Explosive Love

The anticipation of the end of a separation is killer. The moments of angst and eagerness building up, developing like a firework that's about to explode, are difficult to contain. This is our life. Goodbyes, loneliness, and reunions.

Here I sit with my bottle of water, headphones on, music blaring, shaking non stop with eagerness. Chief has been away. It's been a period of doing-this-on-my-own, single-parenting, and lonely adultness (meaning, no other adult around to share the quiet with). Chief is my most favorite person on the planet. Cut. Paste. Go to print. Ab.so.lute.favorite! My idea of a perfect day always involves being wrapped up in him in some capacity. When he is away, I feel differently. I view the world differently. I struggle.

I really don't know how to define the period apart to those who've never experienced it. I also know that those who have, know exactly what I mean without me having to say a word. It's like being turned inside out, put on pause, separated from yourself, but hoping, dreaming, visualizing the day when it all goes back to the way that it was. When home becomes home again, and the world goes back to normal.

Probably the best comparison of reunion day, to the non-militarized, would be the day before your wedding. Those feelings of nerves and angst and excitement... that's the closest feeling that comes to mind. It's this feeling of insane nausea, where your brain is screaming as loud as it possibly can: hurry up, hurry up, HURRY UP!!!!!

Then it comes. That first glimpse. Searching, aching eyes get what they've been longing for... the sight of him. This sense of calm comes and I almost always end up saying something completely ridiculous. I lose all sense of filter, calm, and collection. Basically I become who I really am underneath all this "decorum" (haha): a girl insanely, intensely, and whole heartedly in love with this dude who walked into my ears on a random Tuesday and changed my whole world.

I feel awkward, embarrassed, and incredibly nervous until like magic his touch takes that all away. His arms, or his hands, or his body touches mine and in an instant the goosebumps come. Time stands still, and music plays. Fireworks explode.

The waiting for that moment is rough. The awful that has to happen before that explosion of great comes, sucks. But that explosion, that display of magnificent fireworks is extremely powerful. It's the sort of thing that fairy tales are made of. For the last 10+ years, I've had the pleasure of experiencing that over and over again. And what makes all of this so astoundingly beautiful is that this is what eternity will be, magnified a million times over, when one day I stand in front of God and have the most intense emotional fireworks explosion ever.

I am waiting with great anticipation and eagerness. Screaming at the top of my lungs hurry up!

Spock and Princesses

I live in a world that I've created for myself. It's filled to the brim with meetings, tasks, events. It's an overloaded calendar and a way-too busy schedule. It's a sea of stress and over exertion.

Today I looked up and my eye caught the gaze of one of my children. She was standing about ten feet away from me, watching. I was busily working away at the computer. Emails, homeschool lesson plans, facebook pages all demanded my attention and I "needed" to get it done.

Come and play with me, Mommy.

My instinct was to say Just a minute and the truth is on any other day that's probably what I would have said. More than likely I would have said it in an irritated tone that hinted at "How dare you interrupt me?" But for whatever reason that I can't possibly give myself credit for, I got up. I walked over to her, smiled and picked her up. I spun her around and she laughed and laughed in the way that only she is capable of doing. She kissed my cheek and I stared into her brown eyes. She had a small patch of her curly hair over her eyes, between her glasses and her face. I brushed that aside and said You are SO beautiful. She proceeded to Vulcan Death grip me. I reminded her that I am immune and in my most serious super villain voice I said BUT YOU ARE NOT!!! MWA HA HA HA!

She jumped down, screamed and ran off down the hallway. She did so, in a beautiful tone that hinted at "Come and chase me Mommy!" I happily obliged, and turned myself into a Star Trek bad-gal out to get Ms. Spock (that's who she likes to be).

When it was all said and done I had this overwhelming sense in my heart that this is what I want them to remember about me. I want them to reflect back on their childhood and remember that Mommy got up from whatever it was that she was "SO busy with" and played. Even if she didn't feel like it. I want them to remember us playing with legos, barbies, and baby dolls. I want them to remember pillow fights, Sardines, and dog-piles. I want them to at least know, for a period of time that I hope to make last as long as possible, that they are safe, they are adored, they matter. Especially since reality will come in like a hurricane one day and tell them the opposite of all of those things. When it comes, it will chip away at their foundation, and I want to have built up enough of it to be able to withstand the destructive components of "you suck" that wash over children in puberty.

I want them to believe me when I tell them about how much God loves them, because I have lived a life that has shown them how much I love them.

I can't give myself credit for getting up and playing Spock. I have no idea why I did it. But for a moment, however brief it was, and how little it damaged my unending to-do list from being completed, I made my six year old brown-eyed girl feel like the center of my world. It cost me nothing, but it gave my heart so much joy.

Rain

There's a refreshment to the spirit that can come when you have eight thousand days of sun, and then the rain begins to pour. It's amazing how much you can take it for granted. The smell... The sound of gentleness in the air. It's amazing how the brown looks less brownly when there's rain all around.

My thoughts drift off to a thousand days of insanity in greener pastures. I am reminded of what life was like so many years ago. No kids. No husband. Just me. Me and my goals, against the world. It was all so much more complicated back then. Isn't that strange? Back when I had only myself to worry about, life was more complicated than it is now.

To have a family was not what I envisioned for myself. To have a husband and eight zillion kids was not what I believed I wanted. One day it all sort of happened. I resisted, and ran, and fought, and one day I had the balls to give in. That day it was more humid than I could ever remember. I was terrified, and all of this anxiety about a promise was welling up in me. A promise I knew I would keep. I would have to.

Down an aisle I went. Chief cried. I remember looking at him thinking I'm supposed to be crying. Why am I not crying? Force one out! Force out a damn tear! (plop) What's wrong with me???? Oh crap! My turn to talk! (vows) Promise done. 

I remember going out to the landing before we got in the car and thinking it was so surreal. I just gave away my entire life, and I felt "normal". I remember feeling like I had to put on some show for everyone else around me. Like everything had to be done their way, their standards, for their picture of what "a wedding" looked like. It wasn't funny, or beautiful. It was not a reflection of either of us in any capacity. It was just motions. I hated it. But then the moment came where it was just the two of us. And boom! The tears. The power. The might of that experience. I looked out the window and he grabbed my hand. He said "Hello Mrs. Jones!"

It rained on our way home. We had a tornado that night. Funny how storms make me think of that day. The day I married the greatest person I have ever known, in the most ridiculous of ways. It took seven years, a change of religions, and an iPhone Priest to rewrite that picture of a wedding ceremony. On that second day, it was overcast, but it didn't rain. Inside of the church, it was filled with warmth, and silliness, and the most sincerest of passion. And I cried. Not because I felt like I needed to, but because I couldn't not. Because it wasn't about what anyone else wanted. It was just this crazy, dramatic, fiercely fragile girl making her promise all over again to this boy that changed her world. As our four children looked on, I couldn't help but ignore the beauty of him. He has given me so much. And almost all of it I never knew I wanted.

But for the here and now, the rain has come and the brown looks less brownly, and the green looks more greenly. Life is less complicated now, than it was so many years ago. I am blessed.

Death

A child is dead. It's a horrible, awful, ugly experience. It feels like someone pulling the shades over your very soul and erasing the sun from your memory. It feels like being gutted and sucker punched, and hollowed out simultaneously while demanding that you maintain a strength, clarity, and endurance that you are not capable of. A child is dead and it's awful and painful and devastating.

Burying your face in your hands, or being incapable of tears, because the weight is too much to bare. Screaming out between the heaving and the sobbing "Why? Why? WHY?"

The misinformation is astounding. How quickly people make assessments and opinions and determinations. You weren't paying attention. This is your fault. You should have been more aware, more present, more attentive. This wouldn't have happened if you had done something differently. You should have done random drug tests, or stalked their cell phone. You should have placed armed guards outside of their school. You should have fed them only organic food. You should have carried those babies for much longer than you did. You should have, you should have, you should have.

As if everyone else's version of "you should have" somehow could drown out the chorus of it playing over and over again, like a broken record in your own head: Why didn't I? Why didn't I? Why didn't I?

Tragedy is ugly. Why are we so uncomfortable with accepting it? Why do we have to make laws, or have protests, or need vengeance? Why does there always have to be blame? Why do I always have to find blame?

A child is dead and I'm angry. I want justice, vengeance, change. I want to "be certain" that this will never ever happen again. But I can't be. I can't undo the actions of cells going crazy, or lake's with quick sand, or gunmen that are insane, or a body that just can't.keep.going... I can't undo the very actions of God, or prevent the hurts from happening to someone else. But I can embrace and pour out love on a tragedy that is consumed with loss. I can weep and mourn and celebrate the life that existed. I can honor the memory of the person I loved.

A child is dead. It's a horrible, awful, ugly experience.

Fireworks

The display was over. We sat outside on our lawn chairs, looking up at the sky. The smoke was slowly fading away into the air. I leaned over and whispered to Chief Thank you for enduring real bombs so that we can enjoy watching these pretty ones.

Fireworks do something to me. They move me. I mean they really move me. They propel my mind into scenes and displays that I have not yet been forced to personally endure. They play scenes of bombs exploding everywhere. The loss of life. The loss of American lives. The pounding thumps in my chest and flashes my spirit into what Chief has lived too many times to count. My mind wonders how it was during the American Revolution and the Civil War when so many people heard the pounding of the explosions not meant to delight, but to destroy, all around them. The fear, the angst, the devastation.

Fireworks make me remember. They make me think of the RPG that only killed one, because it didn't explode inside of the tank. They make me think of the sound of the IED that went off and forever changed the picture of the world for two dear friends of mine. They make me think of the ongoing, never ending, psychological effects of war for our soldiers, and the people who adore them. They make me think of a group of people who were willing to sacrifice it all, give everything they had, for an ideal, a beautiful picture of what the world could be. They make me think of how in our own way, Chief, my children, and myself have taken up that call and laid the greatest delight of our lives on the line. We've said Here you go America. Take him. The cause of freedom is worth it to us.

I spent the entire time praying. Praying for America. Praying for my Gold star friends. Praying for our soldiers in the midst of death and destruction right now. Praying for our military leaders. Praying for our nation. Praying for Chief. Praying for our FRG leaders. Praying for our military spouses. Praying. The bombs kept going off and we all smiled and cheered and thought about how beautiful they were... And I leaned over to my husband and whispered that small thank you that couldn't even begin to scratch the surface of the depth of my gratitude.

To all of my readers who have endured the toils of war I make this humble, and sincere statement: Thank you for enduring real bombs, real bullets, real hell, so that we can enjoy the pretty ones of last night. May your gift to America never be forgotten. May your names always be remembered.