I did it!!!

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.

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.

"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....

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.

"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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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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

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....

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....

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.