waking my daughter, get excited about sharing precious and intimate moments shared with her while the early morning sun creeps into the kitchen. I can focus on the sound of the coffee brewing, the dates with friends, the Skype-calls with my husband. I can garner strength from the many prayers being said for our family. I can focus on the structure we've carefully and consciously constructed on the Homefront.

No, happiness, I have learned, does not lie in foreign things. We pull the happiness from ourselves, especially as military wives. We choose to reach deep down inside of ourselves, even in the dark moments when we miss the call, appliances begin shutting down, or the R&R gets pushed way back. We decide to reach down, and we pull out the happiness. We shift our perspectives, and force ourselves to focus on what we do have. Because, when we shift that perspective, though initially painful, we are winning our fight.

This morning, I choose to focus on the amazing and heroic courage my husband has in fighting a war far from his family. I choose to focus on how this incredibly difficult lifestyle has not destroyed our relationship but, thank God, has brought us closer. Taught me humility, patience, courage. I choose to focus on having learned incredible flexibility in life's twists and turns. I choose to revel in our beautiful family, my daughter, the laughs and intimate conversations shared over Skype. I choose to find joy in my daughter still loving her Daddy, even if he is not home right now.

Here, on this Homefront, we are not merely surviving. We are living. Living Joyfully. Because that is what we choose to do.

2011-03-23T15:51:00.004-04:00

I knew it had happened. That's exactly when it would happen.

The husband usually calls around a certain time in the afternoon. Time changes and long work hours contribute to this. So, anywhere I go, my cell phone goes. It's leashed to me. Always. Ask me if it follows me into the bathroom--yes, it does.

Unless you've lived this lifestyle, you cannot understand how precious, how vital that phone call is. I spent every moment of my life previously knowing that, if he wasn't here, I could still get ahold of him. Pick up the phone. Dial his number. Send a text. He'd call back. He was always accessible. He was physically here in the mornings, evenings, nights, weekends. His body was in this house.

And now, I am left living for that phone call.

We military wives are a proud and independent people. We have to be. No one else is going to take out the trash, no one else is going to change the dirty diaper, feed the children, clean the house, pay the bills. Before, someone else would have. But, now we are left doing it ourselves. We become incredibly self-sufficient to the point that when the husband does come home, many wives have a difficult time adjusting. Pride. Independence. Survival. We can do it all.

One thing can knock us to our knees.

ONE MISSED CALL

I left the phone in the car during the FRG meeting. As Murphy's Law would have it, he called early--while the phone was not next to me. Realizing I'd left my phone in the car, I ran mid-meeting out the door and into the yard. I retrieved my phone and saw it. One Missed Call. Three times.

I came inside ranting and raving, and the women surrounded me. Stories of times when they missed calls, comforting words, and well-wishes for the call tomorrow. They get it. They get me. They get the situation. And that is such a comfort, especially when you miss that call.

2011-03-20T00:26:00.002-04:00

I heard the nasty thing before I saw it. And, for the record, volume is an excellent indicator on size.

We were enjoyed an idyllic lunch. Elizabeth was munching on a cookie in the high chair, while I prepared my victuals. The backdoor was open, and the spring sun was streaming through the windows and door. Apparently, he had streamed through the door, too. I am surprised he even fit through the door. Regardless, as I warmed my chicken and laid my sodabread on my plate, I heard it.

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

I froze. Every muscle in my admittedly starving body stiffened. I slowly turned around, searching for the source of the noise. Quickly, I located it. The wasp topped the ruler at nearly 2 inches, and was a bright red.

I freaked. And then I screamed.

I walked over, despite my inclination to run in my room and shut the door, and closed the blinds. I located a broom and proceeded to beat the window senseless. The buzzing ceased, and I did my victory dance.

Suddenly, he rose from the dead...or possibly from behind the blinds. Regardless, he floated into the air and began moving towards me. My life flashed before my eyes. After running Elizabeth to her crib, I ran into my bathroom and grabbed my aerosol hair spray. I reentered the room, stealthily approached my enemy, and fired. Perpetually. Practically until the can was empty. When he fell the floor, I attacked him repeatedly with my broom. I might have been screaming a little.

His dead carcass was swept out of the back door. Victory was officially mine.

2011-03-18T02:16:00.003-04:00

Skype is a huge blessing. I acknowledge that, especially in light of the next statement: Skype can be painful.

I hear stories from veterans' brides who tell me all they had was letter writing, and my heart aches for them. Letters, such a distant form of communication, and with no guarantee that they would reach their Soldier. They tell me I'm lucky. I understand, and feel blessed. When civilian wives tell me I'm blessed to have Skype, I have to quell the urge to tell them that they are in turn lucky to have their spouse in the same bed every night. But, I know they are right. Sometimes, though, it can be such a painful reminder.

Today, for a reason I still haven't realized, was hard. I was really missing my husband. I teared up a few times and felt that ache in my heart that I'd been able to ignore the last few weeks. While Skyping this afternoon, we had to discuss a few important topics, and the conversation was anything but fun. Not that we argued, but the tone was mostly serious, and this only reminded me further that he was not here today.

His face is there, on my lap. But once in awhile, a voice tells me that it's not his real face. It's only an image. Most of the time, seeing his face on the computer, hearing his tone change with his facial expressions, listening to him describe his day alleviates some of the pain of his absence. The connection we have through this medium is a blessing.

"I wish I could reach through Skype and touch you." Hearing him say this made me a little sad. Soon, I say. Soon is so relative.

Still, I'm grateful it allows him to interact with his daughter, who says only Dadda or Daddy, never Mommy. It provides a way for he and I to stay united in so many ways. It lets him call his extended family and friends to stay in touch with them. I can see his face, even if I can't touch it. And that is a wonderful thing.

When given blessings, we are reminded they are never perfect. But, these blessings are stepping stones to aid us in getting further in our vocation or on our path. While Skype certainly does not make him appear in our living room, I still get excited when I see his face pop onto the screen. Because I can see him. And seeing him--that's the highlight to my day.

One Month

2011-03-06T20:42:00.002-05:00

So, the Stravitsch Homefront survived the first month of deployment.

I remember for so long dreading this lifestyle. I would hear stories from women about FRG events and their camaraderie. Stories about "everything seeming like it was going wrong." The delays in phone conversations from him and living leashed to various electronic devices. The stories about phone lines getting cut mid-conversation and about desperately needing to talk to the spouse, but knowing it could be awhile. I did not know if I could handle it. I questioned whether I could live a year with out my spouse. Whether I had the emotional and physical stamina to live under that kind of pressure.

While envisioning this lifestyle, I never factored in a sick daughter, shuttling her to various hospital visits. I never foresaw standing there, holding her down by myself while doctors and nurses poked her with needles, some of them laughing. I couldn't have imagined watching her bruise everywhere, undergo multiple tests, and get the brush-off by doctors and hospitals.

You think people will take it easy on you because he's gone. That doors will open, just because you committed yourself to this lifestyle. That other people will suddenly comprehend all you are going through and help you when you need it most. You think, somehow, the world will comprehend the massive load you are carrying in your heart, trying desperately not to breakdown. You are wrong. I was wrong.

I survived a month. Very few people know what I've carried through this last month as I trudge through this time without my help-mate. But they who know, celebrate with me at this hard won, though small, victory. Prayers have carried us, comfort has lifted us, and help has sustained us. We will continue to attain victory. Despite great struggle, huge crosses, and intense stress, my family will continue to move through the months. Through the weeks. Through the days. With the prayers, the comfort, and the help, we will conquer in the end. We celebrate not alone, but with those who have helped us through.

2011-02-28T21:37:00.003-05:00

No mother ever envisions it for their own child. Walking through the giant sliding doors, down the hall, last door on the right. There's an adult-size door, and a child-size door. Fish tanks stretch from floor to ceiling, and there are stars on the linoleum. The walls are painted bright colors, and the desk is low, so the children can feel involved. Despite attempting to provide an inviting environment, the place is still scary as hell. On the wall: Scott and White Pediatric Hematology and Oncology.

Twice I've walked through those doors. And twice I've felt like throwing up. Twice, we've there in the waiting room while Elizabeth fawns over the fishies. Twice, we've waiting for the doctor to come in and see her bruising. Twice, we've had him order blood tests. Twice, we've been sent away, knowing no more than when we'd walked through the doors.

I feel like I'm living in one of those movies, where the parents are pushing against all odds to figure out what's wrong with their child. Where no one is listening to the parents. They stand by their child's side, arguing and standing their ground. But, they always find out answers. The movies make it look easy. The parents appear heroic. I feel broken. They seem indefatigable. I am exhausted. They have their helpmate their. I stand alone. Lost. Losing.

Tonight, I am at a dead end. Where do I go from here? How far am I willing to take this fight? To whom do I present Elizabeth's situation next? I don't know.

I do know that something is clearly wrong with my daughter. I do know that my husband is halfway across the globe, so far removed from all of this. I do believe in the power of prayer and the support of family and friends. And, I absolutely know that this mother will stop at nothing to find out what is wrong with my child. No distance is too far, no fear too great, no medical personnel too elite for me to overcome that obstacle and achieve a correct diagnosis.

I ask for your prayers, dear readers. Those of you who do read. I know not how many there are. But, if you could leave a comment letting me know you are praying so that I might take great peace from that, I'd be eternally grateful. I desperately need them right now. Elizabeth needs them right now. Thank you.

2011-02-19T10:08:00.003-05:00

"Everytime I pulled out the camera the day I left, you stopped crying or looking sad, and would smile."

Yes, I did. The day that I felt like my heart was being ripped from chest, the day that I saw my daughter's favorite person board a bus, the that day I saw my best friend pull away--I smiled only in the pictures. There were moments of intense heartache, that panic overtook me, that I was gripping wildly at my last shred of self-control to not break into desperate tears. I watched you holding your daughter, with that calm, sad look in your eyes, I watched as you looked intently at me while holding her hand, I noticed how extra hard you held me as we hugged the last time.

You deserve better. I swallowed desperately, to hide the tears, the sadness. I smiled for you. And only for you. I knew you'd look at those pictures every day for the next twelve months, garnering strength, peace, fond memories. And what strength, what peace, what fond memories would you have received, if those photos showed a crying, down-trodden wife?

No. I stand tall for you. I walk forward for you. I sleep in a bed alone at night, not for myself, but for you. Because you deserve better. You deserve a wife who can hide tears behind a smile, shadow sadness behind laughter. You deserve a family who stands behind you 110%. You, sir, deserve a family that is heartbroken by your departure, but is strong enough to stand in your absence.

I will move forward for you. I hide my tears, shadow my sadness. I smile and laugh. I do all this for you. Because, while you fight the war, I hold down the homefront. While you are separated from loved ones, I instill joy in them. While you sleep on a cot in sand and stand in defense of our freedom, I sleep in an empty bed, and stand in defense of our family. I do not do this for me. I do not do this for pity or credit. I do this for you. Though separated by thousands of miles, we still fight together through prayer and isolation. We fight battles that are mirrored in their motives. I don't fight for myself. I fight for you. I stand for you. I smile and laugh for you. My Soldier.

2011-02-11T20:36:00.002-05:00

I did it. I hadn't really ventured beyond my door, except twice to my parents' house, since Sunday. Maybe I'm the only one, but going somewhere without someone with whom you go almost everywhere can be daunting. Especially when you're still having major emotional ups and downs. I kept almost changing my mind. But, I promised my husband I would get involved and stay busy. So, I came home this morning after having crashed at my parents, threw together some Valentine's, and off we went to the children's Valentine's Party at Church. It was so nice to get out and be somewhere busy. Elizabeth was somewhat clingy, but really enjoyed watching the children all run around.

I've realized that victory sometimes lies in the small things, like realizing your crying less and less as each day goes by (so far, today's count is zero--that's unprecedented!). It lies in finishing the laundry all by yourself, even though you're used to help. It's getting through making a healthy meal for yourself and daughter and eating the entire plate, especially without getting a stomach ache. Victory really is making it through another day.

So, I feel good this evening, for the most part. I am still adjusting, still adapting. Still coming up with plans to make the time fly faster, and methods to stay more connected with the husband. I keep telling myself that if the deployment date came and went, so will the homecoming day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I would like to take a moment to thank friends and family for their prayers. Please, please keep them up. I know they are being answered. I might post a prayer that those of you who'd want, could say it for a particular intention of mine. But, regardless, God bless you all.

And Then He was Gone

2011-02-09T11:52:00.002-05:00

The alarm pierced the morning, and my stomach burned with hot rocks. That had been happening every morning for the last few weeks, but today it was especially bad. I tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn't going off . I even shut it off quickly and hoped he hadn't heard it. If he didn't hear it, we wouldn't have to get up, and if we didn't have to get up, the rest of the day didn't have to happen. But, he was already up. He crawled back into bed next to me, and snuggled up close. I don't want you to go, I said.

But, he had to, and he did. It was a long morning that went by quickly. I don't want to relate it, right now, because my mind is in a good place. I like those waves to last as long as possible. I will say that he left a gargantuan hole. His departure broke my heart immensely and has destroyed our routine. Now, in some ways, we are re-shaping our days and re-centering our lives.

Sometimes, I am okay, and other moments I am really sad and angry. During those negative waves, the emotion is so intense and so hard to overcome. I quickly realized not to fight it. I just let myself cry. Once the crying is done, I usually feel better and enter the next wave of being okay. My prayer is that the okay-waves start lasting longer and come more frequently than the intense negative waves.

This morning, I started having a bad negative-wave. I just went into overdrive. I took a shower, got dressed, did my hair. I have to get dressed and do my hair, because doing this makes me feel better. I came out, and lit a fire. Yes, I started a fire all by myself. Not that I've never done this before, but doing things for myself makes me feel like I am fulfilling my mission. I am fulfilling my promise to hold down the homefront. I am staying confident and adding warmth to our house. I see the irony. The unit spouses' motto for this deployment is, "Keep the home fires burning." I intend to.

I see myself like this:

Standing in the middle of a giant football field, with the stands full. It's dark, but the stadium lights are lighting up the field. All of our friends and family are watching as I play in my first game. Only thing is, this game is the most important of the season and I know the plays and victory rely on solely on me. I am standing there, facing our family and friends, waving my arms up and down, asking for the cheering and rooting to get louder. For me, the cheering and rooting signifies the prayers and affirmation. The game is long and arduous and I am playing against a team of eclectic players. Terrorists, military orders, someone named separation, even my own self-doubt. Each quarter finds me closer to victory, though each lasts so long. Three months. The game, right now, is only seconds in. But, I am still leading on the scoreboard. And I guarantee that when the last second ticks off the board, when the game is over, and the stands are still hopefully full of our cheering friends and family, my team will have won. At the end of that game, I will still be standing, though covered in the blood, sweat, and tears. And, just as this battle ends, that one lone and empty seat in the stands will be occupied. Because for me, victory is only attained when my husband comes home.

Twas the Night Before....

2011-02-05T21:51:00.002-05:00

So, here we are. The Night Before. His bags are packed, and one's already in the car. The house is cleaned and organized. The laundry's all done, and should be for the next six weeks, since I've been doing laundry all week. His nightstand is cleared off, and all of his clothes are neatly put away. Even the shoes he wears everyday. They're in the closet. Away.

It's starting to feel weird around here.

Recently, someone gave me great advice. Don't try to make this a great week. It wasn't. It was extremely special in its own way; but great, it was not. Errands took up most of our time, misunderstandings ate into a few hours, and I learned to force myself to be flexible yet again. I had his favorite dinner planned for tonight. I wanted to cook for him on his last night. But, as we left Mass, he asked for Cracker Barrel. So, dinnertime found me running in and grabbing our food, after having sat in the parking lot so he could pick up magazines for the plane. I was not resentful. I started to panic at one point, though, because I could feel the second hand ticking. I forced myself to calm down. At that moment, he came sprinting out of the store. I think we share a second hand.

I have been wallowing in these last few and precious moments. Watching while he plays with his daughter, who won't understand where Daddy has gone. Watching while he darts through the house cleaning to avoid his sadness. Watching him store items he won't be needing for twelve months. Watching him pack up his bags while Elizabeth tries to climb on his lap. Watching him laugh, smile, frown, and cry.

Watching him. Here. Now. Because he's going to leave a huge hole.

But, I do this for him. He's worth it. He's such a great and amazing and courageous man. I couldn't do what he's about to do. I would run. I would be far too scared. I hope people can see how phenomenal this man, this Soldier is. And I have the honor of being his wife. So, he's worth it. And, in a strange way, I take this as a major compliment. Apparently, he sees me as strong, brave, and worth it, too.

T Minus One Week....

2011-01-30T23:37:00.004-05:00

T minus one week. One week and I am awash with emotions right now. Frustration at lack of time to finish necessary projects or to spend time with my husband. Immense sadness at living life for a full year without him. Fear of being without him, and of losing him.

I read the books. They said you feel excited to see them go, that's a natural reaction. I am not excited. I haven't been excited. Odds are, I won't get excited. Just scared and frustrated. It's really hard, too, not to let these emotions take hold of me, to be irrational. And in so many ways, too.

When it rains, it pours. Of course other struggles have surfaced this week that we are sorting through, as well. I reflect on Padre Pio's words, "Pray, Hope, and Don't Worry." I think, he clearly was not a wife and mother. And I chuckle. I know I mustn't worry. But, it's awfully hard.

I will miss getting up early with him on work-mornings to make his breakfast and lunch, racing the clock to have his over-easy eggs and toast on the table as he walks through the door from PT. I will have a hard time looking at the clock at three in the afternoon, and not get excited that he is coming home in two hours. I will miss watching him play with Elizabeth while I cook a dinner I'm sure he'll like. Evenings after seven, when my darling girl is in bed, will make me sad. That's our time--Mommy and Daddy time, we call it. We read or watch TV, and pray. We relax. Together. Weekends will be hard, since I usually relish sleeping in later with him next to me. Breathing. That bed will be terribly lonely.

But, life will move forward, just as it has the last few months. I've thought desperately as to how I can stop it. I can't. And so it will move while he's gone. It won't be easy. It won't be pleasant. But we will survive. For when I look into his face, so serious, confident, and strong, I know I can do it. I know that I am no victim. This is no Cross thrown on me by chance. The day I walked down the aisle to the man in uniform waiting for me, I accepted my mission. I said yes, confidently. My orders have been written; I am asked to make a sacrifice, too. I will be a steward to my husband, to my daughter. I will stand firm, steady, confidently behind my husband. I will do everything i can to "hold down the fort" in his absence, and make a happy time for my daughter. It's going to be sad, hard, tough. But we will conquer. I do this not for me. Not for glory or pity. I don't do this for sympathy. I do this for him. I do this for my Soldier.

2011-01-17T00:55:00.003-05:00

My husband leaves in two weeks. Two more weekends, and he's gone. Why does this have to be so hard? I look at the other women in the unit, and they seem to take this all totally in stride. My husband reminds me gently that I look that way, too, in public.

Twelve months. "I can't imagine my husband being gone for 12 months." I need to make a list of ignorant statements people make to families of deployed soldiers. That one would top the list. Because I can clearly imagine my husband leaving for a huge amount of time...and we are actually okay with it (Hopefully the sarcasm is obvious). "It will go by quickly." Also not a comfort, in some ways, because I don't want to speed through a year of daughter's life, but am also simultaneously wanting that, so my husband will be home again. There's no easy answer.

I am panicked by the thought of making bad memories during these last two weeks. I cry at sad songs on the radio--every sad song. I hate waking up in the morning because it's one day closer to D-Day (Departure Day). I hate going to bed at night because I will wake up and it will be one day closer, etc. I want so badly to know that a new but temporary normal will arise. That life won't seem as dreary, empty, and slow like when he was at NTC. I have to hope that after awhile going to bed by myself won't seem such a drudgery. Dinners won't be as lonely, mornings won't be as empty without packing a lunch and making a breakfast.

I have to hope that eventually the fear of losing him won't feel like such a premonition. I have to pray and beg he'll come home as alive and healthy as I sent him off. Because thinking about the alternative is unbearable.

As unimaginable as civilian brides find living without their husband for an extended period of time, I can't imagine never having to worry about this. I can't imagine never having to plan for a year's separation and acknowledge the worst could happen. It's not normal and I don't feel badly for not liking it.

Charlie Mike. That's my mantra. For Richard. That's my oath.

Happy?! New Year

2011-01-05T23:34:00.005-05:00

So, I am going to be honest. I was dreading the holiday so much that it surprised me. I knew why, however. In January alone, I will say four huge good-byes. I've already done one, as my sister left for North Carolina after an extended Christmas vacation. It was painful. Let's leave it at that. In a week and a half, my little sister (who still seems like she's 5 years old in my head) will be leaving for college for the first time. I don't know that I'll handle that well. Then, my twin brother, with whom I am incredibly close, is moving to Miama. Finally, the ultimate blow, my husband deploys for 12 months.

After learning a hard lesson about keeping my eyes on God as people and things leave, I know I must keep my peace and Faith. So, while I am usually not one to make New Year's resolutions, I am forming some for the next year. It will be vitally important.

First, I plan on completing several large house projects. In my master bath, I will take down the wall paper border (I hate wall paper border) that is shriveling off my wall and repaint the hideous color. I will also re-do my bedroom colors. When I was a distracted bride-to-be, I chose a dark red and brown...and now my bedroom is oppressive. I am thinking about blue and brown with red accents. I have other projects in the plan.

I am going to spend lots of time with my sister Kathleen, who will be the last child at home. As we are both going through a time of immense change, I know continuing to work on our already close relationship will be vital for both of us.

I am going to kick my prayer life into high gear. I have several books recommended by dear friends that I will read and comment on here sporadically.

I want to crochet something so badly and plan on working on some projects over the next year for Elizabeth and me. I'd also like to make a blanket. I also want to continue trying a variety of baking and cooking recipes. I have derived joy from trying different recipes over the past few months.

I am going to ensure that I make time for me. I never do that. So, I am going to register for some work-out classes on post, continue to work on forging local friendships, and get better about leaving the house with Elizabeth. (I put off errands and shopping because I am fearful of shopping with her and her melting down. It's a really bad habit.)

Finally, I am going to keep and update of all of this on here. I plan on writing more, with more focus and really use this to further root a life and attitude of peace and Faith.

Here's to hoping this makes 2011 a....better, happier year. Even though I'll not have my best friend at my side, he'll still be a part of our lives. And I have to keep making that life not just good, but better for him, for our daughter, and for me.

2010-12-21T23:11:00.002-05:00

And so, after 7 months, I finally went back. Elizabeth and Richard were there, too. Still, the hole--the wound--is still so far inside me I shy away when people trod near it. It's still so personal, so internal.

It should be his first Christmas. I should have another Baby's First Christmas ornament on the tree. That's hard sometimes. But, he's in Heaven with the Angels and the Saints celebrating Jesus' Birthday, where music bursts forth and happiness abounds. I want nothing more for my son, especially on his First Christmas.

2010-12-20T16:54:00.002-05:00

Dear Santa,

I know my letter is late this year, but I also know that you're still getting mail even this late. I have a few requests this year, though they be a little out of the ordinary.

First, dearest Santa, help me ignite a sense of wonder and magic in my daughter. Yes, for the twinkling lights, wrapped up presents, and images of you. But, more so, for that tiny Baby who is preparing to enter our world once again. As I reflect on Christmases of my youth, I remember a sense of silent, immense wait. There was an excitement that went beyond the tree, beyond the gifts, beyond the stockings. I was waiting for my Savior's birth. I want that for my daughter as well.

Secondly, I want my husband to come home safely from Iraq. I wish I could ask that he wouldn't go. But, I couldn't feel right about that. He has been asked to go, and I have to support him--I want to support him. He needs me behind him. So, instead, please make sure comes home safely and healthy. Next year, Santa.

Finally, help me to be the wife and mother this Christmas that I am meant to be. Help give me patience, courage, peace, hope, and joy as we face great Crosses in this little home. Remind all of us that when life seems dark and the days seem endless, we must fall to our knees and seek Christ. When the days are light and joyful, help us also to remember to kneel and give thanks.

You see, Santa, what I ask for cannot be wrapped under the tree, cannot be slipped into a stocking. Rather, please wrap my heart around these virtues, most especially of hope. Please slip these petitions into my prayers, as I seek a closer relationship with Christ.

I am grown now, Santa, but I know where you are. In Heaven. With Jesus.

Merry Christmas, Santa. Kiss the Baby Jesus for me.

Love,
Adrienne

2010-12-03T10:31:00.002-05:00

So last night, I had this horrible dream. I had a bird's eye view on Richard in Iraq. He was sitting in what appeared to be some sort of bed or something with five Iraqi children while he read to them. All the while, mortar fire was going off around them. As my view got closer and closer, Richard looked up at me with the most mournful expression and I knew what was about to happen. I was about to watch my husband die in Iraq.

I woke up before that happened, thankfully. But, I spent the next 20 minutes pacing the house, convincing myself that wasn't going to happen. I went and checked on Elizabeth, who was oddly awake herself, and we snuggled for a bit. I finally crawled back into bed and snuggled close to my husband.

The footlocker is right next to the Christmas tree, ironically. The last thing I wanted for Christmas this year were deployment orders. But, we've got them. I remember last New Year's, just as the clock struck twelve a.m., praying so hard my husband would be here all year, that we'd celebrate New Year's of 2011 with him in the same room. Ha Ha, God. He ships out a couple of weeks after New Year's. That actually is funny to me.

Yesterday, we met with our financial advisor and were completing the "just in cases" for the deployment. The way she so freely and, sometimes laughingly, talked about the various scenarios of Richard's death disturbed me greatly. It hits on a very deep, very real fear (often times more like a premonition) that Richard won't make it home. I've spoken of this terribly dark and paralyzing fear to two other people--my husband and a very dear friend.

That's why the dream terrified me so much last night. It's why I paced the floor, why I stood, staring at that G0d-awful footlocker at 2 am. I'd like to kick it, but I think that would hurt me more than it would hurt it. I just pray my fear is wrong. That Richard will come home. And that this war and everything will end. This Christmas, I understand the prayer for Peace on Earth. If we human beings just knew how to get along, life would be a lot easier for everyone. But try explaining that to us--we are such a stubborn species.

Meanwhile, I try to ignore that massive black box, to shush the fear, to focus on Today. While my husband is home. Christmas will be wonderful because we will make it wonderful. New Year's will be celebrated with all its festivities. Then, life will begin. But, I deal with that Tomorrow.

2010-11-06T02:00:00.002-04:00

We are strange creatures, we people.

The entirety of our experience comes through our five senses. Everything we learn, everything we know is based on what we can see, hear, smell, touch, taste. So, when we can't sense something, it's that much harder to grasp. Especially when we've become accustomed to doing so.

It's been a week since we said good-bye. It seems like longer. Much longer. Seems like it's been weeks. Weeks since I've heard his voice or felt his touch. At first this was so hard, especially last Sunday. That was the worst night so far. But, then it felt like he just stopped existing. Days have a new normal and we just plug along. Before, I worked towards evening, when he'd walk through the door. Now, I'm not sure what I move towards. Just the next moment. The next block of time--morning, afternoon, evening, night. I just keep moving.

Some moments are hard. Mostly, moments are boring. I try not to get emotional because it's weak and reminds me how hard this is and how hard it's going to be. I start to think we are well into this and the end of it all must be near, only to remember it's just beginning. He will come home, be here for a little while, and leave again. This whole vicious cycle will start anew. I will be reminded of his touch, his smell, and then lose it all over again and for a much longer time.

I thought evening would be toughest. It's not. I just throw myself into cleaning or schoolwork and keep busy, just as I have been all day. It's night time. When the house gets quiet. And dark. And I crawl into a big, empty bed. My mind has nothing to distract it, and I become acutely aware of the emptiness next to me. Aware of the cold, empty space.

I tell myself he's out there. Even though I can't see him. Or feel him. He's out there. But, it feels so weird.

2010-11-01T22:32:00.002-04:00

Somewhere in a field in California, my husband is crawling through woods, wading through creeks, perhaps marching a great distance.

Here in Texas, there is a tiny girl who misses him and doesn't understand where he's gone and her mother aches some moments.

I am frequently told to extend thanks to my husband for his service. These same people tell me I am also to be thanked, because I am making great sacrifices, as well. Before, it was easy. Now, it's starting to get hard. Really hard.

The deployment chapter has begun. Though he hasn't technically left for the Sand Box, he's doing the preliminary training. Last Sunday, he left for a month and on Friday, we began the two weeks of zero communication. I am going to be honest, unashamedly so: It hurts. At moments, I have such an extreme ache because I sense his absence so intimately. Then, I realize a month is nothing when I think about the length of the deployment. Right now, I can't hear him, see him, touch him. If this is hard for me, the absence is that much harder for my eleven month old daughter.

Elizabeth is cognizant enough to understand Daddy has disappeared; unfortunately, she's too young to explain the situation. She crawls the house in a frenzy, calling out "Da Da! Da Da???" She's made every object, from pacifiers and TV remotes to books and shoes, into a phone that she puts to her ear and talks to Dada. She gets sad, angry, frustrated. While playing with her toys, she'll use one hand for play, while the other hand grips my t-shirt in a desperate attempt to keep me from disappearing, too. My heart aches for her. A normally easy-going baby, Elizabeth is clearly not handling this well.

And my thoughts frequently turn to my husband, the hero who is training for a larger mission. Who is likely forgoing sleep, food, and rest in preparation to serve his country, fulfill his mission, and protect his family. Somewhere out in California is a man who is likely missing his wife and longing for his daughter.

Yes, I understand the thanks, now. This is not easy. My husband is making sacrifices, but his family is, as well. So, I will take the thanks when offered. But, what means more right now are the prayers. Because we need them. My heroic husband needs them. His tired, frustrated wife needs them. But, more than either of us, his little girl needs them. Because while Mommy and Daddy can understand this, she doesn't. The center of her universe has disappeared. And she wants him back, and is terrified her mommy will disappear as well.

2010-10-20T22:10:00.002-04:00

And so it begins. Though, I suppose it all began when my husband spent the week out in the field, but the time was so short that it didn't feel much like training for the deployment. This weekend, however, we say one of the long good-byes. He'll be leaving for the field for thirty days. For two of the weeks ("The Box"), we will not have any form of communication, and I already know that will be very hard on me. These next thirty days are going to be incredibly taxing emotionally, spiritually, even physically since I will be holding down the fort and Baby till he gets home.

So, I am determined to use the time for good in two ways. First, I have decided to do a thirty-day, at-home Ignatius retreat (Consoling the Heart of Jesus) and a book for mothers (A Mother's Rule of Life) that a friend of mine strongly suggested. Through the next thirty days, I am hoping to become a (much) better wife and mother and to improve my very stagnant spiritual life. Secondly, I will use the time as a dry run for the upcoming deployment (getting too close too fast--ack!) by trying out different schedules, activities, and weekly goals and rewards to make the time go faster. I think, for Elizabeth's and my sake, making some sort of schedule for the days, weeks, and months will be necessary and very helpful.

So, here goes nothing. I'll spend the next few days holding my husband closer, letting Elizabeth get as much Snuggle time with Daddy as possible. Then, we say good-bye. It'll be practice, and it'll also be hard. But, nothing worth having isn't hard, so may God help me to use time while he's gone for the betterment of my family and my soul.

2010-10-02T02:03:00.003-04:00

Life is so busy and harried, especially right now for my little family. My husband started a new job, which means he is deploying MUCH sooner than we had anticipated. He is training at remote locations for a total of five weeks before departing in January for twelve months. My daughter is into everything, trying to stand, and very clingy lately. I, because I am now certifiably insane, have begun pursuing my Master's on top of keeping house, staying at home full time with said daughter, and preparing for the training and deployment. With all of this going on, I've hardly had time to return phone calls, finish housework, or pray. But, just when life seems craziest, a moment comes that stops me in my tracks.

Tonight, I was putting my precious child to bed, a task I do every night. Usually it's a bit of a struggle, since she doesn't like diaper changes as of late. Most nights, I pick up my teary daughter after changing her into pajamas and hold her close. I hand her a blanket. That's when the Moment comes. She quiets immediately, puts her tiny thumb in her mouth, and, grasping the blanket close, she lays her head against my chest. I feel her breathing and her warmth. I sense her calm. I watch, as her breathing slows. She feels safest here. In my arms. I make a person feel safe. Feel warm. Feel calm. I am some one's mother.

Moments like those make me stop. Make me realize that, no matter what comes or is looming, all will be just fine. I have my daughter who sees safety and comfort in my arms. My daughter, who loves me unconditionally. Oddly, I find the same sensations when I hold her in my arms, as well.

Case Lots and Fried Bologna

2010-09-04T16:05:00.003-04:00

As I was making lunch for my husband and me this morning, a random memory popped into my head:

There was a time when my life, at times, seemed black and white. Literally. Lots of black and white. The Commissary, the military's grocery store, used to stock generic brands. Super cheap, these products were usually packaged in the plainest, most boring packaging probably known to man. Black and White. "Sugar Cookies." "Puffed Cheese." These ridiculously boring products graced my home in every way possible, since my mother had six mouths to feed. I didn't know the difference--it all tasted the same to me. Until my mother started shopping the case lot sales.

Once a year, the Commissary makes a big to-d0 about their Case Lot Sales. The parking lots are covered in giant white tents and boxes and flats are strewn everywhere. My mother would stock up on, gasp, name brand items! Wow, Fruit Loops! I was blinded by color. While the food generally didn't taste much different in actuality, somehow the brand names and wild colors made the food taste better. This one time a year, we would see food enter our home that normally wouldn't come in.

Bologna.

One year, when I was in middle school, my mother bought what seemed like hundreds of cases of bologna. Oscar Mayer. I don't remember it coming into the house, but I remember it leaving. Very slowly. A few months after we bought the meat, we came up on orders to move. This was usually one of my favorite times. We were not only permitted but encouraged to eat whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted it. Cookies? Eat it--we can't move with those! Beans? Make them for lunch because we need to get rid of them. The closer Moving Day became, the more of a smorgasbord dinner became. A table full of random, tasty morsels.

That year in middle school, though, we kids had forgotten about the bologna. We didn't eat it for awhile. When it came moving time, Mom told us that, among other foods, the bologna had to be eaten. Before that time, I loved bologna. I enjoyed its taste and the sandwiches appealed to me.

We ate bologna for what seemed like months. Baked, fried, sandwiches, cut up into dishes. It never stopped. Just as we thought we'd finished off the last package, another would appear. Secretly, I thought they were multiplying in the basement or something. My mother, not one to throw anything away (something I've now taken from her), continued to insist it get eaten. I have vivid memories of gagging on it in unison with my five brothers and sisters. This just happened to occur every time my mother would enter the room, who reminded us that it wasn't that bad. That, I believe, was the only time growing up that my mother used the starving children in China bit.

I will never forget when that last piece of bologna was eaten (after a brief, intense argument over who had to eat the piece of bologna) and the empty packaging was thrown away. We had eaten all the bologna. It was gone. We Smith kids still laugh about our Bologna exploits. While I can now stomach bologna again, it's not my preferred deli meat by far. And don't even think about frying it. Ew.

Pick your Poison

2010-07-22T19:23:00.005-04:00

I knew it was going to happen. We both did. We were told as much when HRC (human resources for the Army) requested my husband submit his next assignment "choices." (I say "choices" because that very use of the term is a bit of a joke in the Army. They send you where they need you. But, I digress.) I had decided I wasn't going to think about it--not until it was certain.

Then came the call. Richard had just visited the unit he's joining in September. He told me about the guy from college he knew in the unit, what the unit was doing. And then paused. He also told me where I'd be going in the unit, Richard told me. Two slots were open. Iraq in March; Afghanistan in May. Pick your poison.

Despite knowing this was coming, I had found myself deliberately praying he wouldn't have to go. But hope is a stubborn one. Now, I am pulling the deployment books out and trying to wrap my head around this whole idea. Admittedly, it doesn't seem real since we haven't transferred to the new unit and are knee deep in current training with this unit. He has no orders. So, that darned hope is still sitting way down there. But, I know.

Being a military brat, my experience doesn't extend quite this far. My father was Active Duty during a time of peace (except Desert Storm, where he was told after volunteering he was needed at home). The longest my father was absent was two months. I was five. I don't remember it.

Twelve months is a long time. It's not "we'll get by till he gets home." This will be living life while he's deployed. Big difference.

So, here we enter into an adventure I don't really care to join, but I must. It's an adventure I have no idea how to fight or what to expect. I fear the unknown. Only God knows what is in our future; only He knows what life has in store. I have a million questions about various aspects. What to do? What's going to happen? What does this entail? Slowly, they will be answered.

This will be a long journey. And it will be hard. Hard for Richard, for me, for Elizabeth. And hard for our family. But, we will prevail. There is no other option. We will stand. And we will fight. While life will be hard, I will stand strong behind my husband. I will hold down the home front. I will be vigilant for my soldier. Victory, for me, will come when my soldier returns home. And we will attain victory.

Meanwhile, Charlie Mike.

2010-07-01T15:14:00.002-04:00

There is so much going on in my life, constantly. My daughter, a mere seven months, is teething, chattering, clapping, crawling and now standing up. Not satisfied with these accomplishments (all attained within the last month), she's now trying to walk while holding onto us. Gone are the days of leaving her in one place, knowing I'll come back to her in the same place. Now, she'll cross the room in mere seconds.

My husband's work schedule is getting ready to be even crazier. He is Active Duty, but attached to a Reserve Unit and finishing up his Command. So, not only does he get to work the crazy schedule during the week, he is also required to show up once a month and two weeks (usually longer) in the summer and train. So, in a matter of days, we commence Annual Training--29 straight days of early mornings and late nights. I say "we" because it truly does affect both of us.

Following that, he finished up his Command, does the Change of Command, and transfers to a new unit. My husband will be joining 1st Cav here at Fort Hood, a unit scheduled to deploy early Spring. His hours will more than likely get crazier, since he's going to the Division headquarters, and we will be meeting a whole new set of people and starting over in some respects.

It's easy for me to get distracted by all of this. I tend to find myself dwelling on all of these things with a mixture of (mostly) excitement and (a little) apprehension (except the deployment. That's a whole different story). My mind is so easily drawn towards worrying, fretting, and planning that I totally forget where my focus should be. I was reminded today.

As I drove into Fort Hood to have lunch with my husband, I was chattering with my happy daughter. She was in a good mood, which was great! I love bringing her into the office when she's cheerful. While eating with my husband, I became so...joyful. The moment really brought happiness and pulled my crazy-active mind right back to where it should be. Here.

On the way home, I turned off the radio. I mentally looked heavenward and thought, "Thank you, Jesus, for my husband. Thank you, Jesus, for my daughter. Thank you, Jesus, for my family and for my friends. For my house, and my life, thank you, Jesus." All the crazy things in life are going to happen, or they aren't. But, whatever the outcome, I have to remember to focus on what God has given me in the present. I am getting ready to enter a busy few months, but God willing, I am going to work on shifting my focus back to here---back to my little family.

CHARLIE MIKE

2010-06-25T22:01:00.004-04:00

If I ever have twins (which are very common in my family history) and if they are boys, I will name the oldest Charlie and the youngest Mike. Anyone military-related will find that funny. I think it would be hilarious. CM, or Charlie Mike, is an acronyms in the military for Continue Mission. For military, this not only applies constantly to on-the-job duties, but it also becomes a way of life for their families.

I remember a week after returning from our honeymoon, my husband and I were driving across Fort Hood so I could get my military ID. While looking around at the familiar and homey barbed wire, and parade fields, I commented that this must be quite a culture shock for some new brides. I grew up Military, so marrying my husband wasn't a complete culture shock. I was confident that I knew it all. I would be fine. This was a smooth transition for me.

I was wrong. The military that my father proudly served in was quite different than the one today. There were no deployments, to speak of. While he was away often, we didn't go long periods without seeing him. So, while I have been able to operate on day to day duties, I am beginning to enter a culture shock of my own.

Deployment is always a possibility. In January, my husband was put on orders suddenly and told he was going to Haiti for six months. Within a week, his entire unit was prepared and practically walking out the door, only to be told to stand down. I still to this day think that week took ten years off my life. Reality slapped me in the face. I was in no way prepared for a deployment, emotionally or otherwise. I cried so many times when he wasn't looking, worrying over who was going to help me get through. How was everything going to get done. I knew I'd have to start educating myself and getting ready. It was inevitable. Charlie Mike. Now, a probable deployment is on the horizon for this Spring.

Richard and I have had a lot going on since we walked down the aisle. Life hasn't calmed down. While that has brought some blessings, like our honeymoon surprise daughter (and that was a huge surprise), life has brought us a great deal of Crosses, too. It seems as though just as life is beginning to feel calm and predictable, it turns upside down.

This rang all too clear for us when we found out we were pregnant with our second child. Only four months postpartum, I was in no way prepared for another baby. I called my mother crying, asking her how this happened. (Yes, I do know.) She comforted me as best she could. When I got off the phone, I looked at my husband. "What are we going to do?" Charlie Mike, was his response. And we did. I took the time I needed and began emotionally preparing myself for two. I told myself that I can handle anything if I am forced to. It's not a choice, it's a must.

When we lost our baby, I mourned and grieved, but I Continued Mission. I had to go on. For Elizabeth and Richard. It wasn't a choice, it was a must.

While Charlie Mike has always been a joke (honey, I forgot to thaw something--what now? Charlie Mike!) , this has become a way of life for me. I am no longer that scared young mother that stood in the nursery that cold January day, wondering who was going to change the garbage bag if I forgot when Richard left. I am now the military wife and mother who, when I have an armful of groceries and am holding my daughter while realizing the door is locked and my keys are in the purse, thinks "Charlie Mike, Adrienne." Figure it out, now. Practice.

I no longer worry about the deployment, wondering "Oh, God. How am I going to live 12 months like that?" or, "Who will help me?" Now, I acknowledge, "Bummer. But, we'll get through it." There will be hard times. I very well maybe brought to my knees some days. But, bring it. I am a military wife. When life gets tough now or during deployment, I might cry sometimes, I may whine at moments. But I will stand up each time, envision my husband's face, and Charlie Mike. Because he deserves it.

My Path

2010-06-06T11:09:00.004-04:00

I have to be honest, because I hate liars and imposters. The very act of lying to me is so atrocious and dreadful.

I am not strong. I am not amazing. I am not good. I merely am moving in the only direction I can. If I had a choice, I would not be walking this path; I would have gone running in another direction long ago. When the doctor got that horrible look on his face, I would have rung the bell and have chose a different outcome. Instead of what I truly saw, I would have chosen a living baby. I would be seventeen weeks along today. Kicking and activity would still be felt. I wouldn't know he was a boy.

To the world, I am composed, strong. I move through the day with that glass smile. Only one person can see beyond the farce. He knows. And he loves me anyway. I laugh when I am supposed to, tell my funny stories on cue, pretend to be lively when required. Inside, there's a different story.

Inside, I frown sometimes, I cry at moments. Inside, I feel weak, old, jaded, and bitter. I cannot pray. When I do, it's merely words, no emotions. No sense of Faith or belief. The conviction isn't there. At Mass, I don't feel the sweeping emotions of gratitude, happiness, connection with God. I feel empty.

I closed the door. I shut it hard. And locked it. Everything is contained in there. Sometimes, insensitive people have come and knocked in it, curious as to what happened. They ask horrible questions, demand to hear details. I have felt such hatred at those moments. Horrible. All-consuming, burning hatred that demands to be let out. I don't let anyone in all the way. I merely show them into the foyer, and we stay there. Everyone. And that is bad.

I have had people tell me I am strong. I am an inspiration. I don't know why. I am not. I am lost, blind, cold. I am searching for The Way, but cannot find it. I long for The Sight, but cannot place it. I yearn for The Warmth, but He doesn't seem to be here. I call out, wildly, desperately, but He does not hear. No one hears. So I sit. Waiting. Hurting. Sometimes hating.

I am not strong. I am a weak, faulted person. I had no choice but to continue walking this path that was chosen for me. I would have chosen another way; I would detour if given a choice. So, strong, inspiring, amazing, I am not.

I would like to know what people see in me that is inspiring. Amazing. Strong. I do not see it. Maybe because I am blind? Lost? Cold? In this giant, swirling blizzard of my life I stand calling out. In the noise and chaos, He doesn't hear. He hasn't come. Instead, He took my treasure from me and went far away.

Still, I stumble behind Him, groping in the darkness for some guidance. A branch, a word. I continue till I find it. Because this is my path. This is what was chosen for me.

2010-05-27T23:35:00.004-04:00

So, I went in there tonight. I started at her for a long time. I do that a lot. Especially lately. But, tonight, that wasn't enough. I needed her closer, so I gathered her into my arms and rocked her back and forth. She cried a little and found her thumb, quickly falling back to sleep.

I knew before that life was precious--invaluable. When I would hear that statement, I'd agree, only seeing one dimension. Now, I know that the statement is two fold. Yes, life is invaluable. But "precious" means more. Sensitive. Delicate Fragile.

As I held her tonight, I saw how small she is. How tiny. Her little mouth, sucking at nothing. Her closed eyes, dreaming. Her hands, no bigger than my palms. Her whole body and life fits into my arms. She's so sensitive. So delicate. So fragile. I knew before, in a happy way. How lucky I was and it made me happy. Now, I know how blessed I am, and it all scares me.

I am so lucky to have her. She makes it all ache so much less. Sometimes. She is a distraction during the day, keeping me very busy. Feedings, cuddles, entertaining, bathing, laughs. But at night, when she is sleeping and the dark creeps up, sometimes the ache comes back. I go in and watch her. I want to wake her up, play with her. Remind me I still have one life. Usually, I leave her be. Tonight, I needed her closer.

I suppose more gratitude can only be a good thing, even when tinged with sadness and fear. But with that jaded gratitude comes pain. Thankfully, when the pain sweeps in, I have her. I can hold her and love her. Her sheer innocence and happiness numb the pain a little, even if just for awhile.

2010-05-18T14:12:00.002-04:00

"Was this a planned pregnancy for you, ma'am?" She asked the question at my appointment following the miscarriage.

I laughed.

"No. Is there such a thing?" She didn't answer.

I suppose most women plan their pregnancies, carefully monitoring the intake of their pill. Are we ready for another, sweetie? No, not yet. Pop another pill.

I don't believe you can plan children. I know several women who have conceived while on the pill, during which their unborn child laughingly says, "Ready or not, Mommy, here I come." My daughter was not "planned" either. While I do not take any form of birth control, I wasn't exactly expecting to return from my honeymoon with a tag-a-long. I did. Less than two weeks after my honeymoon, I received the surprise of my life--a positive pregnancy test. I am sure I went through the slew of emotions any new mother does--fear, excitement, a sense of inadequacy. Very quickly, though, the fear dissipated and the excitement grew.

That was nothing, compared to the second pregnancy test that came back positive only three and a half months after my daughter's birth. There was a far greater fear, a much larger sense of inadequacy. Two children, twelve months apart almost to the day. I was headed for the loony bin, no doubt.

It took a few weeks longer, but the fear began to dissipate and I once again began to participate in that secret communion with my child. I was excited. I began picking out crochet patterns for baby blankets and clothes. My mother-in-law bought Baby its first pair of shoes. My own mother and I were planning ahead and making arrangements for various aspects. Another child, another blessing. But, the fear was still there. Was I going to be able to mother two children well? Was I going to fail them? Was one going to suffer at the cost of the other? I was terrified of wronging my children. But, oh the excitement!

Then the worst happened. I went in for a routine appointment, excited at hearing the heartbeat and seeing the wiggles. I never heard anything. The ultrasound screen lit up and I knew right away. While my husband smiled and pointed excitedly at our child, I was deathly quiet, watching the stillness of the body, the quiet of the chest. Nothing was there. I looked at the doctor's face. No happiness, no joy. Only concern and then regret.

My son is now in Heaven, rejoicing with the angels and saints. I know, as his mother, I should and do want nothing less than this. Perfection. Happiness. God. He deserves the best. And now he has it. Mary is taking care of my child until one day I can join him in paradise. God snuggles him at night until I am there to hold him close to me.

First, I fought the fear. Now, I fight the guilt. I spent so much time being afraid and scared that I wasn't able to be happy. Much of it uncontrollable, I still wish I'd been excited for longer. My son has taught me a valuable lesson. No child is planned by the mother or father. Children are a surprise, always. An immense blessing. God gives us souls when He sees we are ready, not when we deem ourselves ready.

Yes, they were close. Yes, people asked if we used birth control, said my husband and I needed more hobbies. Yes, I was afraid of people's reactions when we told them of the pregnancy. I now wish I hadn't been as fearful.

Next time, I will be proud, confident about the announcement, though it will come much later. I will not be afraid of a second blessing in my family. I will be so happy, so joyful. Because now, I know the other side. I know the alternative, one I would never have chosen. Most parents teach their children many lessons; I find my son has left me with many. He is still teaching me. I am still learning to understand.

2010-05-13T20:27:00.004-04:00

There are moments when my heart aches, starving for some sort of immaterial comfort. A giant, gaping hole of which I suddenly become aware, desperately wanting be filled with something. Soft. Comforting. But, I find nothing.

I went to Confession during The Wait. I told the priest that I couldn't talk to God, that I didn't even want to go to Church. He began telling me about pulses God's people go through--the ups and downs. I interrupted him, told him why. My baby had no heartbeat. But, I was still pregnant. I waited for the spiritual something. "I'm sorry. Please say five Hail Mary's." Matter of fact. Blunt. Harsh.

People tell me not to dwell on the images. They tell me I have a Saint in Heaven, someone I can pray to for help. At least I have Elizabeth to distract me, they offer joyously. I know they are thinking, thank God that hasn't happened to me. We all think that when we hear of other's tragedies. Thank God I'm not her. I wish I wasn't me, sometimes.

I looked at my husband last week and told him I felt as though I'd been living a gorey horror movie--one I couldn't escape and didn't know when it was supposed to end. In the middle of it all, life stopped. Time stood still as I stood in my bathroom doing something no mother should ever have to do. It wasn't right. That's not the way it was supposed to happen. Watching my husband cry over his lost child broke me more. The horror movie continued.

I'm sorry, they say. Call me if you need to talk. I can't. I can't talk because the details are so gross and so personal that I know poeple don't want to know. They don't need to know. So, I feel alone. I walk alone. I search for the comfort, still. Wondering where it is, wandering in search of it. Please, someone give it to me.

2010-02-16T19:38:00.002-05:00

Once the List is finished, I post it several prominent places where I am sure I will find it. This, of course, is only done once the List has been pondered over for weeks and scratched on paper, revised, and finally written the final time. I started this back in college, and found it to be the most ideal system.

This year's List of mortifications for Lent.

1. Clean up my language.
I have by no means a dirty mouth. However, I was recently wondering how old a child becomes before they understand their parents. I suddenly became aware that there are a few phrases and words I use that I wouldn't want my daughter using. If I want to be an example to her of purity both in action and word, I should attempt to be the best person possible in both areas. While I am pretty sure she cannot yet understand me, I acknowledge it's never too early to break a habit.

2. 30 minutes of Internet a day.
I have a very bad habit of whiling away great chunks of time on the internet. Elizabeth will go down for one of her two naps of the day. Feeling free and in need of relaxation, I turn to the computer. Before I know it, I have spent an hour or more chatting with friends, checking emails, Facebook-ing, and reading blogs. This, to me, is a dangerous habit--one I want to curb now.

3. Daily Schedule
I have always admired those in a religious community because their whole day is lived in a schedule. So, largely because of my tendency to waste time during Naptime, the most important time of my day, and the desire to live a more holy life, I have typed up a schedule for the weekdays. I must adhere to it, and through this I hope to gain more holiness in my own life.

4. Daily Prayer
I was getting so good about making sure prayer was a daily part of my day after Elizabeth was born. However, I have found myself failing miserably the last couple of weeks. So, in light of this, I will place prayers and prayer books at the places I usually give Elizabeth her bottle so that I may use this time to pray.

5. Work out 3 times a week.
I had a baby. I need some time for myself, something I am terrible about making. I have found that in making time for myself during the day, I am a better wife and mother.

6. Mass once a week.
This will be quite a challenge, with a young baby. But, God willing, I will be able to make Mass once a week.

So, I pray this Lent will be transforming for me. I desperately need to be a stronger wife and mother and am hoping, through these mortifications, that I will be able to do so. God help me.

2010-01-29T22:26:00.008-05:00

It's only been a week since this whole frustrating situation started, and yet I feel like a completely transformed person.

A week ago, on Thursday January 21st, my husband was told he was very possibly shipping off to Haiti within a week's time. Life, as we knew it, became chaos. We canceled two flights to Georgia and I spent the ensuing days and a great deal of money frantically shopping for my husband's departure. He was, meanwhile, putting in very late hours at work, not coming home until nine at night.

On Sunday the 24th, Richard's unit 7-158 Aviation Reserve Unit officially mobilized, calling all soldiers to report to Ft. Hood. These orders included those soldiers who flew in from faraway states on their own dime. Everyone dropped a great deal of money buying new and necessary uniforms and equipment, once again paying out of their pockets.

The next day, they were put on lockdown, told to report at 8 am and not leave the Army installation until the unit shipped out to Haiti. In twelve hours, the soldiers had to get rid of apartments and rental homes, move their belongings into storage, drop out of college, give up potential jobs, and, in some cases, find long term care for their children. Some were forced to extend their service another year, since their tour of duty was nearly complete. Simultaneously, they had to report back to Ft. Hood. Soldiers were panicking and upset.

Each day, for me, was a struggle initially. As I went through waves of intense, gut-wrenching fear and terror at being left with a nine week old infant to moments knowing all would work out, I felt for the first time very grown up. I knew, regardless of how unappealing the situation was, that Richard and I had to do this. This was his job, his commitment and I was completely supportive of that. I knew this would force me to mature and grow in ways I had yet to do. I couldn't walk around the fire, I knew. I had to go through it. And I didn't want to turn back.

On Friday the 29th, Richard's unit was told to stand down; they were not going to Haiti. Initially, one would assume I'd be rejoicing. Actually, I was quite upset. A six-month deployment was far better than a twelve month deployment. He would have gone to a place desperately needing help and had been looking forward to that. I had come so far in coming to peace with the situation. The soldiers had come far and given up their lives to deploy.

Many of these soldiers now have no job, no home to return to. Everyone spent a great deal of money, for which they will not be reimbursed, to prepare. Military families emotionally and practically geared up for the deployment. I, quite frankly, find this infuriating. Will the soldiers be reimbursed their money? No. Will the Army provide them a new living place and job? No. These fine young men and women, who literally gave their all before even leaving, are let go without any support. The military families are reeling, still, from the last week.

In light of this, I will be writing my congressmen, that these men and women at least get financially reimbursed. I encourage you all to do the same. In my opinion, this situation was gravely mishandled. Men and women were treated with complete disrespect. These are the people who defend our country and keep it free. While we sleep on beds tonight under the warm covers, there will be soldiers who will be searching for just that. When you return to the job on Monday, remember those who will be beginning to search. I pray for the soldiers of the 7-158. I hope they get their lives back.

2010-01-24T20:49:00.004-05:00

Right now is a time of huge upheaval for my little family. My husband (as previously posted) is deploying to Haiti within the week. We have less than a week's notice and he'll be gone six months. He is being detained at work until at least 9:30 every night, practically eliminating any quality time with his daughter. We still have no idea when exactly he's leaving--could be tomorrow, could be a few days from now, could be next week.

So, I try all day to keep it together. I moments of disbelief, when none of this seems real. The military regulation items sitting on the den floor seem to be stuff Richard wants to remember to take to work (a common habit of his that works). The long hours at work are just temporary due to training his soldiers. Then there are moments when it hits me...hard. I have to stop, breathe very deeply and choke back tears. I am going to be left with an infant, a major adjustment I was still making. I will be forced to live without my best friend for six months. All the help he is (so much!) and the sweet favors he does without being asked will be my responsibility. I am terrified.

But, I am going to try, each day, to name one good aspect that occurred during that 24 hours. Before I turn out my light at night, I will make myself find one good thing, even small, that happened during the day. Maybe less fusses from Elizabeth. Or I was unually peppy during the day. Or, I didn't spill something. I must believe that there will be good through all this bad and hopefully cultivating this habit will aid me in seeing the bigger picture.

Meanwhile, I will just keep telling myself to breathe while I plead for strength.

2010-01-22T15:53:00.005-05:00

"Whole world could change in a minute..." a country song warbles. How true this is. I am astonished in the changes that have occurred in my life in the last year. I finished planning my Wedding, got married, found out I was pregnant, and had a baby. All wonderful blessings, I would not deny that New Year's also found me praying that 2010 would be a calmer year. That my husband and I could enjoy our new life together at home. Together. At Home.

Then, God decided.

We made the reservations on Christmas Eve. I couldn't wait. My grandparents weren't able to come to my Wedding, due to my grandmother's current battle with breast cancer. I haven't seen them in six years. We've kept in touch letter-writing since I was in the fourth grade. They, more than anyone in my whole life had known my hopes, dreams, fears, and worries. They knew my friends names through school, my drive to do well in everything especially academics, and my ultimate dream of becoming a writer. When I met my husband, he became a frequent topic in our letters and I strongly wished that they all would someday meet.

I had spent the previous nights packing for the three of us and on the phone with relatives, describing our excitement and reviewing plans for then ensuing vacation.We drove to Austin the night before our flight to Georgia and spent the night with friends. At 8:30 that night, our whole world changed, in one minute. The Colonel called. We had to turn back and go home; Richard was on the preliminary list for deploying to Haiti, possibly within a week and a half. We cancelled our flight, woke up early the next morning and hit the road.

I drove so he could field phone calls from soldiers and commanders. He had his blackberry on speaker as they called the names and socials of soldiers who were pulled from the possible list to the definite list. "Captain. Stravitsch, Richard..." While my back stiffened, my heart sank. He was going.

Since then, life has been a whirlwind of planning, preparing, and packing at work and home. The last two days I have been running around town getting items for Richard. A four-way Cross, postcard already stamped. A journal. Today, snacks. Lots of them. He's been at work for hours every night. Last night, he came home at 9:30, after Elizabeth was asleep, and spent the rest of the evening showing little household things I'd always depended on him to finish.

Questions race through my mind. Who's going to empty the trash can in the Nursery while I am going crazy with the baby? Richard's always done that, without ever having to be asked. Who will remind me to water the plants and then chuckle when I've forgotten for the third time that week? Who will help me with Elizabeth in the evenings when I've had a really rough day with her? Who will remind me to turn off the her swing when I take her out? Who will laugh with me and help me in my tears?

I am scared. I have a nine week old baby and will be running a household alone. He will be in a country far away, helping souls devastated by tragedy. For at least a few weeks, we possibly may not even be able to communicate.

In one year. Life changes within minutes, seconds. I don't know what the next six months will bring. I do know, however, that I am suddenly aware of what a weak, faulted human being I am. I will learn much. To depend on myself. That I am a strong woman. Capable. And I will learn humility. "Please help me" will probably continue to fall from my lips, just as I learned this after childbirth.

I pray for prayers. I hope for hope. I worry for Richard. God, though, will keep His mighty hand over my little family, spread over the globe. He never gives us more than we can handle. I keep telling myself that. Hopefully, I can remember to do the same after next week.

2010-01-13T00:35:00.002-05:00

Sometimes, at complete random, I stop during the day and try to remember where I was a year prior. What was I doing? What life events were swirling around in my life and what emotions were tumbling through me? Today, while spit-up splatted on the floor, a very dirty diaper found its way to the trash can, a bloody scratch to the face wreaked havoc on the bassinet and and Mommy's heart, and screams escalated through the house all day, I tried to remember what I was doing this time last year. Then, it came to me.

Around this time last year, I was preparing for marriage. With about a month left, I was quickly wrapping up the many details involved, watching my mother as she finished sewing my wedding dress, and was attending two bridal showers so lovingly thrown in my honor. I flew to Virginia for one of them. I was so humbled by the number of friends who had put aside their Saturday to celebrate with me. The afternoon was filled with gifts, compliments, advice, and, of course, jokes. My girlfriends teased me the entire afternoon, prophesying about my "honeymoon baby." I set them straight, making them aware we were not going to have a honeymoon baby. "We need time to settle into our new lives." "Richard and I are going to wait a few months before we get pregnant." No, they laughed. You're going to be calling us right after the honeymoon, announcing your pregnancy. I laughed...so did God.

A year later, and my little house is filled with baby things. A high chair peers at me from across the kitchen. The bouncer and portable mobile on loan from my very generous sister-in-law stand proudly in the den, where they are used frequently during Elizabeth's three o'clock playtime. Richard's weight room was emptied and transformed for a little person who now sleeps in there. I laughed a year ago. Today, I pray and love.

I am not the same person I was before November 19th, 2009. I don't think any woman who grows and delivers a child can be left unphased by that miracle. At the same time, I have more confidence in myself than ever before yet am constantly shaken to the core when I gaze at my child. She is my little person--on loan to me from God. A precious, empty book I am to fill with love and Faith. Everyday is guesswork and, with difficulty, each day is also begun and ended with fervent, fearful prayer for her and for me.

A year ago, I lived in an apartment alone and slept in my own bed. Today, I live in a house again, and share a bed with my best friend. Twelve months ago, I was free, young. Now, I am shackled with responsibility and don't quite feel so youthful anymore. Last January, I laughed at the possibility of childrearing, but secretly prayed God would be so good to me. This New Year, I have learned not to laugh or fear, but to trust, a lesson I re-learn constantly.

As different as life is now, I would never go back. I live for each day and the lessons and experience it might bring. Responsibility, not freedom, has become a true blessing in my life. The reality of children lies sleeping in my bedroom in her tiny bassinet and I acknowledge quite soberly how possible life is.

I cannot help but wonder where life will find my family and me in a year. Some things are certain, like military business. Other things are unknowns, too far in the future to speculate. Regardless, I know that laughing at reality and possibilities are only masks of fear sometimes. But, when that reality arrives, it can truly be the biggest blessing of all.

Motherly Epiphany

2009-12-30T19:52:00.003-05:00

Less than one week was all it took for my life to drastically change forever. Though I had no idea for a few days, I began to have a sneaking suspicion earlier than most would believe. I gave my hand in marriage and, within the week, was carrying life. I remember flying home from our honeymoon writing in my diary, "I wonder if I am pregnant!" and then laughing at the thought. But, on March 12th, I recieved the biggest shock of my life: a positive pregnancy test. I had been married such a short time that my gut reaction was, "My parents are going to kill me!" But, quickly, I adjusted to the idea and grew excited.

Because of our honeymoon surprise, pregnancy was the norm for our marriage. Married life was synonymous with being pregnant. Queasiness, baby kicks, a growing belly, preparing for the birth of a child--it all was what we shared as husband and wife from the beginning.

I thought I had figured out life. See husband off to work, clean house, do shopping, greet husband coming home from work, cook dinner, relax. Be a wife. End of story. Weekends were our time, two days I relished beyond description. We would sleep in till nine, wake up, I would make a fresh breakfast and we would have the day to ourselves. We traveled, visited family, and came and went as we pleased. Of course, we had the sinking realization that our days living this lifestyle were numbered. But, what we acknowledged even further was that they had been numbered from the outset.

My daughter was born and I find myself feeling at times inadequate and completely unprepared for motherhood. I am up at all hours of the night, rise early in the morning and live my life completely centered around a child. Diaper changes, feedings, burpings, naps, the cycle then repeats itself. I have been attempting to recover from childbirth, one that was particulary difficult since it lasted over seventy hours, since our little family came home from the hospital and am still not my "old self." I am a person that, if my schedule is thrown off, I felt I have lost all control. Elizabeth didn't throw any schedule off; she completely destroyed it. And that has made me, at times, feel like a total failure.

It's been weeks since I have cooked a meal for my husband. I struggle getting him a decent breakfast of eggs in the morning. His lunch is made in time for him to leave for work, but only barely. I had visions of baking this Holiday Season, visions which were never realized.

In the first weeks of life as a mother, I waited for it. The Epiphany. My mother knew all: how to set up a feeding schedule, the signs of colick and hunger, when it was appropriate to feed the baby a little early, and when to increase her formula amount. She made it all sound so easy: combining the role of wife with that of Mother. I would stand there, in total awe. When would the Knowledge of Motherhood occur to me? Please spare me your laughs. Maybe it was drug-induced or the cause of complete physical and emotional exhaustion, but I expected all the Knowledge of Motherhood to finally dawn on me. I just knew the bouts of complete self-doubt and inadequacy, realized in occasional episodes of full-on sobs, would end in the sudden epiphany of the knowledge my mother knew so well.

Then, one day, it hit me. I was snatching one of those five minute showers only a mother could truly appreciate, contemplating how much life had changed and once again marveling at my mother's knowledge. Then, the epiphany came, but not the one for which I had been waiting. Rather, I suddenly realized with a sinking feeling that this infusion of Motherly Wisdom would not come because there was no such thing. The only reason my mother seemed to know everything about newborns was only because she had already experienced that stage. For me, it was all guesswork. My mother had her own guesswork as she is currently living with two teenage daughters still at home. Everday of motherhood will be a series of guesses; I will never know it all.

With this simultaneously comforting and horrifying thought, I understand that all I can do now and each day is pray I am making the right choice, saying the right word, making the right decision for my children. In moments of doubt and question, I can fly to my Father, seeking His wisdom and help. That is all that I am expected to ever know. But, the thought of ignorance is terrifying, too.

Each time my daugther looks up into my eyes with those incredibly innocent, peering eyes of her own, I feel so incredibly inadequate and unsure of myself. Here is this soul, lent to me from God, expecting me to know everything and always have the right answer to all her problems. I cannot fault her. Until recently, I expected the same of my own mother. I now understand that she is only guessing herself. Someday, when Elizabeth is grown and holding her own child, she will tearfully reach for the phone and call me. I will be in bed, about to turn out the lights in my own home. She will beg me for answers. All I will do is look heavenward and pray to tell her the right thing.

Right now, however, I will attempt to begin and end each day with a prayer. I will find solace, comfort, and help in my Father. I will look to my earthly mother for suggestions, not expecting solid answers. In my Heavenly mother, I will look to her life, attitude, and maternal wisdom. Somehow, God willing, I will send my children forth into their vocations as successful, faith-filled persons. They will, I know, return to me for help and comfort. I will give it freely, for I will remember a time when I was a young parent and felt lack of knowledge. Eventually, they too will have the same parental Epiphany I did. And, like their mother, they will carry on, with Faith and Hope.

My Best Friend

2009-11-16T20:26:00.001-05:00

I remember being shocked when my professor made the statement to the class in college. "Your best friend is actually someone of the opposite sex." Maybe it was because I'd never been in a relationship; maybe I was surprised because I was only just making real friends for the first time. Whatever it was, I adamantly disagreed with him at first. The girls who were accepting me and with whom I was forming deep, permanent friendships were kind and open to me. It was a long time before I fully understood what my professor was saying.

Women understand women; we can commiserate, empathize though only in certain aspects. Only the opposite sex, however, can fill the void, replace what's lacking in you. I learned that fact slowly through out college, as I came to understand people and life. However, it wasn't until I met my husband that I came to completely understand. While women can understand you, he completes me.

After having spent the last nine months learning to be married and preparing for motherhood, I am still so surprised, daily, how incredibly blessed I am. As I struggle daily to be a better person, a good wife, and ready myself to be a parent, he is so patient and kind. Supportive and constant, his love never falters. He instills in me a desire to keep improving myself, in solid and practical ways. I watch him, stunned by his kindness to others, his quiet strength, his constant willingness to help out anyone however he can.

There are romantic moments, where he sweeps me into his arms or dances across the living room with me. These moments, I find myself holding him, thinking, "Thank you, Jesus." There are other moments when, while sitting in the doctor's office waiting patiently, he never questions me. Then there are the real moments, sitting at dinner goofing off in the middle of a restaurant like we are twelve again. Laughing so hard, people are staring at us, I think how grateful I am for this man who has come into my life and promised to stay there. This person who has made me life so full of joy.

As we prepare together to be parents, I know that he will aid me daily in my goal to be the best wife and mother I can be. Just when I need it, I know he'll sweep me into his arms and hold me close. Just as I can't take another night of crying, he'll sit up with me and never question or complain. When life seems to be unbearable or incredibly heavy, he'll keep me laughing.

I look so forward to each new day with this incredible man. This man who inspires me, challenges me, loves me. After years of searching and praying, here he is. Such an incredible man, amazing husband, sure to be a wonderful father. I really have found that person, though at times this seems unbelievable. The one who not only understands me, but completes me. Who not only accepts me, but calls to me. The man who not only likes me, but truly loves me. I really have found my Best Friend. Thank you, Jesus.

Divine Secret of Motherhood

2009-11-02T21:13:00.003-05:00

Life is lived in chapters, filled with ups and downs, crosses and blessings. Childhood. Junior High. High School. College. As I stared out onto the silvery lake this evening, I suddenly became aware that one Chapter is my life is getting ready to permanently close while a very permanent and foreign one is about to open.

Young women always look to their mother during practically every stage of their lives. Despite all the shared moments, a mother always has one thing on their daughter--their motherhood. Then that special time of motherhood arrives and, suddenly, it seems as though they share a divine secret. A Chapter they both can share with each other.

My life has always been about me. Even following marriage, I can come and go with my husband as we please. Dinner can be early or late and we can throw our suitcases in the car on a moment's notice to be whisked away on a vacation. Nothing was ever holding me back nor weighing on my mind. I am suddenly cognizant that this is going to change. We are not getting a dog, who can be put in the kennel nor will this precious life be with us for a few months or years. This person will be mine for the rest of my life. Worries, joys, happiness, all will be focused on my child.

It moves within me, squirming sometimes and other times just slip-sliding around slowly but deliberately. I am most aware of the humanity growing within me at these moments. In a matter of weeks, I will be holding that child and will be a forever changed person. I cannot imagine that, after looking into the face of your child, a woman is ever the same she was before. Life will forever be altered.

Yet, I feel the anticipation of a child--all the Christmases in my life taken and wrapped into one. I am living my own Advent, and am taking great inspiration from the Blessed Mother. Waiting on her own Little One, she quietly pondered on the great Change within her. I so rarely share with anyone the thoughts that roll through my head through out the day, only taking them to Mary and quietly smiling as we share a moment of the divine secret of motherhood.

I am sure I will feel a tie with my earthly mother as well as my Heavenly Mother following the birth of my child. I cannot wait to wrap it in the tiny blankets and hold it close to me, to watch my husband hold it close and look down at his offspring. Visions of holding my little one at Mass or gently placing it in the bassinet makes me deeply excited.

As this current chapter closes, finishing up days of self-fulfillment and a freedom of responsibility, and the new one begins that contains complete self-abandonment and motherly fulfillment, I pray to remain selfless. I hope I always remember to put my children and husband before me and, through this loving and serving vocation, obtain salvation for my family. I pray, more than anything, to be a good and loving mother, always full of kind words and prayers for my little family. May we always be a model of the Holy Family.

From Dark Moments, Great Blessings

2009-09-30T14:34:00.003-04:00

While preparing for marriage, people offered a great deal of advice and commentary, some of it not exactly welcome. Out of the plethora of statements and suggestions, one seemed to be most frequent especially from veteran married couples. "Marriage is hard sometimes. But, with lots of love, even the hard moments are beautiful and make you stronger." Naturally, I envisioned couples bitterly fighting late into the night, wondering if their marriage would last. Not I, would cross my mind. I realize now, that's not necessarily what they meant.

This last week saw a great joy followed very quickly by a great tragedy in my husband's and my life. Tuesday, we received a phone call that Richard's brother Chris and his wife Sarah had had their second child several days early. Sophia was healthy and fine, and could we come down and help watch Eden, their oldest son? Of course. A darling, bubbly child, Eden is a joyful two year old boy that we love to be around. Richard took leave, we packed, and hit the road within a few hours to spend the night. We arrived at the hospital and, as I was holding little Sophia, realization and nervousness hit me that my own little one, squirming in my abdomen, would arrive soon and I'd be holding my own. We all smiled around the new life and the happiness of Eden as he met his new little sister. Truly, God's joy was almost tangible in the room.

Then, the call came. Richard's stepped into the hallway and we heard the distress in his voice. We caught snippets of the conversation and faces became serious, emotions fell. He got off the phone to tell us that his and Chris's mom was in ICU and in very serious condition. Minds processed the information, emotions fell severely and, in a moment, wives were holding husbands as they broke down.

We left for Houston the next morning and spent the next few days with Richard's father and next to his mother's bedside. Not one to enjoy watching people suffer, it pained me more than words could describe to see his mother in that state. Tubes, wires, and machines were everywhere and she looked so flat. Prayers were said, tears shed, and encouraging words offered to a woman in a coma.

In one flash of a moment, I understood what all those couples meant. They weren't necessarily citing fighting and tension. As I looked into the broken face of my husband one night last week, fear overtook me--a fear that seemed to cut into my heart and lungs at the same time--we threw ourselves into each other's arms. We could not be strong alone--we were strong only together. He told me later that week, "I couldn't have done this without you. It's so much easier to be strong with you here." I don't know what I did or said, but apparently my prayers of being his support were answered. I had felt sadly inadequate the entire time.

We are home now, still living by the phone and email for updates and making decisions a family. Prayers still are being said and occasional tears still fall. We are beginning a long road and I can't see as I look out. I still am watching my husband suffer deeply--a personal hell for any wife. But, day by day, Richard and I stand by each other. We hold each other and support each other. One day at a time. That is all that can be expected right now.

One blessing, through all the sadness and Crosses right now, can be acknowledged. This tough, painful time is strengthening our marriage more than I think I can even realize. I see us growing incredibly closer, spiritually, emotionally, and physically. I remember learning that while God does not will us to suffer, He always brings good out of it. Praise God for this Goodness. While this wouldn't have been my chosen method, I am thankful for the strength and humility this is infusing in our marriage. So, those married couples know what they are saying. Life can be so tough. But, when this chapter concludes, the strenght, humility, and beauty added to our marriage will truly be a blessing from God.

2009-09-11T11:30:00.002-04:00

I'm leaning against the wall, staring at it. Somehow, I feel as though this will help the reality sink in all that much faster. The walls around it have been painted subtle neutrals and the pictures and decor are ready to be hung. All around it, change seems almost to be tangible.

I remember my mother's, white and small yet so grown up, resplendent with its ruffles and skirt that stretched gracefully to the ground. I had one, too, though mine was much smaller and far less resplendent. I used to gently lay my babydolls inside, much like I'd seen my mother do with my little siblings, practicing for the day I'd have my own bassinet someday. Those days seemed far away, cloudy and surreal.

Of all the items my husband and I have been purchasing for our child, the bassinet seems to make it most surreal. The spare room was cleared out and cleaned; we were doing some Spring Cleaning. The paint went up; we were doing home improvement. The bassinet arrived; time has frozen. That very item will sit at my bedside, holding my most valuable and delicate possession in this life. I will pick my child up from that tiny sleeping area and lay him or her back inside to rest. As beautiful and romantic as my little wicker bassinet seems, there is a reality that has arrived with it that has me realizing how little time I have left.

I am going to be a mother. These words, still, seem laughable. For months, I have felt the flutters then kicks and movements of my child. I have watched my middle grow forward, while it nourished a growing life. I have begun wearing clothes with giant panels and flowing middles. I've laughed and cried over sonograms and heartbeats. And still, the reality of me as a mother seems...large. I have two months left to prepare for the coming of my child. I feel as though I will never get everything I need done and yet am perfectly aware most of it doesn't matter. My child will enter this world with or without bassinet or crib sheets. He or she will come home from the hospital whether or not I have finished crocheting yet another baby project. This preparation is not my main concern.

I am acutely cognizant that I will be holding a child's life and soul in my hands. Anything I say and do can shatter or affirm my child. In carefully or carelessly chosen words, I am the first to impact my child's sense of worth and value. By my loving or empty actions, My child will feel infinitely valued or finitely worthless. As a mother, I will introduce my child to the Man who lent him or her to me. I will be responsible, first and foremost, in cultivating a love in my child for this Man. And should I fail, I will be responsible.

This young, tiny life rolling and squirming inside me has no idea how much its already truly and deeply loved. Tears have come and laughs exploded on empty ears at home, when I feel its body move about inside. I've seen feet project from my side and a head roll around my abdomen. I love my baby. I cannot wait to hold it and love it everyday for the rest of my life.

Until then, I will prepare. Yes, I will buy the sheets and hopefully finish the crochet projects. But, more importantly, I will continue to spiritually prepare myself for the beautiful servitude that is motherhood. Days spent with teething wails and nights up with high fevers will, God help me, be used solely for the salvation of my growing little family. Repeated statements and requests for obedience, God willing, will stem from patience and love. I desire to be a good mother, with a happy family. While I don't know how all this will end, I know how all good things begin: with God. He has and will continue to give me the strength and courage to face this daunting, beautiful task.

True Love in Life

2009-08-04T22:25:00.004-04:00

The beauty of the Eucharist holds me awestruck every Sunday. Feeling undeserving and humble, I crawl forward towards the priest to receive my Lord and my God, and feel so free and joyful as I walk to my pew afterward. Once a week, I become one with Our Lord, bonding with Him body and soul. I have come to realize, through an expensive liberal arts education and my own experience that this is the draw of true Love--the desire to become one with another.

As a married woman, I see daily the beauty behind my true Love for my husband, as well. When he has down days, I try to be more cheerful, cooking him a better meal, cleaning the house a little longer, or giving him extra hugs and kisses. I am blessed to say the same about him. With pregnancy, when I don't feel beautiful, he showers me with compliments, wonderful gazes, and extra embraces. When I am cranky, he is so kind and patient until I am myself again. We advise each other through our faults and vices and praise each other through the virtues. Truly, I find our personalities and their facets like puzzle pieces. Praise God for this.

More so, though, I find when we are lying next to each other in the middle of the night or during a movie, this is not close enough. I want to be as close as possible, but know that any given proximity will never be enough. Fulton Sheen phrased this lofty idea perfectly, saying that love is a complete giving of one's self into another. While we petty human beings rely mainly on our senses, some of blessed few know there is reason and the soul that soar far higher than any touch or taste, above any sight or scent. While I can never physically get as close as my senses would desire, I know that our souls have been forever fused as one through the Sacrament of Marriage.

Through this ultimate one-ness of marriage, we are blessed to be expecting life. Here, too, I find the beauty of love--a beauty men will never understand. I am one with my child. In my body there is another life being sheltered, nourished, and grown. As my sister-in-law once aptly put it, "two souls in one body." Truly, this is similar to receiving the Eucharist each Sunday, when I am with Jesus in one body.

I find similarities here, as well. Nothing whets my appetite more quickly for the glories and beauty of Heaven than receiving the Eucharist. I am never more excited about, God willing, achieving my Eternal Salvation than when I am kneeling in prayer after Holy Communion. At times, the beauty of being so close to Christ and yet feeling so far away from He and his glory brings me to tears.

Pregnancy is similar to this seemingly inadequate proximity to my husband and the transitory one-ness of the Eucharist. For the only time in my young child's life, I am truly and physically Loving my child. We are one. This tiny, darling child squirming inside of me is closer to me than my husband ever will be. This blessed child's presence inside of me is lasting far longer than that of the Eucharist each Sunday. Yet, in this situation, I find a yearning to distance my child from me only to see, touch, feel, smell him or her. Oh, what irony! I have a mere fifteen weeks left in this pregnancy. Though, God willing, I pray to be pregnant again with several more children, this one is unique. I will never be one again with this particular child.

I see myself in the months and years following the birth of this blessing, yearning once again to pull my child closer, hold him or her nearer. Visions of lying next to my bundle of life, my arms around it, still happily unsatisfied at how seemingly far my child is--these serve as constant reminders to adore every moment of my pregnancy. For nine short months, I have been blessed to be completely one with my child. I hope to never take advantage of this time, to wish it over so soon. I relish every movement, every moment, acutely aware that they are bringing me that much closer to the joyful separation from my child, if only physically.

I love Love! Praise God for this wonderful gift which He gives so freely and in so many ways. Through each, I have learned the power and service that comes with Love, the draw and the seeming inadequacy that this gift brings. May I always be burdened with that incompleteness, only so that this may serve as encouragement and motivation to keep me seeking the Completeness in His Glory

There's Someone There!

2009-07-29T21:39:00.002-04:00

I confess that there are days when I don't shower and dress until the afternoon. I get so busy doing housework and catching up on tasks around my house, I look at the clock only to realize that it's two o'clock in the afternoon. Fortunately, I no longer forget to eat; I have a growing, energetic alarm clock inside of me reminding me I am no longer nourishing only myself.

Today was one of those late days. Three o'clock rolled around before I ran to the shower. I have a reason--the massive monster known as Laundry. I spent the day finishing what has been doing cycles through my washer and dryer the last two days. I finally conquered the task, along with many other items on my to-do list. I felt I had a successful day and sat on the couch for fifteen minutes of relaxation time.

The last two days, my child has been moving almost constantly. Today was no exception. I have felt, finally, movements simultaneously all over my abdomen and am suddenly cognizant of how large this baby is getting. What a wonderful feeling to sense a pushing on my sides. But, what caught me by surprise this afternoon was the lumps and bumps coming out of my abdomen for seconds at a time. Looking down, I could see where hands and feet where pushing my abdomen out. I was, admittedly, brought to tears.

There really is someone there. Rest assured I have not forgotten that aspect. However, I become more acutely aware each day of the child--the human being--my husband and I made that is growing inside of me. I can't see him or her directly, but what energy and life it has already.

I suppose that is the beauty of it: the life my child is already displaying, though some would argue he or she has no life. I would disagree. We say an energetic person is "full of life." My little bundle of energy is no exception. I am awakened at night by the somersaults and jumping jacks. I am moved to giggles almost constantly when my little one begins to dance. Action. Movement. Life.

Praise God for this little life rolling and tumbling about inside of me. Oh, the joy and jubilation that comes from one poke, prod, or kick. The sheer happiness that comes from the squiggles and squirms. Yes, there is life being sheltered in my abdomen. In my body, there is someone there.

Joys of Pregnancy

2009-06-24T20:00:00.001-04:00

I had started dinner just before my husband arrived home from work. Squatting down to get a glass casserole out from under a cabinet, I felt it. Mistaking it for a kick or a poke from the inside from my child, I placed my hand gently against my lower abdomen. The pressure neither subsided nor felt like a poke. I realized what this was. I am not sure if the pressure came from a head or foot, but some appendage of my unborn child was pushing against my side.

When I first announced my pregnancy, many people told me how much they despised being pregnant. These people said they could not see the beauty other women saw in the nine months of what they compared to torture. I've heard this attitude constantly, even while growing up. For this reason, I could not understand why my mother said the best times of her life were when she was expecting one of us six children. Pregnancy had been made as this uncomfortable, painful nine months that one endured for the sake of a child.

I now understand my mother. I don't know how people can despise being pregnant. I have never felt so fulfilled as a woman, never experienced such a culmination of what I was designed to do. I am truly living out the vocation I committed myself to. I promised, four short months ago, to lay down my life in every way possible for my husband and our children. My body is no longer my own, my abdomen no longer the sleek figure I worked so hard for prior to my Wedding. But, I am growing a human life.

For years, I have struggled to grow close to Mary, mother of God. Meditations and prayers, readings and Scripture study left me at a barrier. Frustrated, I continued to try. As an expectant mother, I finally understand the identity and beauty behind Mary. I understand and can relate to "pondering it in her heart." Nothing has ever filled me with greater joy than carrying a human life that my husband, my God, and I made. This joy is one that is indescribable. She has on her face the same expression of quiet joy that I have seen on many expectant mothers who understand that same beauty, as though it were a secret. I always wanted that secret. It looked like it tasted of the sweetest fruit imaginable. I know that secret now. I hold one inside of me.

I love my baby. I keep telling my child that. "Oh, if only you could know how much I love you." I feel so undeserving of this true, unadulterated joy. I pity men that they never experience pregnancy. I relate to Mary's firm, but unknowing Fiat. I could never have seen myself as a mother, but I am not turning down this God-given opportunity. Fear is dominated by confidence, Self-doubt conquered by God's grace.

I pray the next twenty-one weeks of my family's Advent pass slowly. I relish every moment of sensation from the Little One, and love feeling each movement gain strength. Too, I pray that this time of preparation is spiritually fruitful. I am preparing to be a mother, with all the kicks, pokes, and hiccups that come with this time. I know already, I will sorely miss being pregnant, but will love when my baby's Christmas comes.

On the Other Side of the Screen

2009-06-17T17:06:00.003-04:00

I have no excuse. According to society, I fit the description. I am in the appropriate generation. I frequently check my electronic mail daily and love a good instant messaging chat. I have a cell phone on which I make phone calls and send occasional texts. I recently acquired a portable music player and have taught myself how to download music from my CD's to the device.

I am still, however, somewhat of a misfit. I prefer to send a long, hand-written letter rather than an email. I will place a phone call before I text. I have no idea how to use iTunes nor have I ever been on their site. And I am sure that, while I used Facebook frequently, I have no idea of half the features it offers.

Case in point. Recently, I was communicating back and forth with a person concerning an upcoming event. Not sure if my husband and I were able to attend, I sent an email (for which I would rather have done one mass phone call) and began deliberating on our RSVP status. The person requested via email that I call her, but did not include her number. I was perplexed. I was sure I did not have her number and was unsure how to obtain it. After a few days of fruitless searching and an out of town, Internet-less trip, I had yet to call her. As such, she sent me an email, angered I had not placed the phone call. I wrote her back and explained that I did not have her number, but remembering to include mine.

I was away from my phone when she called, but she left a long voicemail wondering why I had not gone through a mutual friend to get the phone number or had not looked on her profile page on Facebook to get her number. Phone numbers are on Facebook?! I was so surprised. I had no idea a person could publish their address and phone number on Facebook. Furthermore, why would I call a mutual friend, only to request the phone number for another person?

I miss the days of phone calls and letters, when people communicated in one long conversation rather than sporadic emails where miscommunication is both very possible and quite prevalent. As as society, I believe we have become too busy with technology to remember there is a person behind that computer or cell phone. As such, we forget to spend the needed time just talking, catching up on life's ups and downs. I know that my generation, not to mention the generation following, are the biggest perpetrators. However, there are a few of us, though we seem to fit the profile, who are still just as confused and perplexed by the new technology and its unestablished etiquette.

I will continue to learn through unintended trial and error. However, I will obstinately remain an old-fashioned misfit. My lengthy letters and simple phone calls will continue. I will continue on Facebook, but will not let this become my primary form of communication. I know, as technology continues to advance, I will become both more updated, but also more stubborn in my ways. I have no problem learning new things, but I refuse to forget the humanity on the other side of the screen.

Obama, Meet Miss Manners

2009-04-17T19:23:00.007-04:00

Georgetown University, a supposedly Catholic institution, recently invited President Obama to speak at the school. He graciously accepted, only to request that all religious symbols be covered. Georgetown, not surprisingly, acquiesced. The IHS symbol, usually depicting the name of Christ, was covered with black plywood and the name of Jesus with a blue shroud. According to White House officials, Obama desired a simple backdrop of blue with the flags; the backdrop, however, was insufficient in hiding the IHS symbol. The White House requested the coverage because "it seemed most respectful to have them covered so as not to be seen out of context," according to the President of Communications at Georgetown University. In that case, all present should have been covered, including the President himself--as we are each a symbol of God.

Out of context? Growing up, my mother frequently would remind me of the proper behavior when I was a guest at other people's houses. If I went for dinner, I ate what was on my plate even if I did not care for what was served. If I spent the night, I graciously accepted sharing a bed with a friend, even if they were a kicker. If they had a religious picture that did not depict or was opposed to my beliefs, I did not say anything--I was their guest.

Obama seems to have forgotten his manners. Georgetown asked the President to attend a function and, kindly, to speak. He accepted, and then proceeded to ask that all characteristics of an environment change. I dare to say, as a Catholic, that if he had attended a Mosque and requested that all religious symbols be covered, outrage would have inevitably followed. However, since the symbols were Christian, no backlash ensued.

The fact remains that Georgetown--supposedly a Catholic institution--accepted this request. As previously quoted, they did not want to seem out of context or disrespectful. Disrespectful to whom? Obama was entering a place that has specific beliefs, though weak. Georgetown is a Catholic institution. How would religious symbols be out of context?

As a Catholic, I would ask that my President return to his Miss Manners book and re-read the section on acting as a proper guest. If I attended his home, I would not ask that he cover his dog's Swarovski crystal bowls. To ask that he remove his liberal agenda from the White House desk because it offends me would never occur to me. Instead, I would be a gracious host, compliment the cooking, and pray an opportunity for debating his many anti-Christian and anti-American policies would arise.

Also, I would request Georgetown finally return to the Religion on which she was founded. I was asked once to remove my ashes on Ash Wednesday at work. I refused. I am Catholic and I am committed to my beliefs. As a Catholic institution, I would expect them to do the same. If someone, regardless of how important they mistake themselves to be, no matter how "out of context" and disrespectful the country's leader supposes a religion is, I would expect Georgetown to remain consistent.

Similarly, I will be interested in seeing if Obama dons the traditional doctoral robe--emblazoned with a Cross and a prayer to the Virgin Mary--when he attends the commencement at Notre Dame University. However, I am praying that Notre Dame leaves the president in the White House on Graduation Day. Why would Notre Dame even consider giving a man an honorary Law degree despite the fact that he is so opposed to the core beliefs of Christians and Catholics? Catholics and Christians, both as individuals and institutions, must remain consistent and strong. We must stick strongly to our beliefs. I will continue to pray that Obama has a conversion and becomes more accepting in his beliefs. Prayers will also be said that Georgetown and Notre Dame return to the Faith on which they were founded. Most of all, I will intercede that Obama remembers his manners.

The Tone of Voice

2009-04-13T16:30:00.000-04:00

(This was taped to my computer the year I taught High School--and frequently pops into my head. Thought I'd share it.)

It's not so much what you say
As the manner in which you say it;
It's not so much the language you use
As the tone in which you convey it.
"Come here!" I sharply said,
And the child cowered and wept.
"Come here," I said
He looked at me and smiled
And straight into my lap he crept.
Words may be mild and fair
But the tone may pierce like a dart;
Words maybe soft as the summer air
But the tone may break my heart;
For words come from the mind
Grow by study and art
But tone leaps from the inner self,
Revealing the state of the heart.
Whether you know it or not,
Whether your mean or care,
Gentleness, kindness, love and hate,
Envy, anger are there.
Then, would you quarrels avoid
And peace and love rejoice?
Keep anger not only out of your words
Keep it out of your voice.

A Bride's Words

2009-02-07T22:47:00.003-05:00

As I write this, there are a mere 14 days remaining until my wedding. Despite the ever-growing and tangible evidence, I honestly cannot believe any of this is happening. I have wedding invitations consuming an entire drawer in my entertainment center, RSVPs filling my mailbox daily, Wedding Gifts piling up at my doorstep, and a veil cascading down from closet shelf. I have a suitcase packed with beach clothes and an apartment rapidly growing empty. I, Adrienne Smith, am getting married! And yet, it all feels strangely...surreal. Despite the Bridal Showers and dress fittings, the honeymoon shopping and apartment packing, the list-making and day-planning, I can't make myself believe--it's about me this time. Not someone else, not another bride. I am the Bride.

I am the happiest girl on Earth, I think. All the excitement, all the anticipation is about to culminate. It's not about the dress for me, dear reader. It's not the shoes or the veil. It's not about the parties or presents or people. It's not even about the Mass. In a swift 14 days, I have the honor of vowing my whole life and self to my vocation--to humbly and completely serve one man and our children for the rest of my life. That is the the thought that brings tears of complete and total joy to my eyes. I am honored with the job of getting him and our children to Heaven all the days of my life. Daily may I die so that he may live. Through cooking his meals, scrubbing his floors, and scouring bathtubs, I can get a man and his children to Paradise. Hand in Hand with this, I am going to be God's channel for new life into this world. In a lesser way, I will be a Mary.

Sometimes, I worry--am I spiritually prepared for this arduous vocation? Am I ready to daily lay down my life for my family? I realize that temptations of pride and selfishness will sometimes prevent me from fulfilling this huge, God-given task. After much reflection, I have concluded that no one is ever fully ready, or there would be no learning. There would be no growing and, therefore, there would be no coming closer to Christ. As such, I pray to have the humility to just focus on each set of twenty-four hours--how can I spend that day getting my husband and, eventually, our children to Heaven?

Please remember me in your prayers, dear reader. It is only through the graces of our Lord that I shall, after years' battle, win what I set out to attain: the salvation of my family.

I Believe!

2008-11-22T00:06:00.005-05:00

Tonight, I cheated. A little. A cold night here in Texas, my fiance and I made coffee and watched the movie The Polar Express. Though an animated children's movie, it never fails to move me. Symbolized by a small bell, the movie portrays the true belief in Santa; only believers in Santa Claus can hear the small sleigh bell.

After watching this movie, I always find myself pondering my childhood Christmases. Since we were a large family, there always seemed to be thousands of presents pouring out from under the tree on Christmas morning. In my childhood, this particular Season was a time of magical wonderment; the highlight of the year. January would find us depressed at the close of Christmas, July found us sneaking Christmas tapes to our room and playing Christmas while my parents weren't looking. But, Thanksgiving and the following days--those were tangible magic. Letters were written and placed on the fireplace, after hours spent pouring over the JCPenney Catalog. A large tree went up in our Living Room, with much fanfare as to who's turn it was to put the tree topper on. Santa Claus the Movie and It's a Wonderful Life were video staples, watched with egg-nog and hot chocolate. Most of all, time and intense thought were given every year as to our gifts for each other.

We believed in Santa Claus. Second to Catholic Dogma, my siblings and I fought for Saint Nicholas' existence. Our friends believed, too, until they got to a certain age. When inevitable doubt would fill us, our parents or big brother would set us straight. While Santa only added to the magic, I knew the Source of Christmas. This perception of Christmas was manifested perfectly in a small statue my has mother placed next to the Nativity every Christmas. A tiny manger, filled with hay, containing the baby Jesus; kneeling humbly next to Him with hat off was Santa Claus. This, materialized, was Christmas. All magic knelt before Him as He was the source of all magic.

As our society loses Faith in God and religion become an extremist and endangered "lifestyle," I wonder something. All magic, for children, is gone. Many children no longer believe in Santa. Commercials and publicity advertise Mom and Dad creating Christmas. Society has begun decorating for Christmas as early as October. Nothing is sacred; nothing is enchanted. Because we have squelched God out of society, we have extinguished all magic. G.K. Chesterton once said, "For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony [like children]. But perhaps God is strong enough exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, 'Do it again!' to the sun; and every evening, 'Do it again!' to the moon!" But, even children no longer exult in monotony; I fear, children no longer exult in anything.

I still believe in Santa Claus. We Smith children still do, though we are no longer children. This belief, though changed somewhat, still burns strongly within my heart. Christ is the foundation of Christmas, but the jolly bearded man is the embodiment of giving. As Christmas approaches, I am reminded of that magic, that enchantment I had as a child. The very fascinating excitement to hand pieces of God's love to others. Santa Claus, he did this. He still does. He is not one man; rather, he is all of us. We are all that magical desire to give joy, peace, and love to others most especially during this holiday season. There are few of us left who have this bewitching desire to give, to love. But, Christ burns all the more strongly in us as the foundation of this magic.

This shall serve as additional incentive for me as the Christmas Season approaches. I shall, give until it hurts because, as Mother Theresa once said, "if we give until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only love." May Santa Claus and his Divine Source serve as encouragement to all Christians this season, as we fight to re-infuse Christmas with Christ. May we all remember that it is only in giving that we receive. And, ultimately, that "the true Spirit of Christmas lies in your heart."

Merry Christmas.

Death Living in the Hallways: Thoughts from Christ's Little Teapot

2008-11-06T17:49:00.003-05:00

Last year, God placed me in a private Catholic school, where I was to teach and guide young people. While there, I was able to freely talk of my moral beliefs and preach constantly about God's Holy Word. While I saw some sad stories and had a few difficult children, I am only now learning how easy I had it.

Now, I am substitute teaching in another school district. The last few days have found me at the High School, working both as a PE and an Art teacher. I thought I had mentally prepared myself for what I was going to see; after all, I was a public school kid, myself. I was more than wrong. As I stepped inside this microcosm, shock overtook me. I watched as fifteen and fourteen year old kids slid their hands all over each other. As a military brat, I have never heard such foul language so often. But, the most saddening aspect: these grown up children move through their day like dead people. Many children never show any expression; rather, they eerily resemble zombies. However, even those who exude some expression, share a characteristic with the others. There is no life in their eyes.

I have spent the last three days searching for it. My sisters have it. I have it. My brothers and fiance have it. Everyone with whom I went to college also had it. That life in their eyes. A spark there that next manifests itself in this all over glow. Innocence. As I scanned the faces of the miniature adults moving through the hallways and entering my room, I never saw it. All that greeted my search was repetitive darkness and death in their eyes; an absence of life.

Still, I exude Christ. Smiling to every face that actually turns to mine, saying hello, using affirmation and endearments. Most are in vain. However, I have had a few rare moments where, almost like a burst of sunshine, Christ's love, through his little tool, is poured into the soul of a youth and blooms instantaneously. Eyes lock, a moment of questioning trust, and then, for a moment, I see the spark. What joy unfolds in this child! And, sadly, how alien they find it. Some shut it down, others come beckoning for more. This is my success.

Even though I am only in the lives of these children for a fleeting moment, I may never know what impact I might have on them. I consider myself Christ's pitcher, into which He pours His love, only to pour it into others. I yearn to be Christ's pitcher, to be the one full container that shares His love with many empty containers.

I will continue to act as His little teapot, the channel for His divine Love. I pray that these young children will realize that they are just that: His children. And that is okay. I pray that these children find Real Love and understand what it is they are looking for. And, lastly, I pray to always remember to put these young sheep first, before me, that they may receive Christ through me and somewhere always have it. God bless the little children.

She's Back, and Ready for More

2008-10-25T21:46:00.004-04:00

When packing my classroom back in May, yearning for a summer reprieve but already missing my kids, I never imagined the path my life would take. Most of the summer flew quickly by and I was superfluously distracted with my own life. While I was lesson planning for the next year and traveling to various weddings and locales, the economy was falling apart. Then, my "superfluous" view suddenly was shattered; Miss Smith was out of work.

I have worked odd jobs and pinched pennies for the last three months. After working in an office with no people contact, I realized that no job would satisfy me like that of a teacher. The economy hit me again and I knew immediately where I was going.

As of Monday morning, I will be back in the classroom. While I will only be substitute teaching, I am overjoyed to returning the classroom. I will be able to help those youth who need guidance so terribly. Miss Smith has put her teacher pants back on.

It won't be the same, however, as Holy Trinity. We were warned in no uncertain terms in Orientation to leave God out of our conversations and lessons. At the risk of losing my job again, I will not mention Him, my Divine Father. However, they cannot ask me to leave Him out of my actions and intentions.

I ask for prayers as I begin again. I look forward to Monday, despite some nerves. Miss Smith is coming back for more.

2008-09-27T01:08:00.003-04:00

All my life, I dreamed it in my head. Once, the whole thing unfolded on a beach, the waves lapping at the shore. Another time, the event occurred in a five-star restaurant, while everyone looked on. Slowly as I grew, the location became secluded, quiet, just the two of us. In college, my imagination pictured the moment on a small bridge located off a rough path on my campus. Of course, when the man I fell in love with finally asked me to be his wife, the location could not have been more perfect: in a chapel, in front of God.

As he sank down to his knee and asked me to be his bride, a thousand thoughts crashed in my head at once: "Is this really happening?" combined with, "I've waited my whole life for this." and, finally, "Am I ready for this?" I said yes. My dreams were coming true.

Now that two months have passed, reality has begun to quickly set in. I have a giant list of things to do. Find a dress, decide on flowers, pick the music, the list goes on. I have a great many desires, as well. I want some new clothes for my Honeymoon, I'd like to replace some shoes that are worn. I really want a nice trousseau, complete with items any housewife would love. I yearn to tweak his home, to pick out bedsheets and shams, curtains, and other items a bachelor's home lacks.

Suddenly, though, I have been overcome by a much different desire. Immaterial and almost inexplicable, this is by far the strongest one I've had since he gently placed a ring on my finger. Recently, I have been stunned into silence by this man. As my life takes directions I hadn't planned, Richard has stood strong. Always affirming and praying, he's held me as my world spins out of control numerous times. Humble and gentle, he's full of advice when I want help and exudes patience as I irrationally spout my fears and worries. This man is my hero.

I have a strong and ardent desire to be the best I can for him. More than the spoons and rugs I want for his kitchen, more than the daisies and cake I hope are at my wedding, I want to humble myself before him everyday for the rest of my life. Never have I met a man for whom I've wanted to scrub his floors and massage his feet. I wish to be the serving wife, the quiet mother, the constant best friend.

In college, I vowed no man would stand in the way of my hopes and dreams. As I watched girls seemingly put their dreams on the shelf and follow a man, I told my friends that this would not happen to me. I would get my Master's and I would teach college and live in my own place. When I was ready, I would find a man and settle down. He could wait. Then, appropriately, reality hit me in the face like a train.

Now, I am preparing to spend the rest of my life with this insanely loving and gentle man. Honest, caring, selfless, he puts much of my spiritual life to shame. As it should be. I want to be to him what Mary was to humanity: a selfless, quiet, serving woman who daily martyrs herself for her family's salvation. I want fervently to use every moment, every word, every action to further Richard on his path to salvation. I must be ready for this immense vocation. I am reading voraciously marriage-prep books, praying for virtue, and cultivating my spiritual life. I want to be his Mary.

I adore this man. I wish that I could be what he is. I am humbled to watch him, honored to know him, and stunned by the vital vocation of aiding him to Heaven. I must be ready. This is my call. I am preparing for our life together. With all the tasks to complete before our wedding, all the household items we could register for, with all the new clothes and accessories I dream of, none of these hold a candle to my burning desire to be the best servant for him possible. Everyday, I pray I can stand up to the challenge, that I can daily die to self for love of him.

Lord, make of me a servant; help me to forget myself for sake of him. Aid me in being the best woman I can be. Guide me in becoming an image of Mary, ever selfless and humble in her service for her family. Please help me in fulfilling my vocation that, when you call us both to your home, we both may enter and praise you forever. Amen.

2008-09-10T23:19:00.002-04:00

"Greater love than this no man hath,
that a man lay down his life for his friends." Jn 15:13

I remember once sitting in Mass at Christendom, my alma mater. Father Hiesler was giving the sermon. As a highly involved campus chaplain, Father always knew the current happenings on campus and tailored his sermons appropriately. I remember during this time that many girls were going through tough times with boys and vice versa; Spring Fever had hit. As such, he was preaching about dating and marriage. Speaking of women, he said that females should be ready to imitate Mary, loving and serving in a way that was completely emptying. For men, he advised they wait, until they were ready to spiritually die for thier loved ones. Men, he said, were ready to seriously date and marry when they had an ardent desire to place thier lives daily at the mercy of their family. Like Christ, men should be willing and ready to die spiritually and physicall for their family.

I remember many more things about Christendom. The campus, the snow, the camaraderie. I remember the president, the chaplains, the students. Faces, names of faculty and staff pictured clearly in my mind. I remember one man, quiet, steady, constant. He was always there, on campus, talking to the guys and chatting with the girls. He was at all the sporting events, smiling, encouraging, teaching. This man did not lecture in a classroom; he did not have an office in Coeli. Rather, at the back of the campus, in a small room in the gym, he inspired the young men and women to do their best on and off the soccer field and gym court. He developed an intimate relationship with each of his athletes, causing them to grow and become deeply committed and resolute in all areas of their lives. He gave his all in that office, each day. He spent each day spiritually dying for his athletes.

I remember something else about this man. As tough as he was, he had such a soft heart. Always at his side was his youngest son, disabled by Down's Syndrome. This man went everywhere with his son, letting him ramble around campus and make new friends. He always knew what his son was doing and where he was going. Oftentimes, when I was leaving workstudy, I would see these two, walking and talking as if there were nothing else in the world. Totally absorbed in his son, he would see me at the last second but always greet me with such kindness. I looked forward to seeing them on the way back to my dorm; he and his son always left me feeling better than before. I noticed his face was lit up each time his son was rattling about his thoughts. He loved his son dearly.

I was deeply saddened to hear the loss of this man on the Feast of Mary's Nativity. Diving into a septic tank without a second thought, he held his son up for twenty minutes, so as to save his life and in the process he lost his own. Leaving behind a large and greiving family, he also leaves behind other things, as well. Athletes both from Seton High School and Christendom College, whom he watched develop during the most critical time of their lives. He leaves behind his son, Josie, who was the apple of his eye. A college and high school mourn the loss of man who martyred himself daily.

But, more than that, Mr. VanderWoude left behind a legacy, woven with inspiration and humility. News stations have covered his life; newspapers writing lengthy articles on his kindness and love. This man lived his life for others and, in the fulfillment of who he was, he laid down his life for his family. He truly was the pinacle of fatherhood: giving his life spiritually to ot his children daily and, finally, dying to save his son's life. While many people grieve his sudden departure, Heaven rings out welcome for this Saint. A martyr, mirroring Christ, has come home to be with his own Heavenly Father.

Praise God for Thomas VanderWoude; glory to God for his complete selflessness. While we naturally mourn his loss, let all who knew him thank Christ. Thank Him for this gift of personified kindness, love, and strength. Thank Him for a living example of Christ's love. For all the sadness I feel at Mr. VanderWoude's death, I am astonished at what an amazing, Christ-like man I was gifted in knowing. Thanks be to God!

Eternal rest grant upon him, O Lord, and may the souls of the faithfully departed rest in peace.

Our Selfless Soldiers

2008-09-04T02:21:00.001-04:00

My childhood memories are quite different from many people I know. Talking of their childhood, many of my friends speak of one house, one town, one life. Picket fences, gardens, and old trees exist in their memories. Names of long-time acquaintances roll easily off their tongues while thousands of memories dance simultaneously through their mind. My childhood was different. To date, I've lived in seventeen homes, resided in thirteen towns, and have lived many lives.

The colors brown and olive drab have always made me stand a little straighter; I still find myself listening at five o'clock for that bugle to warble through the air. When I enter grocery stores, I still reach down for my wallet. I feel right at home surrounded by large gates and barbed wire. An American flag waving in the wind still causes me to stop a moment and stare. Airport security and travel are second nature to me. Out of all my friends, I can pack a suitcase fastest: for a thirty day break from college, I was always ready to leave within half an hour. The majority of my language consists of acronyms and I still get the itch to leave every two years.

Despite the incessant moving and changing of scenery, there is one constancy burned in my memory. The PX's and Commissaries were only secondary to this monumental source of pride. As a child, I was almost constantly surrounded hundreds of men in military uniforms, supposedly creating a homogeneous effect. However, there was one man who, regardless of the weight he carried or the workload on his shoulders, walked a little straighter and a little more dedicated than those around him. He always valued every soldier as a person and extended respect to each one. This man always left an office full of women crying in the wake of his PCS's and unknowingly left an unsurpassable legacy behind him. Watching him operate always left me silently stunned. He spent 22 years as an Army Officer, a shining example to every soldier he worked with. And I had the honor of calling this amazing soldier, my father.

I am now grown up, but still find myself silently stunned by this man. As such, I have a profound and abiding respect and pride for the military. I now stand a little straighter at anything American. I try to thank every soldier I meet for his or her service in honor of our country. And God has now given me the honor of having another amazing soldier in my life.

Maybe this is why my blood runs cold when people, especially Catholics, criticize the military. In their minds, soldiers are "over-eager to go to war." Our service men and women are, supposedly, trained for war only. They are not at all capable of attaining and instituting peace. I was appalled recently when one young Catholic suggested we had made a mistake entering war, because maybe Iraqis were better off before Hussein was de-throned.

I understand and bear no hard feelings when people debate and disagree on the current war. I myself am not completely thrilled our soldiers are over fighting in such horrific conditions and risking their lives everyday. But, my patience ends when debate occurs over our soldiers.

After finishing twenty-three years as an Army Officer, my father retired and began working full time for the Veteran's Healthcare System, so he could "serve those he served with." Oftentimes, my family will go and join my father for lunch in the Canteen. Anyone questioning the price the service men and women pay should do the same. Men slowly moving along in wheelchairs without legs, women writhing in pain waiting patiently to see the doctor. Blindness, deafness, death.

These brave men and women leave so much behind to answer the call. Saying good-bye to their towns, homes, and families, they deploy from six months (Marines and Navy) to fifteen months (Army). And some, they never come home. I have to face this, as my fiancee is a Captain in the Army. I have to understand that I may lose the man God gave me before it's time. But, that is what God calls him to do.

Are my fiancee and father war-hungry? Not a chance. Rather, they heard the call to defend their country and it's freedom and risked all to do so. Are they killing machines, only trained to shoot people? No way. The two most inspirational, calm souls I have met are my father and my fiancee. Do they thrill at the chance to deploy? Absolutely not. That is where their selflessness lies. They don't do it because they want to, but because they are needed.

Thousands of men and women have perished in our Fight against Terrorism. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. Some left behind babies and children. So, when my husband inevitably deploys, will I stand by happily and watch him go? No. I will feel as though my heart and soul are being ripped out of my body. But, I, too, will make my sacrifice as an Army wife. I will watch my soldier go. I will keep my home and family safe. And, God-willing, I will see my soldier come home. That is when my Captain will be eager. This is when I will be excited.

Whether or not you agree with the War, I ask you all to stand behind our troops. As Catholics, we are creatures of charity and love. Support these men and women who are fulfilling their God-given vocations. When you pass a blind or lame veteran while walking into Wal-Mart, do not look away. Stop, thank them for their service. They did not have to fight. They did not want to leave. But, they answered the call and kept our nation free. May God bless them for that.

2008-08-17T21:18:00.009-04:00

"What the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away;
Blessed be the name of the Lord!"

One can fully understand this passage only when he or she has been unemployed in the current job market.

One month ago, I was standing the Christendom College Chapel while the man of my dreams was on his knee beckoning me to spend the rest of my life with him. As I muttered a tearful yes, I painted romantically the next year in my head. Only the week before I had moved into my own place: a sweet, wonderful apartment I was making my own. School would start and I would return my students, once again throwing myself into my passion: teaching. I saw myself balancing work and wedding planning. Side by side with my mother, putting together a wedding while I spent other time with Richard and madly grading papers. I could see myself in the classroom, working my children, aiding and encouraging them to achieve their dreams, awakening their passion for learning. Life was set: just the way I had pictured it. And then God called.

One week, exactly, after I had accepted Richard's proposal and, coincidentally, two weeks exactly after I had moved into my own place, I was called into the school to meet with the principal. I cannot lie: I expected it. Still though, I felt as though my life had fallen apart. Nothing had left me so exhausted at the end of the day as teaching. I would head home, just to sit for an hour while I regained my sanity and energy. But, it was this pouring myself completely out for my students that had never before left me so fulfilled. I put my whole self into molding my children, standing in the classroom ,while Christ worked on my children through me. It was a truly rewarding experience and I felt as though I'd found my niche.

It's been a roller coaster ride ever since. I've spent my days looking for work and my nights worrying myself sick. Questions ride through my head while voices of failure stab at my soul. Moments of false optimism gave way to long periods of despair and discouragement. I felt as though the Devil had his nails dug into my throat, while he attempted to turn me from Christ. I felt a burden to many around me, refusing to ask for help. This went heavenward, as I shrunk away from God, too ashamed to pray. Thoughts of my students wafted in my head, as I heaved myself through the day. Nights would bring terrifying dreams of unemployment and trips to the school to beg for my job back tiptoed wickedly through my sleep. Nothing has left me so terrified as being laid off suddenly from work.

I had to go and clean out my classroom. I dreaded it. But, as soon as I drove out of the parking lot, I felt an inexplicable sense of peace. I no longer felt the emotions crashing, the negativity dancing wrathfully in my head. Oddly enough, it felt...right. How bizarre. Still the feelings have not returned. A constant sense of contentment has replaced the feelings of despair and terror. I have begun praying again. Sleep still is difficult, but the nightmares have decreased.

As I was making dinner this evening, a bible passage popped into my head. I remember a friend turned nun would remind me of this when life got tough: "What the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away; Blessed be the name of the Lord." Honestly, I never could relate to this verse...until recently. Having gone through a Job Divorce, I now fully comprehend. The Lord blesses us with vocations, filling us with joy as we empty ourselves for others. At any moment, however, these jobs can be snatched away, leaving us with questions and discouragement. We should not wallow in sadness and despair, but rejoice at the opportunity we had. Inevitably, though, the fear and the sorrow will follow. But God ALWAYS has something better planned. We just have to wait. Sometimes, it's tremendously hard and scary.

Too, this passage runs hand in hand with Roman's 8:28: "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." Even when God does not will life's setbacks, He will still provide for us in His time. We are called to serve His purpose and He will provide ample opportunity for this. Even in sadness, there is salvation. Later, the passage relates, "If Christ is for us, who can be against us?" As we face life's demons and destruction, even these forces cannot stand up to the power and grace of God. For He is the all-powerful ruler, who is also all-loving. Really, who could ask for more?

Tonight as I climb into bed, I will climb into the lap of Jesus, my all-powerful and all-loving Father, and lean my head against His chest. I know He will wrap his arms around me and hold me, showering comfort and grace with unspoken words. I will find peace and contentment in hearing His heartbeat and slow, constant breathing. In the morning, I will climb down from His lap and search for His holy will for me. I am called according to His purpose, the Father of Heaven, and He works for me because He loves me. He is for me, so no one can be against me. Praise be God!!!

A Wonderful and Wasted Opportunity: Oprah Denies Christ

2008-04-13T23:03:00.001-04:00

In this video clip, Oprah is interviewing several people on their views of good and evil and the supernatural. The woman in the beginning is a Christian, who argues with Oprah mid-video about the "ways to Christ." Oprah states that "there are various ways to what [Christians] call God," and questions the salvation of those who live in remote areas and consequently never know God. While she asks two different questions, the answers are easy and never answered in this video.

Oprah's statement, concerning the multiple ways to God, is a common and gravely erroneous belief today. Oprah elaborates, saying that her ways to God may be different than that of the Christian woman's ways. There is no such idea as wrong/right, or black and white. Rather, there are infinite paths we humans may take in order to achieve what I call my God. This is tantamount to Nike's advertising slogan, "Just do it." If a young man feels that it is morally permissible for him to steal money from his mother's wallet for his date that night, so be it. If a young woman feels that it is morally right for her to have intercourse with her boyfriend to make him love her, fine. However, we Christians are blessed to know that, along with a soul, every human being has a conscience. Whether or not we are willing to admit it, every morally wrong choice we make was deliberated upon in our conscience. We sense the sways and preferences of our consciences and must live with the inevitable pang of guilt when a moral wrong is chosen. Oprah fails to realize the gravity and universality of Natural Law; rather, she lives by a moral relativism in vain attempts to salve her hurting conscience.

The second half of the video, she asks about the salvation of those who never know God, which is a completely valid question. As a High School teacher, I frequently am asked this by my students. I confess, there was a time I was curious about the same situation. However, we must remember that God is not an angry judgmental God; instead, he is full of mercy and love. He is frequently stereotyped as a all-powerful rule maker who revels in sending people to Hell. Not true. God is willing to do anything to bring us to Heave with him; the rub lies here: are we meeting him halfway. We must live a good life and make morally correct choices. As stated above, every human person has a conscience which comes with a general, inherent knowledge of right and wrong. Provided that the person, while not knowing God particularly, makes morally good choices based on his conscience, the our Lord will bring him to Heaven. However, if the converse occurs, they will be unfit for Heaven and spending eternity with God.

As Christians, it is imperative that we educate ourselves on these and other answers. I find it incredibly sad that Oprah's questions were never answered, since to this day she holds the same beliefs. Instead of properly and adequately answering Oprah's questions, the Christian women simply became emotional and rattled out answers that did not make sense. I continue to read about my Faith and to know the answers that people like this ask. I pray that other Christians and Catholics do the same. We must fight the good Fight and conquer with Christ.

When Will the Madness End

2008-04-06T16:18:00.004-04:00

"I can do all things in Christ, Who strengthens me."

These words could very well sum up the last eleven months for me. I sat in my room yesterday, talking to my sister still at Christendom. She was excitedly getting ready for Spring Formal. I was only able to speak with her a few minutes, as she had a million girlish tasks left to do. I think back, once in a while, and remember my time at that school. It was only a year ago that I was there, myself, and was juggling classes, academic activities, social obligations, and my impending graduation. I thought I was so busy. And I was awfully scared. Had I known what was going to happen, I might have chosen to double major, tacking another year onto my education.

However, God is a clever man; there is a reason we do not know our future. From a car wreck to suffering the loss of a sister-in-law, I would be lying to say the last year's been easy. God is not done. I recently suffered such a Cross that left me feeling stunned and devastated. For several days I was struggling with discouragement and almost giving up. I am still scared.

God has given me quite a blessing though. For the last year, my swirling, crazy life has sped by at the rate of 95 mph on a slow day. I look back and I see a whirlwind of activities and events that have drastically changed me into the woman I am a year after my college commencement. On top of the Crosses, I've been a high school teacher--a job I adore. I have spent most of my energy putting everything into teaching my kids. But, the first of year of teaching is a hardship in itself. While it was a blessing, my profession only added to my fast-paced life.

Through it all, though, there has been this one constant blessing. As the rest of my life turned about me, I can see this person steady and strong for me. On a number of occasions, he's dropped everything and come to me. He's held me and loved me and changed me. He's inspired me and he's impacted me. And I love him.

With all the difficulties the year after graduation brings, God was immensely good to give me this man. Together, we have prayed and grown and discerned. I don't know where I'd be if I hadn't had him this year. As such, I can't say that I wish this year hadn't happened, primarily because I wouldn't have him. Also, the difficulties and Crosses have brought us closer.

The verse above, from Sacred Scripture, floated through my head all year. When I forgot it, my father would remind me. It's so apt. My advice to the Graduating Class of 2008: treasure your life left on Christendom Campus. Never will you have the constant opportunity to turn to the Chapel. Your days on the hall with your friends are severely numbered. The next year will be hard and there will be times you will be scared to wake up the next morning. But, God is there. God is holding you. And to make up for the Crosses, He will send grand blessings. And, above all, remember: You "can do all things through Christ, who strengthens" you.

Non-Opposing Blessings: The Virtues in Purity and Sex

2008-01-10T14:51:00.000-05:00

When I was in High School, I regarded "Sex" as a bad word and it was not to be repeated. To be completely honest, all I knew was that this was something mothers and fathers did to make babies. I knew not the process, nor what was involved. Very quickly, I became convinced that Sex, itself, was horrible thing. My reaction was in response to the rampant immorality of today's society. Most of my peers frequently engaged in Sex after school and on the weekends; I would have to sit between the girls as they discussed the whats and whens of their latest sexual moments. As a result, any type of physical affection, beyond a simple kiss, became to me a grave sin.

I now know better. It took me four years at a Catholic college and practically being forced to read Church documents on the subject following my college graduation to convince me otherwise. I realize how erroneous I was in my judgments. In the proper time and place, Sex and physical affirmation are beautiful ways to show love for another person. Sex is a self-gift from one spouse to another and is a fine, even beautiful requirement, in marriage. Having read Theology of the Body, my opinion vastly differs from my High School days. But, a child like me in High School is also one in a million.

Fast forward eight years. For someone who hated High School so terribly much, I am now teaching Freshman and Sophomore Theology and loving it. However, the irony continues. As a Theology teacher, I am in charge of the Freshman Purity and Sex Talk. In two weeks, I must teach Freshmen girls and boys the value and beauty of both Purity and Sex. That's right, not just the virtue behind Purity or the self-gift of Sex. I am in charge of making sure over thirty hormonal teens comprehend the difference between and the goodness of Purity and Sex in five days.

I have been reading multiple sources on the subject, from the Catechism to Jason Evert's If You Really Love Me. I have appreciated the value and explanations the Church has put behind every statement and piece of Dogma. Every what and why make perfect sense. The explanation by Pope John Paul II of the gift of Sex has brought tears to my eyes and guilt to my heart for previous opinions. I have a stronger devotion and commitment to Purity than I did two weeks ago. True Love is a wonderful truth, but so rarely understood. The dogma and beliefs of the Faith behind Purity and Sex are infused with the different but equal dignity of man and woman. The intense philosophy and theology behind these sources are a treat to read. But, I also have four years of High School and four years of a Liberal Arts education behind me, aiding my comprehension.

While I am almost finished in expanding my knowledge of the subject, I still have the daunting task of simplifying all this information, without diluting the truths, and conveying it all to my students. I have to pick out awkward, personal topics to cover with my girls and talk to them about various aspects of their sexuality. With my boys, I must develop a lesson plan for the three days when the classes are split up. I must choose, with the utmost caution, topics that boys face at that age dealing with their sexuality. Where do I begin?

When the week ends, I want the children to ultimately respect themselves as Children of God; to understand that each boy and each girl has an invaluable intrinsic dignity simply because they are God's children. I want them to relate this understanding in respect for themselves and for each other. I pray that they refrain from the mistakes so many teens and young adults make. I beseech God to aid the children in keeping the gift of Purity, so deeply connected to Sex, until they find and marry their Spouse. I hope for this not because the Church forbids premarital sex and encourages purity, but because I know this is what they deserve. Each girl in that room wants love; I pray she finds the true meaning. Every boy desires to prove himself a man; I hope he does so at the right time in a Christ-like way. Ultimately, I hope, only through God's infinite mercy and love, that the children realize that they need only gaze upward for True Love. For, only the truest form of Love is found in our Lord.