I'm struggling.

I am ashamed to even admit that.  Because it's like admitting failure.  I take pride in keeping a cheerful face, despite all odds.  I can find the good in almost anything, maintain a cheerful attitude.  I am a fighter.

But, the last few days, I feel like I am losing.

She's so sad.

At first, I chalked it up to his departure.  Really, it was so sudden.  We had little more than a month to prepare, so no time at all.  I had no support system set up, no "plan of action."  I didn't have enough time to to work through my emotions, through the sadness, then anger, then self-doubt, to finally confidence.  There's a cycle to it all.  This life is always a cycle.  Instead, I never got through the sadness and anger before he left.

Now, I'm feeling the self-doubt.

We took him to the airport that day, he was blasting the AC in the van the whole way.  Those uniforms get hot.  The van was quiet.  There was nothing more to say.  We parked, walked inside, and said good-bye.

And she wept.  Harder than I've seen her weep.  In one moment, all four of us girls were in each other's arms, sobbing.  The travelers looked on, saw him walking away, and drew the obvious conclusions.  It was horrible.

We went home, and she hasn't been the same since.  She started to improve.  There was one week, when finally everyone seemed to be finding their groove.  We were happy, despite it all.  We were laughing, playing, making beautiful memories.  I finally started to feel that peace of being in control.  We were getting there-close to "making it."  We were almost to thriving instead of merely surviving.

And then something happened.  I don't know what.  But, the floor fell out from underneath her.

And she withdrew into herself.  Stopped laughing and smiling.  She hadn't slept at night since Daddy left, but then she started waking even more.  I noticed it.  I worried, because the following week would surely kill her.

Her best friend left.  The truck showed up, and she screamed.  Over three days, the movers packed their house.  Then, that horrible good-bye.  In one quick second, I saw it.  The light went out behind her eyes.  She looked at the ground and hasn't looked up again.  The little friend's departure clinched it.

Now, she won't eat.  She won't talk.  We went to the splashpad, her favorite spot, and she sat next to me staring at the ground.  Finally, she begged me quietly to take her home.  "Mommy, please.  Take me home.  I need to go home, Mommy."  I told her it would be fine, that we had to make new friends.  She closed her mouth, and stared back at the ground.  Today, on our way to hourly care, she stared out the window, while silent tears fell down her face.  She walked in, staring at the ground.  They said she was quiet all morning, just sat there.  I've never seen her this bad, never seen anyone quite this bad.

I'm a mother.  I am supposed to have all of the answers.  I don't know what to do about this.  I have no clue where to start.  I have tried everything in my power to fix this.  Different attitude perspectives, staying ridiculously positive.  Acknowledging Daddy's absence, not mentioning him for days. Distracting them when they cry for him, or taking them into my arms and holding them.

She misses Daddy.  Plain and simple.

Please, when you ask me how long he's gone this time, don't say, "Oh! Well at least it's only four months."  Please.  Because to you, it's a quick four months.  To me, it's four excruciatingly long months.  To her, it's a lifetime.  Most people don't understand it.  But most of those people aren't four years old.

Her innocent world has fallen apart.  And nothing can be done to put it back together until he's home.

Watching her suffer to this degree hurts my heart more than words can say.  So many tears have fallen when no one is looking.  My prayers call out to Him when no one hears.

Most of the time, I can fight it.  The demons.  I can win.  God helps me win.  I can maintain a positive attitude when all the odds seem against me.  Against us.  But, right now, I am trying not to drown.  My face lies.  My heart is aching.

Dear reader, if you see this tonight, will you pray for my darling girl?  Will you pray for strength for her heart?  Will you pray for this Mommy who has no clue what she's doing.  Has no clue how to help my tiny baby's aching heart?

And, if you are family or friend, feel free to stop by, to come stay for a few days.  Come, shower her with love.  I am not enough for her right now.

After wanting to do so for a long time, this evening I was finally able to prepare and drop off a dessert for the Wounded Warrior and Family Dinner here on Fort Sam.  I had been nervous about going, because I was not sure what to expect.  This is where the Army sends Soldiers and their families live so that the wounded Warrior can finish recovery and attend any related therapy to regain as normal a life as possible.  That said, there are a great deal of amputees and burn victims, among other equally as devastating trauma victims, reside here.  Below is my letter to these fine and heroic men and women and their courageous families.  

Dear Soldier and Family,

Tonight, I was privileged with the honor of preparing and bringing a dessert to the monthly Warrior and Family Support Center dinner.  I was nervous about bringing it, because I was apprehensive about meeting you.  Because I am a coward.  Seeing people suffer has always affected me deeply.  I see you running through my neighborhood with the special prosthetic every morning.  I see you at San Antonio Military Medical Center, wheeling yourself out of your appointments with your faithful spouse.  I see you outside the Center for the Intrepid when I am driving to another Well Baby.  I would see you limping through the lobby of the hospital, as I waddled by during the latter part of my pregnancy last year.

But, the Center is where you learn to function.  You all are there.  Relearning so much.  Trying to adapt and overcome.

So, tonight, I did it.  I walked inside.  And I saw you.  The older Soldier, balancing on one prosthetic, striding your bike and ready to ride.  I saw you, the nineteen year old, wheelchair-bound outside waiting for your ride.  The gentleman, leg mangled and casted, with his wife, who offered to lead me to the right building.  You, who from your wheelchair, stretched out your hand and introduced yourself.  Asked how many children I have.  And your wife, who told me her name and how wonderful children are.  Teased you about how you are like having a second child, as you sped off to chase a friend.

I saw you adapting and overcoming.

I followed you over to the Warrior and Family Support Center, and realized there is practically a whole town over there.  Fisher homes, barracks, a park with a playground.  There is a building for you all to gather together.  I parked.  In the time it took me to walk in with my dessert, apologize for the crumbled mess that didn't bake properly, empty my bag of the coffee cake, and return to my car, you were only just getting into your wheelchair to go inside.

I fed you tonight.  What an honor.

When I walked inside, I saw you, too.  The young men, practically kids, sitting with no arms, no legs, across the room.  Laughing and talking.  With your wives.  Your girlfriends.  Your children.

As I drove away, I rolled down my window, and called to you and your wife.

"Thank you so much for your help!  God bless ya'll!"

And she said it.  It was like a kick in the stomach.

"No problem, sweetie."  She looked me in the eye.  "Thank you for all you do."

ME?!  I don't do anything.  I live here, in this house and complain about stupid things.  Roaches.  Tendonitis.  Babies that don't sleep and wail all day.  Complain about my husband, safe for now, being so far away.  I live here.  In this house that has four walls and is my own.  With my children.  Most of the time, with my husband who has come home safely three times and, God willing, will come home safely a fourth time.  I walk.  I write.  I feed myself.  I do nothing, but be selfish sometimes.

You.  You gave everything you had.  You did not want to be a hero; you just followed orders, earned a paycheck.  You threw yourself on a grenade to save your brothers and sisters in arms.  You stepped on an explosive, not knowing it was there.  You woke up lying down, bleeding and burning in wretched pain.  And today, you smile.  Some of you stand.  You walk through the pain of an artificial leg, strap on an arm everyday.  You look in the mirror that, to me, shows the burn scars of a hero, and get past the immense change of your appearance.

You let your family help you.  At first you are angry, then you accept it.  Life is different for you.  You will never go back to the normal that existed before you left this country that day.  No, you are brave enough to move through the physical, emotional, and spiritual agony and pain to regain a new normal.

A normal that I saw tonight.  The selfless help for a lost woman.  The nineteen year old who laughed when I offered to let my four year old bedazzle his wheelchair and leg brace.  Yes, you laughed, that would be awesome!  She would do great!  The two older Soldiers who rode off on their bicycles, with three prosthetic limbs between the two of them. The young man with emaciated legs, driving his wheelchair across the street to go to his barracks.

You.  You are my biggest hero.  Because you have moved forward, despite nearly impossible odds, and fought again.  Fought a personal war so horrible, so hellish, and won.  You were sitting and standing tonight, happy.  Kind.  Confident.

You were there.  What a testament.

Please.  Do not thank me.  I am a selfish, weak human being who feigns confidence from the title Army Wife.  I am no hero.  I merely support.

You are my hero.  Despite the scars, pain, and seeming impossibility, you have won.  It may not feel like it, but in my eyes you have won.  Because you are still here, smiling.  And I would bet that annoys the hell out of the enemy.

So, thank you.  Thank you for protecting me.  For protecting my country.  For embodying freedom.  Thank you for protecting my own Soldier, for whom I take every breath, get up every morning, and continue to run this family.

Thank you.  For fighting.  For falling, and then standing up to fight again.  And winning.

God bless you.  God bless your family.

I was blessed recently to receive several bags of maternity clothes from a very dear friend.  I mentioned the clothes while talking to someone, who I hardly know, and how I am excited about any future babies with which we are blessed.  That I was hoping to have at least four children, maybe upwards of six.  But, ultimately, God is in charge.

"Oh. So ya'll are going to be the next Duggars?"

I get that a lot.  And I'm never sure what to say.  I happen to agree with that family about a lot.  God, the importance of Faith.  Raising children with morals and values.  We choose not to use birth control.  I really admire them for raising a large, faithful family.  It is by no means easy.

I do want a large family.  People ask me how many we want.  I honestly don't have a number.  I don't decide that.  I really believe that--for us.  I am not one to judge; I do not make other people's choices.  I worry only about what goes on within my family and my home.  I play a role in my family's salvation, and seek to set an example of Christ for others.  I'm not always perfect, but it's what I strive to do.  "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."    

But, when people ask me if I am going to be the next Duggar, I'm insulted.  Not because I don't want to be compared to a large, happy, conservative family.  Rather, do they honestly look at my children and my desire for more beautiful souls merely as numbers?  Oh, 19 kids?  Oh, you want like 12?  It's not a number game to me.  They are not statistics, not points on a number line.

Each one is a precious, unique irreplaceable soul that I am humbled and blessed to return to God.  I am loaned a person to form and protect, to teach them about love and God, and then to return each to His home.  That is what this is for me.

My precious babies; my precious people.

Nothing fulfills me more than taking care of these little people.  No, it's not always easy.  I do have days where I cannot wait to get them in bed and have time to sit down.  But, I absolutely love taking care of them.  Bathing and dressing.  Playing and chasing.  Giggling and laughing.  The hugs and kisses.  I love cooking for them, cleaning for them.  Teaching and forming them.  Serving them.

I have never been more terrified of the world as I have been since becoming a parent.  One walk through the clothing department at Target or the mall gives me a panic attack.  Little girls dressed like adult woman--like woman I would never dress like.  Teenage girls and young women wearing skirts that are smaller than the length of thigh that they show.  Like it's nothing.  Barely covering their bottoms.  I get it now--what they would say.

"That's someone's daughter."

The lingerie models, the inappropriately dressed women.  They are someone's baby.  That is a soul, a human being lent from God.  I'm terrified of raising girls.  But, I'm doing it.  One day at a time.

It's pretty easy right now.  The toddler clothes are still cute and mostly modest.  I can find shirts and skirts and pants that cover and are sweet.  Innocent.  But, my oldest is dancing on that cusp.  Most of her 5t clothes fit her, and she's only four.  Next shopping trip marks a transition I've been dreading since she was born: the girls' department.

I am, at times, fearful of raising children in this military life.  Where their father--a critical role and influence on their development--is in and out the door for long periods of time.  I'm worried about what this will do to their development, if it will negatively impact them.  I need only to take one look at my resilient, independent girls to realize that we will be okay.  Even from Afghanistan, Daddy's doing everything he can to stay involved, stay engaged.

I firmly believe that God helps those open to His will for each person.  He will not ask of you something that you cannot finish.  Cannot do well.  So, I will pray and guide and lead by example.  And be open to any more souls God would like to bless us with.

I am not trying to "be the next Duggar."  I don't think the Duggars are trying to be "the Duggars.  My family is merely making the choices we feel are right for us.  Listening intently to the plan God has for us.  One baby at a time.

And I am by no means "done."

I did not encounter this with the last deployment.  There was only one, then.  And she was so little.  She would take all of her stuffed animals from her bed and put them by the door, one by one, at five in the evening.  And then she would sit there, until I picked her up and put her at the table to feed her.  She didn't cry.  Not in the beginning.  She didn't ask for him, at first.

Because she didn't understand.

Now, that tiny one understands.  And so does her younger sister.  They wail, whine, weep.  They ask for him constantly.  They bring me the iPod, bought not for music but specifically for maintaining communication, and beg me to call Daddy.  Sorry, sweetie.  We have to wait for Daddy to call us.  And they cry again.

The Daddy dolls go everywhere with us.  The last few days, one was MIA.  I could not find it anywhere.  Emotions were high.  We found him in the car this morning.  Relief.  Sweet relief.  My tiny two year old held him all the way to daycare.  And then she wept when I left her.

"I wanna go home!  Please take me home!"

I almost acquiesced.  But the sweet daycare worker comforted me.

"She'll be alright, Mama.  She'll be ok."

Will she?  I wondered the same with my now-four year old.  She was a wreck for months when our Soldier came home for the birth of her little sister, only to leave again.  He returned home again for good, and she had horrific separation anxiety for months.  Behaved, at times, like a possessed child.  It was scary and heartrending.   Eventually, she calmed down, but we struggled with behavior issues for nearly two years.  I don't know how much of that was just toddler, and how much was a deployment and four moves within a year.

Now there's two suffering.  And I hate it.

The two year old asks about bad-guys, talks about wars.  She doesn't like wars.  Wars, she says, are where bad guys live.  Wars are bad.  My heart aches to hear this come from such a tiny person.  She shouldn't know these words, be able to verbalize these concepts.

I hear the crying at night, the begging for their Daddy.  "When is he coming home?"  "How many more days, Mama?"  Weeks, my love.  Months.  I see how prone they are to sudden crying, their breaking hearts.  They won't let go of me sometimes.  So I sit.  And I love them.

But, I see a strength that most other children their age don't have.  The four year old says we can do anything.  She smiles and calls me her battle buddy, that we will get through this together.  Because we have each other. Last week, I spoke so sharply, because my own heart was aching.  As soon as the cutting words left my mouth, I felt so guilty.  Without a word, my sweet four year old came over and just hugged me.  She knew.  She could sense it.

We've held each other crying, the three of us.  The five-month old is fine--as long as somebody feeds her.  But the three of us--we are clinging to each other.  Holding on while the hurt washes over, holding fast to comfort another's aching heart.

They are strong.  

I know they will hurt, I know they will have to deal with aspects that most children won't.  A year without Daddy.  Months without Daddy.  But, my prayer is that this forms them into more resilient adults.  Makes them stronger.  More confident.  Flexible.

I play a large role in that occurring, I know.  I must be kind, loving, stable.  I must be two parents at once.  Be a model of resiliency, of confidence, too.  But, it's also okay to let them know I'm hurting,also.  That I miss him, too.  Because that's okay.  It's a lot of pressure.  But, I have prayer.  I have Him.  And I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me. 

I know, sometimes, I approach Him like my children approach me.  Targeting my anger towards Him, wondering why He's allowing all this to happen.  Why he won't stop the phone breaking, things going wrong, the children screaming.  Why He won't help me.

Because he's my Father.

And sometimes, we have to endure things that are absolutely rotten.  Because going through the hard times, the seasons that bring us to our knees, makes us stronger, more resilient.  And we have to learn that.  The sweet little ones have to learn that.  I have to learn that.  To them, I am Mommy--big, strong, grown up.  To Him, I am but another little child. His child.  And I have a great deal to learn.  My Father can't fix it, no more than I can fix it for my children.  But He is there to comfort me, show me it's okay to hurt.  Just as I am there for my children.

They will be ok.  I will be ok.
We will all be ok.

We will be stronger for this.  We will be more resilient for this.  We will get through.  Our Soldier, God willing, will come home safe and sound.  And we will have learned great lessons.

Because Christ strengthened us.

From Nowhere, From Everywhere

I had an assignment for my graduate class, to write an essay on where I am from.  Honestly, the essay was a little hard to write since we said good-bye to our Soldier again yesterday.  But I am proud to live this life.  Mostly just proud to serve and support such an amazing man.  

I come from red, white, blue.  From greens, blacks, and browns.  Olive drab.   I come from everywhere and nowhere; I have no hometown, but have had many homes.  Everywhere.  Kansas.  Texas.  Italy.  Korea.  Many more.  There is consistency in my nomadic existence.  Moving to a new place every year or two.  It’s like a clock, ticking.  You hear it all the time.  And then the alarm goes off; you feel it.  It’s time to move on.  Time for the familiar smell of cardboard, the sound of ripping tape.  Time to say good-bye to friends you made.  And likely, you’ll never see them again.

I come from places far from extended family.  Grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins were all strangers to me.  I hardly knew them.  I kept in touch with only a few, because the others didn’t respond to letters I wrote.  The letters were the only way I knew of forging and maintaining a relationship with anyone outside of my home.  Outside of my life of change.

I come from constant change.  Nothing ever stays the same.  Homes change.  Locations change.  Languages changed.  His role in our family changed.  Here and then gone, here and then gone.  Tearful good-byes, sporadic phone calls, trips to the airport to pick him up.  Again.  Watching Mom sleep alone, sit alone, eat alone, live alone, function alone.  Wondering how she did it, wondering if her heart hurt as much as mine did. 

I come from watching him serve.  Serve others.  Serve us.  Serve his country.  Our country.  Watching him leave at 5 a.m and come home at 7:30 at night.  Respond to emails and phone calls constantly.  Working out, staying fit.  Staying ready.  Ready for the call.  The call that, lucky for him, never came.  Though, it came in other forms.  Watching him lead, direct.  Implement change and good in the hospitals.  Watching him change and benefit lives.  People.  Because he saw them as people. Never did I think I would find someone as humble and serving as him.

I come from choosing to reenter this life.  From meeting him, and knowing he had that serving heart.  I come from knowing what I said yes to.  I do.  I will.  Serving him, who serves us.  So noble, so humble.  So giving to us, to his men and women in uniform.  To his family.  He loves deeply, commits deeply, gives deeply.  Inspires me deeply.

I come from constant good-byes.  For long periods of time.  From rocking wailing children, aching with separation.  From hugs and kisses.  I come from War.  I come from praying for peace, strength.  Patience.  I come from resiliency, but also from exhaustion.  I come from pride in him, in our country.  I come from knowing firsthand what we give..  Our lives together.  Our evenings, our memories that we’ll never make, our time together with our children. 

I come from lying in bed alone at night, fighting the ache in my heart, praying he’ll come home soon. Just praying he’ll come home.  Praying I’ll hear his breathing next to me again.  I come from worry—fear of death, fear of the doorbell.  I come from breaking down, giving release to hot tears, when no one is looking.  I come from Faith.  Hard, real Faith.  Because, sometimes, Faith is all I have to grasp.

I come from what we call family, though we share no real relation.  I come from those who will drop everything to come help.  Bring dinner.  Bring flowers.  Hugs.  And wine.  Who will hold you tight when you are aching and watch your children so you can catch your breath.  And I do it for them.  I come from the Family who understands what you give.  Understands separation.  Because they give it, too.  They live the separations, too.

I come from Welcome Home!  Posters, tears, hugs.  I come from the other end of, “Thank you for your service.”  You’re welcome.  I think.  From the house strewn with decoration.  With red, white and blue.  I come from trying, again, to find normal for us, a new normal.  Giving up control, letting him lead again. I come from trying to refit our lives together.  Struggle, friction, humility.  Being home.  Together.  I come from cherishing every moment—every single moment—because we don’t know when the call will come.  The call to go.  Again.

            Me?  I come from nowhere, because I come from everywhere.

Charlie Mike. Again.

It's all bringing back so many horrible emotions and memories I never wanted to feel or remember again.  The packing.  The shopping.  The preparation for separate lives.  The children.  The poor, poor children.  It's so different this time, and yet so much the same.   I didn't want to go back to this again.

We are preparing the household, purchasing gear, stocking the house.  He's packing bags.  Tonight.  Buying socks.  Locks.  Duffle bags.  I'm writing his name on those red luggage tags.  The same kind I wrote on in our little house in Killeen.   When he left the last time.  We are having realization hit us after living in denial.  We just found out a few weeks ago, and here we are.  On the eve of his departure.

I have a picture of little Elizabeth sitting on his bag from the last time.  Now, we have three young ones that could sit on the bag.  Crazy.  Three little ones who, despite their young age, have to live without their father.  Again.

Four months.

Adrienne, you are whining?  About four months?!  At least it's not a year.  That's what that 1st Cav wife in me is yelling.  No.  Praise God!  It's only four months.

But it's still four months.  Four months of worry--fear of the doorbell.  Four months of evenings far too quiet and still.  Four months of holding down the homefront with three children four and under.  Four months of children living without their father.  Wondering why he left.  Wondering where he went.  Four months following several months of severe illnesses.  Of caring for a newborn that has had feeding and health issues since long before her birth.  Handling all of it.  Alone.

I'll be honest.  There are moments that the crippling fear surfaces.  Those voices of doubt arise.  It's then that I want to give release to the hot, urgent tears threatening behind my eyes; to beg, plead with him not to go.  But, instead I say a prayer, grasp for God, and move forward.  Because he deserves better.  He deserves strength and courage.  Love and support.  Hugs and affirmation.  Because I am confident I will handle this with grace.

Yes.  I will do this.  Tasks will take longer, and require that incessant pre-planning for the most efficient way of accomplishing them.  Leaving the house will be an endeavor.  Church will be a comedy show sometimes.  But, we'll do it.  We'll push through.  I will wipe tears, pray for patience as I deal with another meltdown from frustration.  I will swallow the knot in my throat as I explain for the hundredth time that Daddy's on his long trip.  He's not coming home for awhile.  I will dole out three times the hugs and kisses, make extra time for cuddling.  Fill our lives with rest, relaxation.  And activities to keep us busy.

I will finish my last graduate class.  Hopefully write my thesis.  Sweet Elizabeth has tumbling classes.  We will venture down to the park, picnic basket in tow.  I am going to make pasta salad (he hates pasta salad), and bean salad and we'll eat like queens.  All of us.  We will attempt a road trip or two.  We will have Movie Nights and I'll let them take long baths.  We will dance to music.  We'll spend our mornings lazing at the pool.  We will run in the freshly cut grass in the evenings.  And we will laugh.  We have plans.  Not merely to survive.  But plans to thrive.

And, when no one is looking, doubtless I will give release to those tears when the day has been extra hard.  I'll give my struggles to my Lord.  And, when I have no more tears to cry, I will stand up and move forward.  For him.  For our girls.

Four months.  Yes, I can do it.  Will do it.  Forget those insecurities--I have lived this.  I have survived this.  I have attained victory in this.

Charlie Mike.

I remember vividly the day that she was born.  I remember that my mother was sitting very still that Christmas morning, rushing through the present opening for the first time ever.  I remember that as soon as the wrapping paper came off the final gift, my mother stood up and said she was going to get the baby from the hospital.  I remember going in later that day, and holding her tiny body.  I remember that tiny body in the swing, the kind you had to crank.  And we older kids sometimes fought over who's turn it was to crank the swing.

I changed her diapers.  I fed her bottles.  I remember wondering that, if it was this wonderful to have a baby sister how much more wonderful to have babies of my own.  I remember staring into her fresh, small face, wondering what life held for her.  What did her future hold?

Who is Laura Louise going to be?

She's going to be beautiful.  She's going to be strong, courageous, gentle  kind.  She will have a temper the likes of which you've never seen, but the beautiful humility to apologize when it bites you unwarranted.  She dreams and lives.  She fights and accomplishes.  She is sure and confident.

And she's getting ready to graduate from college.  This girl with the red hair that used to dance to her music as a two year old.  The one who tore her bows out at school, the tomboy.  The one who played with G.I. Joes and little cars.  The feisty Ginger who gave her all to everything she was passionate about.  This girl, whom I taught for many grades.  Tutored.  I helped her grow.

And now she's blooming.

"I don't want to go!  I know it's the right thing to do, Addie, but I don't want to go."

I knew that fear in her voice all too well.  The eve of her departure for college, and she sat in my kitchen terrified.  Thrown together through very different but very scary and inevitable circumstances, she and I laughed and cried over Skype that winter.  Mostly cried.  She spread her wings and left for college; I navigated a deployment with my husband gone for a year.

We became so close.  And I knew, when the days got tough, and my heart was aching, when I didn't think I could move forward in that black hole of loneliess, I knew who I could talk to.  Who would help me though those dark moments.

Laura Louise.

And she did.  Perhaps, it's quite possible that she has no clue how much she helped me through that time.  Knowing I could call her when tears were pouring down my face, and my body wracked with humiliating sobs.  There was a side of me that year that only she saw.  On Skype.

She always answered my calls.  Always.

And I like to think I helped her, too.  I've talked her through navigating that confusing world of boys and men.  Helped her pick which classes and how many.  I edited her papers.  I laughed with her.  And I cried with her.  As she let go of home and grew into her self, I held her hand.

And then I let go.

I don't know when it happened, but at some point, she didn't need me as much anymore.  She stood on her own and moved forward.  She didn't cry very often at all.  She didn't seem scared anymore.  She was confident.

This red-haired, gorgeous woman glided onto stage, taking the audience to their knees.  Everytime.  She dazzled the crowds.  She morphed into people and lost her self in the drama.

"I'm going to go to L.A.  I'm going to act."

And she will.  She will dazzle them and bring them to their knees, too.  She will keep her Faith, she will hold strong to her morals.  Because she's a fighter.  She's confident.  She's kind and beautiful.  And smart.  So smart.  She'll take the acting scene by storm and, eventually, she'll make it Big.  I know she will.  Because everything she has put her mind to, she's accomplished.

And yet I know, no matter how big her world gets, no matter how many followers on Twitter, or number of homes she has.  I know.  When I need her, when she needs me, there will always be Skype.  Because she's faithful and loyal.

And she's my sister.  That graduate, that actress, Laura Louise--She's my sister.

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future

Please Excuse the Mess

Yes, please.  Excuse the mess.

There's a pile of laundry in my living room.  Toys in the entry way.  And in everyone's way--all over the house.  Strollers in the dining room.  There's clean dishes in the sink to be put away.  I need to finish folding the laundry that's still on the racks.  It's been dry a few days now.  I need to plan dinner.  Finish cleaning the kitchen.  There's applesauce smudged on the table six inches from my computer. 

This week, I have cleaned bathrooms, bedrooms, and the living room.  I've cleaned the kitchen.  Over and over.  And over.  I have swept and mopped.  The laundry was done...it was.  I had washed it, folded it.  Put it away.  I did the dishes.  I've wiped up every surface in the eating and cooking areas a million times.  Per day.

But, I look around.  And it looks like I've dong nothing this week.

Please excuse the mess.

But, please.  Don't take that as an apology.  Because I stopped.  At some point during the day--each day--I stopped.  Stopped wiping.  Stopped cleaning.  Stopped sweeping and mopping.  I stopped folding and putting away.

And I looked down.  Into those precious faces that seem to mature far too fast.

And we lived.

I stopped cleaning.  And caring.  Instead, I made bubble solution.  And took all of my kitchen utensils outside.  And we made bubbles in the warm sunshine.  I put three tiny hands into messy paint and we made hand print pictures.  We played in the wading pool.  Baked coffee cake and cookies.  We took a walk to the park. I tickled and snuggled. And we laughed. 

Please excuse the mess.  Just kick it out of the way.

Because, someday, there will be no bubble solution, no slotted spoon tossed into the yard.  There will be no grass in the wading pool--there will be no wading pool at all.  The tickles and the giggles will be sporadic.  And then nonexistent.  The applesauce drying next to my computer will be gone and the table will be immaculate.  The laundry will be done quickly, with no distractions.  The dress-up lying on the floor will not be there.  The hands will be too big for the hand print nonsense.

Please excuse the mess.  If you need me, I will be in the kitchen making cookies.  Or next to the wading pool. 

I will be living.  The housework will get done.  Eventually.  Not as fast as before.  When the house was silent.  Before life filled it.  Before I started--we started--living.  Really living.

Please excuse the mess.  I am getting ready to add to it. 

I didn't grow up in one house on Main Street, USA.  I didn't even do all of my growing up in the USA.  I didn't go to just one school, attend one church.  I don't have that "one bedroom I spent my whole childhood in."  I didn't have one consistent set of friends during my childhood years.

I lived in at least ten different homes.  I grew up in a small starter house in San Antonio, Texas, in a duplex in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and in Blackhawk Village in Seoul, South Korea.  I grew up in Italy, with Venice practically in my backyard.  Other places, too.  My family divides our chapters of memories based on our location at the time.  "Remember in Benning, how we...."  "Remember that time in Rucker...."

I said good-bye to friends, turned down achievements, accomplishments, coveted positions in school.  Because the Army was moving us again.  I spent weeks, and sometimes months, without my father.  I stood proudly by him when he received promotions.  I had a passport at the ripe age of ten.  My youngest sister was barely a year old when she first received one. 

I lived behind barbed wire.  I learned at an early age that that piece of laminated paper was like my soul--I should never lose it.  I had my father's social memorized for as long as I can remember.  His "last four."

I proudly watched my father serve for 23 years in the United States Army, and what a fine officer he was.  With all the moving, leaving, hardship, and tears, it was at times such a tough life.  I said good-bye and lost touch with countless people.  I cried in high school when my best friend called me from his house for the last time.  I knew I'd likely never see him again.  The editor in chief of the school newspaper--"No, thank you.  I'm moving this summer."  Ripped my heart out.  All the times I watched my father leave for days, weeks....months.  Wonder how my mother could stand sleeping in a bed alone.

I'd do it again.  I loved it.  

I am resilient.  I am strong.  I am proud.  I am an Army brat.

I got the boot when I was a Senior in college.  I turned 24, and without any hesitation, the Army cut me off.  I had lost all military privileges, my healthcare, my ID card.  I felt totally lost.  The life in which I'd grown up--the comfort of barbed wire, the love of the Army family--I was now separated from it.  It was a huge transition for me.

And then I met him.  The man who stole my heart.  

I did not realize initially that he was a Soldier.  Not at first.  But, I was so relieved to learn it.  When I realized that this was the man I would marry, I was so grateful he was active duty.  I was so excited that he was a United States Army Soldier.  I was so proud.  I can do this, I thought.

We now have three tiny girls of our own.  One has watched her father leave for war for a year, even before she knew what any of that could mean.  She screamed for her daddy as he walked away from us in the airport following R&R, wondering why he wouldn't turn around and come back to her.  The other saw her Daddy for the first four days of her life, and then he left her.  Both have experienced four moves, four homes.  They are four and two years old.  This summer, they will say good-bye to their best friends next door.  And they will probably never see them again.

They will attend different schools--many schools.  They will turn down accomplishments, achievements, and honors.  And they, like their mother, will do it with a smile outside and a heavy heart inside.  They will carry that sorrow with them forever, but stand with pride that they did.  They will watch their father pin on new ranks, and stand proudly with tears in their eyes.  Because they get it.

They will again watch their father leave for war.  So will the youngest.  All three of them will stand there, wondering why he has to go, but still standing firmly for their Daddy.  They will cry at night, when no one hears.  They will push through, praying and hoping he comes home.  And, when they are old enough, they too will fear the door-bell ringing.

They know the comfort of barbed wire.  They will have their laminated paper soul.  Know their father's "last four."  They will divide chapters by location.  Know the bittersweet smell of cardboard and tape.  They will sit around, someday, and see who can remember the most telephone numbers or street addresses from their childhood.

And, despite the hardship, someday they'll be grateful for this life. Because it made them better people.

My girls are resilient.  My girls are strong.  My girls are proud.  My girls are Army brats.

April is the Month of the Military Child.  These children don't have any choice in living this life, yet so many of them do so with a strong and resilient attitude.  We thank our Veterans.  We thank the spouses.  These children deserve a huge thanks, too.

It was in the dark, isolating, "middle of the night" hours when the thought struck me.  I was lying awake, as the precious newborn began to stir for her next feeding, and my four year old was enduring yet another coughing fit.

"You are only moving foward.  Not backwards.  You'll never get this time back."

It scared me to the core of my being.

The husband and I (mostly the husband) have been organizing all of our digital files, predominantly pictures right now.  We are looking at photos and videos from the time we both dove into the digital camera world.  Mine began on the cusp of my college graduation, and his encompassed his European adventures while a bachelor Soldier.  We were in two very different parts of the world, living two very different lives.

Then, our pictures slowly began to mesh.  Duplicates images, taken from different perspectives.  One wonderful day, those perspectives became one perspective when we went from two cameras to one.  From dates and day trips to everyday life together, the subjects changed, too. 

And not long after, they captured Life.  In its truest and tiniest form.  Babies.  Born in the wee hours of mornings, after many hours of work and worry.  Babies.  Who looked to us for security, food, warmth.  Babies.  That turned into toddlers and then preschoolers.

Time moves only in one direction.  Forward.  There is no rewind.  And, more painfully, no pause.  Only forward.

They've been so sick this week, the older two.  Fevers, aches, pains, coughs, sneezes.  Screams and thrashing.  Trips to their bedsides every thirty minutes through the night, while feeding a newborn.  Trips to the E.R.  I feel as though I've been running between them with thermometers and medicine all week.  Lying awake at night, listening to the cough with the horrible truth that I cannot do anything to alleviate their discomfort.  Focusing only on what I can handle--making it through one day.  Praying they'll be better tomorrow.

Last Friday, I celebrated 5 amazing, blessed years to my wonderful husband.  Even a year off from that day, I pictured in my head wonderful plans.  Five years is a milestone.  A small one, but a milestone nonetheless.  I was so excited.  We had reservations at a very nice restaurant.  I had a pretty dress picked out.  Presents bought.  Plans made.

As I raced through the week taking care of sick babes, my Friday night went from a much anticipated break to the realization that, sadly, we were going to be staying home.

But, despite the setbacks, it was beautiful.  Quiet, relaxed.  Still a celebration.

Because I won't get this back.  These moments with my husband on the couch, just talking, will never be lived again.  Those moments smoothing back matted hair from a feverish and sweaty tiny forehead will never be present again.  Only past.  The countless trips to the bassinet to once again reinsert the pacifier into that little mouth.  Past.  Little becomes big.  Small grows larger and larger.  Babies become toddlers become kids.  And then they grow up.

And all we will have left are those pictures.  Those videos.  Those tiny views into a world, into a present that has become a past.  No more baby smells.  No more raspy, sickly I love you, Mommys in the middle of the night.  No more stolen hugs and kisses from sleeping little ones on the way to bed at night.  No more temperature readings, pleadings to take just one more sip, demands to stop fighting--again.  No more laughs and giggles, smiles and grins from tiny faces.

So, today, as tired as I am, as exhausted as I am, I find joy in the seemingly endless trips into their bedroom to stave off more coughing, to love them through the fever, warm them through the chills.  I treasure the hours spent by their side, comforting them through the aches and pains.

Because someday, this will all be gone.  All I will have left are the memories.  The Past.

When I look at the three of them--really look at them--nothing else in the world matters.

"What is the one thing you want to accomplish in your life?"

I was issued that question so many times while growing up, mostly in a scholastic atmosphere.  I've had several goals that have stuck out through my life.  Goals I wanted to achieve, regardless of the sacrifice it took. 

Get a bachelor's degree in English Literature.  Done.

My master's.  And I'm nearly done.  But, only nearly.

Write a book.  Yeah, that one's still a dream.

But, fundamentally and before all else I've wanted to be a mother.  I know.  Eye rolls.  Sounds lame.  But, it is, deeper than any other goal, the one thing I have wanted to do my whole life.  Not necessarily right away.  I wasn't the one who went to school to find a husband.  I hadn't been scouring the world for Mr. Right.

But, I wanted a family.

The moment that first tiny body is laid on you after his or her birth, everything about you changes.  The way you think, the way you live, the way you exist.  In a way that most cannot comprehend until that child is given to you.  A fragile soul, a tiny body.  Your responsibility is to raise that child into a healthy, responsible, and faithful functioning person.  You either make or break a human being.  You either instill a healthy mindset or shatter a child's heart.  It is as simple and as complex as that.

I have now had the honor of having three human beings laid upon my chest.  I have had the privilege to carry  and nourish three different souls inside of my body.  I have three people in my home that I helped create. 

I had always wanted to be pregnant during Advent.  While the mother of God prepared for His birth, I could prepare for mine simultaneously.  I had no idea what I was in for.  Though, perhaps, neither did she.  She rode, nine months pregnant, on the back of a donkey.  She didn't give birth in her home, where likely she would have preferred.  She had Jesus in a dirty, filthy stable, surrounded by farm animals.  Probably not a part of her "birth plan."  As I rode on my own journey to our little Nativity, preparing for our own birth, I held this image in my head repeatedly.  And the last two months and then birth of our recent precious one, though a positive outcome, was not what I had envisioned.  Like the Holy Birth, however, our  sweet one was just fine. 

Oh, you don't need another girl!  I'll pray you have a boy!
Pray for what God thinks is best.

"If it's a boy, are you done?" 
Not a chance.  God willing.

What are you going to do with all those girls?!
Love them!  Treasure them.  Teach them that real beauty is inside, and that they are precious and wonderful as God's children.  As my children.  I will kiss them.  I will hug them.  I will love them.  I will shower them with praise and affection.  When I am too hard, when I fail, I will apologize.  Ask their forgiveness.  I will take their fragile hearts and strengthen them with my love and teach them of God's love.

One of my dearest friends has three boys.  Three precious, beautiful boys.  And I told her this: When God gives a mother the same gender over and over, it's because He sees a strength in that mother.  A virtue.  A capability to raise those precious children.  He gives us what we need. What our children need.

I never prayed for a boy.  I never prayed for a girl.  I prayed for healthy.  I prayed for what God saw fit for us.  What He needed us to have.  And we have three precious girls.  I am so blessed! 

In  world that insists that certain numbers of children and particular genders are what makes an "average" family, what constitutes a "typical" home, I am so honored that God sees fit for us to break that mold.  We get to be the different ones.  Lots of pink, many bows, little shiny mary janes.  Lots of tights, dresses, and slips. 

Your poor husband!

Seriously?  Have you seen him with these girls?  He's surrounded by women!  What a lucky man!  Women who idolize him!  He's always a hero here.  A super man.  A tender, loving, kind father.  I've seen his face three times as a tiny bundle of pink is laid into his arms.  I have seen his eyes mist and his face become so...soft.  I've watched him hold the tiny bodies just below his face, and the tender love with which he gazes at that tiny girl.  Three times.  Three sweet girls.  There needs to be more girls loved like this man loves his daughters.   My poor husband?   No.  Then, you cannot possibly understand.

I have children!  

My dream has come true!

Will you have more?

Oh, sweet  Lord in Heaven, I hope so.  More souls to cherish, more people to love.  I love people!  My sweet little people!  And someday, who knows, the Lord may bless us with some blue.  I have no regrets.  No.  Because I have my little pink bundles.  Healthy, loved baby girls. 

Pregnancy can be so hard.  Even if there are no complications.  And that last month is such a struggle.  Add any sort of worry or potential problem, and a mother's heart is anxious.  Exhaustion, lack of sleep, physical and emotional discomfort, all make the last few weeks so hard.  Then labor starts.  And, oh, the pain!  And it seems endless. 

But there's the moment that makes it all worth it.  Every single pain and discomfort, every overly-emotional day, all the worry and stress--totally worth it.  And I live for that moment each time. 

And now I am days shy of it.  Anytime now.  The contracting and the timing, the wondering if it's time to go.  The sheer, excruciating pain as the body works so hard. 

It all gets forgotten in one indescribable moment. 

I remember when the first time I experienced it.  I truly believed then that the preceding days of labor would never end.  I knew no different.  This was my first time.  And then she arrived. 

And they held her up.

It's a girl!

And they laid her on my chest. 

That memory--that single moment--emblazoned in my mind and heart forever. 

Then, again.  Two years later.  The work and the endless hours of pain.  And finally, again:

It's a girl!  Praise the Lord!

And they laid her on my chest. 

Motherhood is so hard.  I never know if I am winning or losing.  Always unsure if I am making headway in raising virtuous daughters, making progress in getting them to heaven.  I am always fighting that voice that says I'm not doing it well enough, that I am not a good enough mother.  Try harder, I say.  Help me be better, Lord, I pray.  And I toil more.  I love and cherish and, sometimes, I apologize. 

And for some reason that, for the life of me, I cannot understand, He has blessed me with another tiny life.  One that still squirms and wiggles within me.  It might be tiny, they say.  It's not growing very quickly, they state.  And I pray. So far, nothing is overtly wrong with Baby.  But, my heart worries. Has worried for weeks.  Mostly in silence.

But all the worry and wondering, all the what-if's and questions, they will end soon.  Very soon.  It will be time and we will go.  And then it will happen.  That precious moment that I cherish beyond words. 

The Entrance.  The crying.

It's a ---. 

A child!  A precious soul!  One with which God has entrusted to me.  What responsibility!  What an honor!  I do not deserve this wonderful gift.  But, He trusts me.  For some reason, He knows this child needs me.  And that I need this child. 

As I stand on the eve of this child's birth, I wonder.  Boy? Girl?  Doesn't matter.  His or her soul is infinitely valuable and his or her tiny life is such a blessing.  Today, I cannot imagine life with three children, because all I know is life with two.  Tomorrow, I will look back and see an emptiness in the memories.  That was before the birth.  Before their place was made. 

Dear Lord, bless me with patience, give me humility with my children.  Let me be their constant, loving guide to Heaven.  Let me fill them with love and affirmation.  Remind me always what a precious and fragile gift they are, whether at nine months pregnant or nineteen years old, and beyond.  Help me to take their vulnerable hearts and minds and always give them great faith.  Faith in their family, their father, their mother.  And in You. 

And thank you.  Thank you for this precious child within me. 

And for that moment, waiting for me in the next few weeks. 

It's a Life!

For the Little Ones And the Mentors that Guide Them

Today, we are thrilled to have a guest post from blogger and writer Emily Henson.  Her post is especially applicable during these first weeks of school.  Read, enjoy, and leave a comment! 

About Emily: I am a writer of Young Adult fiction currently in the process of getting my first book published.  My goal as a writer is to compose stories that provide solace, laughter, and wisdom while stimulating my readers to engage meaningfully in the world.  I am the proud wife to a fantastic husband and the mother of one, beautiful daughter.  We hope, with the Lord’s blessing, to bring many more delightful children into the world.  

I am a former elementary instructor and now work part time as a self-employed educational consultant assisting teachers in perfecting their methods of education for the betterment of students.  Students from Pre-Kindergarten through the Fifth Grade lean on adults for their primary education.  Our role as parents and teachers is immensely influential on a child’s mind and character.  For that reason, our job to educate them should intimidate us and simultaneously spur us on to be the best mentor a child could witness.  The greatest enabler to influencing a child is the ability to think like one.  Our adult minds so often forget how even the minutest of our actions or words are perceived by youth and that can be a drastic impediment which may affect a child for life. 

Follow Emily and her amazing work at www.eahensonbooks.com, as well as on Facebook (E.A. Henson Books) and Twitter (@eahhensonbooks)! 

 

For the Little Ones

And the Mentors that Guide Them

By: E.A. Henson

I noticed the ability when I became a teacher.  As my little one now toddles around her big world, I am getting to experience the phenomenon just about every minute.  Thinking through the mind of a child; not many adults can do it, in fact, most cannot.  This trait, or talent, or whatever you want to call it, really came as a bitter-sweet shock to me.  I felt deeply the frustrations of my students as they strove to progress in school, to impress their peers and parents.  Watching their desperate attempts at success brought back the dormant emotions I experienced in school.  The delighted smile of my second grade teacher as she read one of my imaginative stories, the frown or snide remark of another teacher that nearly ripped my eager-to-please, young heart to pieces.  Those memories served me well as I stepped into the shoes that could affect my students and how they saw themselves.  

Occasionally, teachers I worked with would share with me their disappointment in one of their students who “just doesn’t get it” and “probably never will”.  If I alone knew of the teacher’s disgust, the story would not be as sad but so often teachers very clearly relate their frustration and impatience to the “low achieving” or “misbehaved” student through their words or actions.

Let me pause here to be clear.  I strongly encourage teachers to set high standards for their students and to expect them to reach or surpass those goals; however, tearing a child’s self-worth to shreds will only serve to break his or her spirit.  In my experience, when the average child struggles behaviorally or academically the fault lies most with the adults in their lives who have not given them the time or love for which they yearn.  

I’m speaking for the little ones who have no voice yet.  They know not how to speak for themselves or even that there exists something against which to protest.  You see, they believe you when you tell them they are ‘good’ or they are ‘bad’, ‘smart’ or simply ‘frustrating’.  They believe their teachers, mothers, fathers, and that is why our job can be fearful and wonderful in each moment.  That is why we need to become like children when our ego threatens to blind us from remembering what it is like to be little ones.  You might learn from them equally what you can teach.  

My little one has taught me patience, and to wave at strangers again, to sing when I want to, to have joy in the small things, to laugh at life, to cry when I’m hurt.  My students showed me how much I don’t know through their constant questions.  They reminded me what it is like to be a student and that allowed me to be a better teacher.  Children are full of light and life in a world often consumed by hate and darkness, they are eager to please sometimes even in the face of determined disapproval.  We have the power and the choice to bolster a child’s self-worth and their thirst for knowledge or the power to neglect and scorn them until they forget how to believe in themselves.  If every teacher or mentor of a child could remove the cobwebs from that corner of their heart where the child in them still lives and smile openly when a child tries their hardest or speak the right words when they struggle, we might see a renewed light and life surge into our future generations.  

Matt 19:14 - But Jesus said, "Let the children alone, and do not hinder them from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."

We Remember...

I had no idea the full impact that day would have on my life.  I couldn't have known.  I had a vague idea, but only to a certain extent. 

I was 18, and in gym class.  The teachers, who never gave us a "Play Day" that deviated from the lesson plan, suddenly took us into the girl's locker room and left us there with the door closed.   We were talking in hushed whispers.  Never had I seen teachers' faces so white.  Finally, after thirty minutes, I sneaked out the door and saw my teacher sitting in her office, face in her hands listening to the radio. 

"A plane has hit the tower!"  The radio was on.

I gasped. 

She looked up and sent me back to the locker room.  She came in later, after a long while, and told us that a plane had hit the World Trade Center.  None of my teachers taught anything that day.  The televisions were on, and we just watched.  As horror and death continue to unfold.  Countless lives lost, buildings destroyed, America brought to its knees.

The days that followed turned into weeks.  Bush stood in front of America.  We were officially a nation at war. 

At that time, he was finishing school and would soon live a mile from me.  But, I did not know him.  He was living his own life.  Preparing to serve our country.  But, I had no idea he even existed.  Instead, I feared for my brothers.  My father, who was serving at that time.  What would happen?  Would there be a draft?  Would my family be split apart by war.

Yes, my child.  But not yet.

Months turned into years, and life moved forward.  We stood up, we healed with scars.  And our men and women continued to fight.  I went to college, grew up.  And he was still fighting, but I still did not know him. 

I know him, now.  I met him, I married him, we had a baby.  I saw him off to war, and we found out we were going to have another baby.  Because of the war.  He came home, and we are a family. He was the last Brigade officially out of Iraq, but they are still there.  Helping them recover.

This day, this anniversary, rings especially somber this year.  As our president stood in front of the cameras again last night, making clear his intentions.  His preferences.

It scared me.  And I had flashbacks.

To that young girl in high school, who, while still mourning the immense loss of American men and women on that fateful September day, watched the president declare war.  Who feared for her brothers, her father.  When that man--that dear man--would soon live less than a mile away.  And would train.  Learn.  Prepare to go fight.  Soon. 

To that woman who, on the eve of her wedding and amidst all the joy and naiveté, had a realization in her stomach of the life into which she was marrying.  A different life.  A hard life.  Of separation and sacrifice.  But, she loved that man.  So much.  And they had God.  He would guide them.  But, still, the feeling was still there.

To that mother who, having no idea of the new life in her middle, held her first baby in her arms as she put her husband, her Soldier on a bus.  Watched him pull away.  And broke down in the car to an extent she'd never known before.  That woman who fought to make a year joyful, loving, pleasant for her little growing family.  Who prepared to give birth alone, but was given a sweet gift at the last second.  And her Soldier stood by her side and they welcomed new life.

To the woman who, upon receiving the incomplete text message about blood and the hospital, thought the worst.  And had to wait.  And wait.  For the news.  And, thankfully, it wasn't what she had thought.

To that Army Wife who stood on the parade field, barely able to contain herself as she tried to find her Soldier in the huge formation.  Who fought to contain the 2 year old, crying to get on the field and find her daddy.  To the woman who was ready to be a family again. 

There is evil in this world.  People who want to destroy others in the name of their "religion."  Their "god."  We, as an American nation, have seen that many times. 

October 12, 2000, a suicide attack killed 17 U.S. Sailors on board the U.S.S. Cole.

On September 11th, 2001, when almost 3,000 lives were taken out of hatred. 

When a "soldier" stood up on Fort Hood and killed 19 people in the name of his "religion." 

Three people were killed and hundreds wounded on April 15, 2013 at the Boston Marathon, when two bombs exploded near the finish line. 

People have died, unjustly, in the face of hatred and religious self-righteousness.  Men have killed and injured others, destroyed families, and have attempted in vain to ruin a nation all because of skewed ideas and perverted "religion."  Men and women have fought in wars against this hatred, sometimes returing home missing limbs or arriving in boxes, defending this nation and the idea of a true Good.  They defend liberty and justice.  For all. 

I choose to believe in a different God.  A God who loves all, wants the best for us and, in the midst of our shame and sinfulness, loves us.  Wants us to choose Him, choose good.  Who wants us to stand in defense of this good.  For all. 

I believe in a God who, when those souls all came Home too early, took them in his arms and welcomed them.  Who spread out wide his mantle of comfort over aching families, a bleeding nation.  Who continuously calls these hateful men and women to change their hearts, to come to His fold. 

I believe in a nation that can get knocked down, but will stand up every time.  We will continue to stand representing good.  Defending liberty and justice.  For all.  We will continue to remember and honor those who died in honor of that freedom, who died in defense of our nation.  Or who were just innocent souls who died because of the evil.

We will remember them all.  

God bless America. 

As the World Turns: Why I'm Afraid for My Daughters, and Terrified of Having a Son

I will admit it. I don't watch a whole lot of TV. Anyway not for me. Mostly it's the news for an hour in the morning, thought I miss 90% of it getting breakfast for my girls and becoming slowly conscious as I finish my coffee. Any other television we do watch is cartoons, and I am very picky about which ones are allowed. Anything that shows underwear (I HATE SPONGEBOB SO MUCH!), has subtle messages that strike me as odd or inappropriate (which are sadly becoming more and more perverse and common), or goes against my distinctly conservative, Christian morals and Faith are not allowed. So, that leaves Oswald (anyone else love him, too?), Doc McStuffins, and Strawberry Shortcake.

They are so little. And so innocent. So precious. But, someday, my tiny souls will grow up like I did, and gradually become more and more aware of the world. The violence, the perverseness, the falling away from God. I work every day to make a home that is safe and warm and loving for them. But someday, they will have to leave. To school. To work. To live.

I told my girls the day they were born I would work my hardest to make sure that no one ever let them feel worthless. That they would never go to bed feeling like they didn't matter, or worse, were unimportant to someone else. Each of my girls are beautiful. They are special. Not because of their darling faces, or (someday) the shapes of their bodies. No. They are beautiful because they are fearfully and wonderfully made. They each have a soul and an identity that no one else has, and that is so valuable. Infinitely valuable.

I have not been blessed with a son here yet. I am terrified of having one. I have many friends who have little boys; I have seen their inexhaustible energy levels. I have seen how they never seem to never run out of energy. Much more physical than my emotional girls, I am astounded at the difference. But that is not what fills me with fear.

It's the ads. Of bras and underwear on TV during the day while innocent cartoons are on. It's walking through the malls filled mannequins and giant posters that are everywhere with inappropriately dressed women, or women standing in underwear. It's the women I see, walking about with underwear hanging out, body parts showing that should be hidden. It's the pornography and the sexuality that is readily available by the click of a mouse.

 Having a son terrifies me.

Because, at the end of it all, I cannot protect him. I cannot save him. He will make his own choices. And what if--what if--he makes the wrong ones? What if all this explicit sexuality crushes and destroys him? What if it ultimately controls him? What if I do not raise him right, because I do not know how to raise him?

Then it hits me, right between the eyes. Pains my heart. The same thing could happen to my precious girls. They start down that slippery slope. The one so very hard to turn around and reascend and heal from.  

What if I am not good enough? 

What if I am not pretty enough? 

 I am fat. 

I am dumb. 

 I am...worthless.

And just like that, they allow some perverse man to objectify them, to use them, to crush their precious spirits. Their beautiful souls.

Like this.

The lyrics, which I have decided not to print here, were horrendous. Referring to women literally as objects. On pop(ular) radio. A married father letting some 20-year old gyrate against him, while his song degraded women openly and disgustingly.

What if.

But, it's happening to other parents. Miley is a daughter. She once was a starry-eyed innocent preschooler. Toddler. She once ran about the house, calling for Mommy, Daddy. Thinking that was all there was to the world. To her world. And now she is broken. Shattered. Searching for affirmation and justification through objectification of herself. Her spirit is broken. Poor, sweet child. All 20 years of her.

Someday, I truly hope we are blessed with a son here on earth. Someday, I hope I can rest easy and night and know my girls will be alright. That I have shown them their inherent value, their wonderful beauty. That Someone created them beautifully, lovingly, and particularly. That they are so invaluable. So worthy. So wonderful. That they deserve to be treated respectfully, and will demand to be treated that way. Like their mother.

 And my son(s) will value that beauty. They will be raised to be awed by that beauty. Not to break it, but to build upon it. They will be encouraged to raise women up, not to tear them down. To serve women, not to expect them to serve them. They will be polite and courteous. Gentlemen. Like their father.

Because it does start at home. The safest, warmest place. The innocent world. That's where it starts. I plant the seeds. I foster the roots Inside these walls--this is my domain. My husband's domain. I can shield them, protect them, influence them. Pray for them. My responsibility lives now. To raise souls that glorify God, glorify their fellow people. Loves them, respects them, and raises them up. To teach them to love and respect themselves, and love and respect others.  

Because we are all fearfully and wonderfully made.

Autumn Dreams

I hate summer. I've never really been a huge fan of this particular season, anyway, except when I was school-age and it meant brief freedom. Then, I grew up. Now, I really hate it. I don't like sweat. I don't like heat. I don't like blinding, raging sunshine that seems to be slowly killing you, one UV ray at a time. Not a huge fan. Then, I moved to Texas. And hate moved up to despise. Really, there is nothing redeeming, to me, about the summer in Texas. And, conversely, nothing redeeming about Texas in the summer. I cannot go anywhere, do anything. Even five minutes' drive in the car, and I'm afraid I'm dying of heat stroke. My girls sweat profusely. They turn red. We cannot venture to the park, and even going swimming is rather miserable. The pool feels more like a lukewarm tub, and the sun is still trying to kill you one UV ray at a time. But, oh, Autumn. I went to school in Virginia, and come Fall, the landscape would suddenly explode in the most beautiful hues. We'd all load up in my tiny car and sit atop Skyline drive, and just...look. Drink it in.

Now, I just dream about then. What I would do if we lived somewhere a little north of Hades that had real seasons--real autumns and even winters. Pumpkins, caramel, cinnamon. If I lived somewhere that had that distinct smell of Fall in the mornings.

If I lived somewhere in which I could use all the recipes in the magazines I get from August until November, featuring warm, crock pot stews and delicious ciders for those extra-chilly nights. Where I could bake, without baking myself to death. Soups, warm bread, oatmeal for breakfast.

A place where the anticipation builds as the days grow shorter--the holidays are coming! Where the cardigans, thicker socks, and corduroy are pulled out. Blankets thrown about our shoulders as the first fire of the season is built. Where there comes a crispness to the air.

And then, it's time to go. And I open the front door and the blasts of the fires of Hades rip at my face. Welcome to Texas, they say. Yes. Where everything is bigger...even the heat.

Myths and Truths about Life After the Military

I always welcome hearing from other's perspective.  In light of that, one of my readers Emma is guest posting about an interesting topic--service members transferring from the Military to civilian workforce.  Thanks for broadening our perspective, Emma!

Emma is a mid 20-something year old with a passion for life, love, fitness, and helping others. She loves to be active and get involved in as many sport and community activities as possible. Emma is currently studying to become a Career & Life Coach, and loves to network with people from around the world! Check out Emma’s blog at http://smileasithappens.blogspot.com/


Myths and Truths About Life After the Military
Every veteran’s situation is unique, some transition from the military after a minimum commitment while others retire after a much longer career. Either way, the transition can present some challenges. Often, these challenges are compounded by the myths you have probably heard concerning the transition. Let’s take a look at a few common myths and learn the truths that can set you on the path toward success.
Myth: Finding a non-military job after a long time in the military will be overwhelmingly difficult.
Truth: Many skills used in the military are transferrable to private-sector jobs. Firms such as Recruit Military specialize in connecting military veterans and military spouses with companies seeking to fill open positions. Recruit Military also offers assistance with resume writing, hosts job fairs and supplies several other job services to veterans and their spouses.
Myth: Job applications are difficult and time consuming to complete.
Truth: Companies today understand the importance of attracting the best employees to fill open positions. In order to do so, many companies have simplified the application process by partnering with mobile recruiting programs, like JIBE to allow job seekers to easily upload resumes and other pertinent information directly from computers, tablets or smart phones.
Myth: Because you were discharged with a service-related injury you will have a hard time finding a job.
Truth: In addition to laws that give preference to veterans applying for certain jobs, the government also has several programs available to assist disabled veterans seeking to reenter the workforce. You may be eligible to receive on-the-job training, vocational rehabilitation, personal counseling and more. These programs are committed to providing disabled veterans with the help they need to find and maintain gainful employment.
Myth: Looking for a job is simply a process of sending out a resume and waiting.
Truth: There’s a lot more to finding a job than simply submitting resumes. You need to network, make follow up calls and sell yourself to potential employers. Attending job fairs and social events will help you get your name into the right circles. Employers won’t be knocking on your door looking to hire you, it is your job to get out there and sell yourself!
As you make the transition into civilian life, you’ll learn about some wonderful resources available to you and in time, opportunities you never dreamed could come your way.

There is a strength that can be found in this path.  But, you must also find strength to remain on this path. 

I walk around my house, slowly becoming a home, trying to decide where to start next.  What box to unpack now.  And where to put it.  What needs to go to a new home. 

I want the boxes gone.  Done. 

We have moved four times in the last year-ish.  Before we even arrived back in Texas (much to our surprise), we had our assignment changed five times.  All this following a deployment.  Surprisingly, I handled it okay.  At times, I became irritated or frustrated.  Cranky.  But, mostly, I just swung with the changes.  I have seen so many boxes in the last year, packed a place so many times (and so quickly), that I am sick of seeing and smelling cardboard.  And it does have a smell.  It fills your home quickly.  Amidst this latest move, I started to say, If I ever see a box again, it will be too soon.  I never finished the sentence. 

In two years, we will pack up this home and head out again.  Move again. 

And that's okay.  I have the strength to do it.  I might not be thrilled about unpacking today, or clearing the moving clutter off that counter AGAIN.  I might kick the packing paper after I stub my toe on a box for the umteenth time, but I move forward.  Because I muster the strength. 

The strength I see in my husband, who makes the biggest sacrifice.  Always prepared to make an even bigger sacrifice.  The strength I feel when I look at our neighbors here on post, all moving through the same life.  The strength I am reminded of when I pull the pictures and photos out of boxes and hang them on the wall.  Those things are our home; they move with us.  Everywhere.  The strength I hear when we are sitting in bed at night, and Taps plays out all over the Army Post on the loud speaker in the darkness.  I stop cold every time. 

There's a strength I grasp when my girls are wrestling with more transition, scared of change.  I become the pillar that they need when everything around them is changing and being packed in paper and boxes.  When they cry out they don't want to leave their house again.  The strength I force when talking deployments and moves...because they are real.  And always inevitable. 

There's a strength I feel when I am reminded again that that I am a Third Generation Army Wife.  A sense of pride.  I can do this, because my mother and my mother's mother walked this path. 

Yes, I can unpack one more box.  Put stuff somewhere.  Record more damage.  And more.  And then more.  I can move again when the time comes.  I can hug away the fear, kiss the tears.  I can stand tall and proud and firm for my Soldier.  I can hang more pictures, knowing they'll come down all too soon.  I can get irritated over the chips and gouges and then get over it. 

Because of the Strength.  The Strength I feel.  And the Strength I make.