32 Days

Phil and I got back on Sunday from a two-week block leave where we went to Kaua'i, Hawaii, for a week for our honeymoon and then went to Michigan for my brother's wedding. It was lazy, sandy, sweaty, tiring, tearful, and altogether refreshing.

When we got off the plane in the small Lihue airport on September 14, both of our phones had messages from a few friends that read, "Call me as soon as you can." I called and learned that our friend Andrew, who was deployed in late July to Afghanistan on a Stryker unit, was killed by an IED.

He was married to his wife, Sarah, since Decemeber 2008 and they were expecting their first child. As the gravity of what had happened sunk in, all I could think about was that baby being born in February without a daddy and yet resembling him to the T. We had just had lunch with Sarah the day before we left for Hawaii and were talking about Andrew and his similarities with Phil, the funny quirks he had, the way he teared up when Sarah told him about the latest ultrasound.

And then? Gone. Never coming home.

Sarah had been my support in preparing for deployment. We were both new to the military, freshly married, and facing deployment quickly. I watched her as she said goodbye to Andrew and talked with her in the following weeks. She was doing good, staying busy, always smiling, and I thought, "Yeah, I can do this. Look, Sarah's fine." In fact a week before my honeymoon, her and I spent a day together and we were talking about getting to that point where you're ready for the husband to go...you're ready to start the separation to get it over with...you're ready to stop crying and being mopey.

Phil and I sat in a daze in baggage claim, me crying into a sweatshirt and his eyes glazing over, as all around us newlyweds and couples were laughing, flipping through Kaua'i travel books, giving each other lazy kisses as they knew what a great trip was ahead of them. And suddenly, I was scared. I was scared to let Phil go, to be by myself, to say goodbye.

"I can't do this. I don't want to do this. He won't come back. Look what happened to Sarah. And a baby at that. No, God you can't let this happen. Phil can't go."

My tears over the previous months had hardened me up and prepared me for what was ahead. I was ready. And sitting on a kola bench in the warm evening sun outside the airport, I was back to square one: I was a teary, blubbering, sniffling wreck.

I had many more opportunities of crying throughout the week as I received details on his funeral, how Sarah was holding up, links to newspaper articles written about him. Phil and I prayed for the family, reminisced on Andrew's character, discussed what would be ahead for Sarah. We came home the following Monday, late, and were able to attend the funeral service on Tuesday before we headed for Michigan on Wednesday. It was a beautiful ceremony and showed Andrew's personality, commitment, love for Jesus, and dedication to his country. Phil and I wept with other friends and family and found some healing in that Andrew left a legacy for his child and his wife to remember.

And then on to Michigan we flew. It was busy for others but lazy for us as we slept in until noon everyday and ate the stockpiles of food Mom always keeps on hand. On Saturday after the wedding, we had a get-together with Mireks and Sommervilles to hang out and inevitably, Phil's mom wanted to pray for Phil and I in the big circle.

I know I shouldn't be bothered by corporate prayer, and that obviously prayer is a good thing, but it was awkward having Brad and Melissa there, joyful and thinking about their upcoming honeymoon, to pause and pray for us. But we prayed and as various people spoke, I realized how foreign my life is to them now. I found myself almost resenting their prayers because the tiny voice in my head was saying, "I don't need this. I have my church family in Washington and I have Jesus there too. I don't need your tears and hugs right now. I'm going to be fine." Which, I'm pretty sure is not the right attitude to have while praying, but alas, there it was.

So now, not only am I fearful again of Phil deploying, I'm worried about my family swooping in on me, assuming I'm going to need to come home every other week, cry on their shoulder, send care packages to Phil once a day and lie in a comotose state for a year. I know I'm a stubborn little I-DO-IT girl who's grown into a woman, but them saying, "We're here for you...call us anytime...we'll pay for your plane tickets to come home...you don't have to do this alone," is making me NOT want to do any of those things...just to prove to them I'm strong.

In writing this, I know I'm a contradiction. I'm scared out of my mind, feeling alone and like I can't do this, and yet unwilling to take my family up on their offers of support. Where do I get that go it alone thing? How does one develop that? My first phrase as a toddler was, "I do it," but how did I get that way? And why is it still here, lurking around the corners of events and taunting me into being miserable and not trust God?

I know this upcoming year is going to be challenging on many levels, and yet I can't help but think that God's work on me is going to be more difficult than Phil being gone for a year.

I'm praying for balance in all things...
that I can balance being realistic of what could happen to Phil and also of taking one day at a time...
that I tough things out on my own in order to be strong and also receive the love my family wants to give...
that I remember those who have passed and those who are going to pass and also celebrate the moments I have with each person.

This is it...the final month. I'm gearing myself back up for October 31 and trusting that God will walk me through it. I'm praying for joy in embracing each day and not cry-snotting all over my pillow.

Ready or not, here it comes.

yes, yes i am alice in wonderland

Except it's more like wanderland...most days I seem to wander from thought to thought...from impulse to impulse...from pursuit to pursuit. Some days I'm very proud of who I am and the woman I've grown into, and other days I feel unnecessary, insignificant...like the squashed giant mosquito in my shower stall right now.

I'm attempting to find my niche in creativity. I used to be a creative writer...not a very good one...but still, I claimed the title and it's written on an official document somewhere in a box around here.

Then I was a hope builder and a seed planter...the common AmeriCorps motto. I worked with struggling students in elementary schools and even though I barely had time to gather my thoughts after work each day, I was doing the tough work...the labor of love...the empowering stuff. I was a martyr for national service.

And now? Pff...a housewife, and an ARMY one at that. I can honestly say I would have never dreamed my life would be intertwined with the military. And yet, here I am, facing my husband's deployment and wondering if I have what it takes. Will I get that calloused smirk like women who sling three or four kids and are on their third deployment?

"Oh honey, come talk to me. I'm used to this stuff. And you'll get used to it too. It's hard, but you get over it."

Or the down-turned eyes and the bunching of the lips from those who are doing their best to empathize.

"Are you moving back home? How are you going to handle that? I could never do what you're doing. I just can't even imagine."

Okay so it's established that I've changed a lot...that I'm nowhere near who I was in my creative college days. I'm a housewife who exercises on TV each day, checks the bank balance every morning, buys corn bread from the dollar store, makes my husband's turkey-sandwich-with-mayo-and-dijon-mustard-potato-chips-granola-bar-and-fruit-of-some-variety lunch everyday around 8pm, and browses KitchenKraft and Etsy to fill the dead hours of 1-3pm.

And here is my predicament: I miss my creative. I miss that quiet time scribbling and scratching words late at night...times when I had to keep pen and paper near my bed in case the inspiration fairy came to visit while I was sleeping. Times when characters, voices, ideas and phrases popped into my head (although, in hindsight, is that something I really want now...?). Times when I gather corporately with people not to worship the Creator above but the creator within each of us (and drinking cheap wine, of course).

I'm not in that place anymore, and I don't want to be, but where is the creative in what I do now, other than getting creative with making various types of chicken dinners?