Her.

America,    

    I have two best friends: one that I am married to, and one that I am not. You know an awful lot about the one that I am married to, but I don't talk about BA as much. I will attempt to do so now.

    I am not one prone to a lot of labels. Calling someone a "best" anything is something I am generally opposed to doing. I think that a best friend is something hard fought to win. It comes with responsibility, dedication, commitment, and loyalty. I don't just offer those commitments out willy-nilly. When I met BA, my whole family decided that she was my "best friend." It took me a while to get on board. 

    She and I are a lot alike. As we grew in our friendship, the similarities kept on coming. Where we are different, it compliments. I am heavily prone to the dramatic (anyone surprised!?) while she is super even-keeled. I panic, she reflects. We are both passionate, focused, incredibly smart bad mofos handling life like bosses (haha). She can make me laugh so hard it hurts. She can take a dark and cloudy emotional day and remind the inner-hot-mess-of-myself that she is not alone, and she'll be okay. She inspires the shit out of me. She navigates life with such wisdom and grace, and it annoys me (on occasion) that she doesn't see it in herself. It's a privilege to walk with her while she loves our God, her husband, and her children, while tackling new challenges, seeking out answers, and navigating the hurdles of growing older.

    I do not hold the eloquence in writing that she does (she's an author), so I struggle to describe her. She was the greatest gift that Fort Benning ever gave me. I know that I can call her and rant and rave about my pitiful life (cue tiny violins), and she will support me, my marriage, my motherhood, my Catholicism, and my femininity. She doesn't judge me when I utter a plethora of curse words in one sentence, and a genuine prayer in the next. She totally accepts my personal obsession with Moses, as someone who sees it almost as clearly as my husband and children do (but she's not under any contractual obligations to accept it. LOL!). 

    I told her today that we can go for weeks without talking, but no matter what she's my best friend. Like it or not! Sort of like the blood-in-blood-out vibe of my marriage. LOL! I wish, with all of my heart that we could live in the same city again, but even if that is not meant to be, I know that in Heaven (when we get there) we will be laughing, talking, and having the world's best time. 

    She's amazing, America! What's some things you cherish about your best friend?

September

I'm sitting here on our couch, wearing your ring, wrapped up in your ghost. I'm rounding the bend to forty. A significant age. You were not here for my 18th, 21st, or my 25th birthdays either. I feel the air leave my chest and it's as if the inhale hesitates to come. I'm here and you're there and I keep telling myself that we chose this, that I chose this, but it isn't helping at all because the air doesn't want to fill my lungs and my heart doesn't want to beat and my eyes don't want to stop leaking. 

All I want is you.

It's lame and pathetic. I have a million things to be grateful for. I have a million moments to stay rooted and present in. I have so many experiences that I am living here and now. I hate that I feel like I'm living in pause between the moments where you are on the phone and when we hang up. I hate how physically my body aches for you. I am so fortunate that God has given me so many arms to hug. I am so grateful that our children are such fantastic, beautiful, glorious, magnificent creatures and that while you are away the five of us get to deepen our bond and connection to each other. I always wish you could see how amazing they are in these moments when you're away. They have a bravery, courage, and dedication that is outstanding to see. Of course they have all of these things when you're here too. It's probably that my eyes spotlight it more when they are not so focused on you...

Moments like right now I want to give up. I want to say screw it to all of our plans and directions. I want to say I'm tired of this lifestyle, throw in the towel, and move on to a different life. These moments make me hate in a way that I have never hated before. Because, Love, this love moves my heart through such overwhelming grief that I feel like I can't breathe. 

You know, better than anyone, how much I loathe any sense of weakness in myself. You also know how utterly weak I am for you. It's bizarre how much I love that, though. Love, though it moves me to the greatest depths of despair, is the most profound gift that I can pour out of myself. I will empty my flesh of everything I am, if it gives me one more moment of sustenance to love more. Love hurts so much, Love, that I am moved through weakness and sorrow to something I can never adequately put to words.

Today I poured out all of the hurt around my birthday to you. I cried and cried and I hated feeling that way but I have always known that I can be selfish, broken, shattered with you and you will hold it. You will let me be all of those things and you will listen so that I can pick myself up by the boot straps and keep on going. I love that today you didn't remind me that we, as a family, chose this. I love that you didn't say that I need to think about all of the wonderful people that I will have to share that day with. I love that you didn't tell me that this is the military way, or that I need to toughen up, or that I should feel any differently than I feel. You let me be angry and hurt and sad. You sat with me while I cried, half a world apart. 

My birthday will be hard because despite all that I know will never happen, I will still be aching for the door to open and you to be standing there. I'm glad that my heart longs for that so desperately. I'm glad that after twenty years of loving you like a crazed individual that has not changed. I hope our children have loves like this. I hope they have passion that never dies, affection that never dries up, and butterflies that still dance around in their stomachs even after so much time. 

I love you, Love. I'll be seeing you.

Love

The month of my fortieth year. The year that one has eyes on with a laser like focus after 25. The only thing I want is you. The hurt is heavy, love. The weight feels like something I don't want to hold. I'm whining...

You are the only man I have ever wanted to be beautiful for. I probably should have written "human" because I have thus far never desired to be beautiful for a woman, but I digress... You're the only person I have ever worried about my outfit, my hair, my eyebrows, my nails... You're the only person that I have agonized over whether or not something flatters me in all the right places, for. I have spent more hours wanting you to think I'm beautiful, than I care to admit. But yet, here I am doing so. 

When I was young and single, so many people told me I needed to go-for-the-guy who was stronger than me, more stubborn. While I never disagreed with that, I also knew that I needed my "person" to impact more than that: I needed to feel like a woman. Perhaps that's what your strength has ultimately given me: the ability to be feminine, vulnerable, fragile. When you came in to my life, I didn't have to "be" anything anymore. Just myself, with all of her pieces, both intact and broken. I could be afraid of the dark, struggle to always fall asleep, insecure and uncertain, while yelling with a confidence unrivaled. All of me. 

When our children inevitably read this blog, I hope they most take away this life lesson in regards to love: be with the person who scares you so ferociously because they help you to be a more fantastic version of yourself. Period. Let them see it all, exposed, open, and if they compel you to further greatness, then you know. Be also that person for them.

When I complain that I can not handle the tasks laid before me, you are the voice that cheers me on, with genuine support and an abundance of laughter. When I believe lies about myself, you are the voice that reminds me to listen to the truth. When I feel like I can't keep going, you come along side of me with such a joyful energy that I can focus on my breathing and take it one step at a time. 

I love everything about you, love. I love watching you grow and develop and deepen yourself as a man. I love watching how you love me. I love listening to how you equip, serve, and lead the people you work with. I love being your partner in crime, the ear to your jokes, and the heart that you hold. I miss you. I'll be seeing you.

1st born and college!?

 I still remember the way that the light fell on you when you were about two weeks old. You were sleeping and I had peaked in the room to see if you were okay. The afternoon sunlight was beaming through the window on your hair. You looked like you were glowing. I remember thinking that I would die for you. I would kill any selfish desire I had for myself and I would throw all of every single element of me into being your mom. I remember it being so powerful that I quickly grabbed my camera and took a picture. I wanted to remember you, in that moment, for the rest of my life. Funny how my brain remembers it so perfectly that the actual photo is unnecessary.

College is beckoning you and all I keep recalling is every moment where my heart chose you over and over again. Sitting up in the middle of the night for the two am feedings, rocking you while you slept on my chest. I was exhausted beyond what I could have imagined at the time (let's be real... the triplets made that period seem restful. HA!). I sat there in the dark saying enjoy this. It won't last long. Treasure every second that you can keep her safe, close to your chest. 

The idea of you not being in your room anymore is very emotional. The idea of driving you to a state far away, and somehow willing my body to walk away and leave feels crippling. What if my legs stop working? What if my heart leaps out of my chest? What if I can't do it? All of these are silly questions because I know that the strength of motherhood will carry me through. Love is so astoundingly powerful that it will help me to do everything that you need me to do. It will help me to give you the tightest hug, and write you a thousand letters, fill packages and send them, and find a way to find joy in the transformation of our relationship. Change is good, but it's also hard.

I will always be your Mommy. I will always want to run to protect you. I will always be willing to kill whatever selfish desire lives in me, in order to more fully show you the Love of God. I will always work against my own insecurities, faults, failures, and weaknesses to be a better example for you. I will always try my best to be humble, to apologize when necessary, and to be your support with grace. You will never have to fear about a place to land if you should fall. Come what may. I love you nugget. More than those small words could ever possibly hope to explain. 

Love

 Love,

    Time stands still some days. I feel like I'm doing all that I can to force the breath to move in and out of my lungs. I feel exhausted and conflicted and all over the map. I feel like every feeling is completely out of control so I exercise myself to the point of exhaustion, and I micromanage the things that I can in the juvenile hope that control will make me feel safe. Control will numb the sorrow.

    Did I mention that some days I wrap myself up in your clothes so that I don't feel like you're so far away? Some days I bury my face in your things hanging up in the closet and shut my eyes so tightly so that I can pretend you're standing there filling them. Some days I long for the physical presence of you that my arms, chest, and body physically aches. Dramatic, I know, but also true.

    We get on the phone and I can't find any words to say because how do I describe the storm in my spirit without making you feel guilty? How do I express how desperately I want you to be here without having to dive in to consequences and choices and decisions that have been intentionally made?

    From the moment I met you, the time spent without you feels like a vacuum of darkness. It feels like all of the best parts of me disappear and I'm left trying to figure out how to keep on truckin'. It's why I ran away the first time you deployed because this love that you've brought to my heart was so overwhelming and agonizing that it was easier to numb myself and shut it down. Except numbing ourselves to hurt always means numbing ourselves to joy.

    I am working on intentionally sitting in the aches that I want to avoid. Grounding myself in the pain so that I don't lose out on any of the sun drops of joy that abound. Looking at your face flooded my heart with so much light today. Feeling the butterflies in my stomach, the longing in my chest, and the many emotions that you wear on your face is a pleasure. Even if we aren't saying any words, sitting silently looking at each other through a phone camera while our children talk about driving, and dating, and college, and all of the things that are such big experiences, all I could do was smile. 

    Look at what we've made. Two broken-family kids, scared to pieces, desperate for the comfort that only the other can bring. We have four human beings who are utterly fantastic, and somehow we get to be a part of that. I look at them and I see you. I see the way you wear your emotions on your sleeve, the way you force yourself to do so.many.things that your heart doesn't want to. I see your endurance and your strength. I see the resilience of a man a million times stronger than I am, capable of holding me up while I learn how to put myself back together, and vulnerable enough to let me do the same for him. I see the way you carry patience like a warrior, understanding that God will make everything okay, even when nothing feels okay.

    You take my breath away. I am now, and have been since I met you, completely in awe of you, utterly yours. You have taught me what it is to feel, to stop numbing myself from the hurts and the harms, and I struggle to remember that when you're gone.

    Right now I'm wrapped up in your sweatshirt, looking at your picture, sitting in the joy and the sadness, the grief and the elation, that has come over the years. I can't wait until you're home.

July 4, 2022

 Kids,

    There are moments where I have wished I was dead. The darkness and the heaviness of life bombards my spirit and I feel worthless, unimportant, irrelevant. Society, reading this, would label me as depressed. I, however, feel that description does not fit the narrative of my life or my being. These moments, these periods that descend upon my spirit serve a purpose. It's my soul's way of saying Hey! You're not taking care of yourself. You're unhappy with something in your life. It's time for a change. 

    Change is powerful, and it almost always begins with me. This morning I woke up feeling so utterly full of sorrow. That simultaneous feeling of sorrow mixes with rage and it serves up a concoction of darkness in my heart. 

    On the walk this morning, God and I had perhaps one of the most intense conversations we've had in a while. Why? I asked Him why about everything. Why do I starve myself and still gain weight? Why do I work out 7 days a week, for an hour every.single.day and look like I devour donuts and tubs of ice cream? Why does my size make me so utterly angry? Why is my husband such a heartless asshole when he's deployed? Why do I have to make all of the effort, all of the connections, all of the work to sustain a twenty year relationship? Why does it hurt so much that my children are growing up? Why do I dream about babies literally every single night, jolting me awake and back into reality? Why? Why do I feel so completely alone? Why am I unable to say any of these written words out loud? Why is it when someone calls, or someone makes efforts to connect with me, I instantly play a persona of chipper and happy "everything's fine!"? 

    Today I feel so utterly alone. Today. This too shall pass. These feelings are not reality, they are simply emotions. I have the ability to think logically when my emotions attempt to drown out the reality around me. I am richly and deeply loved. I am not alone. I am capable and strong. I have enormous amounts of self control. I get up every single day and exercise my body, not for a size but for strength. I am not the summation of my emotions. Nor do my emotions define my life experience. This day is rough. You too will have rough days. You will have days where you feel like everything is futile and exhausting. You will want to run away, or give up the good fight. You will feel drained and depleted, like no one sees you, loves you, or appreciates you. You will have moments where your bucket is bone dry and you don't have the energy to turn on the tap. You will have times where your body does not do what you want or expect it to do, and that will make you feel very frustrated. These moments in your life can be very difficult to walk through. I challenge you to ask them Why? I challenge you to follow up the question why with Is it true? 

    There have been days where I wished I didn't wake up. I wanted to escape the hurts that I carry, or avoid the sorrow I knew would come at me. By God's grace, every single minute is new. There are exactly zero duplicates. 

    This morning, I left to walk the dogs on the verge of tears. I felt angry and helpless and ready to walk away. Then 2 came running out the front door after me to go for the walk, completely unaware of the storm in my soul. We walked in the quiet for a while, and then she talked to me about her passions. By the end of the walk, the heaviness felt lighter. Not because she fixed me (we didn't even discuss my feelings whatsoever), but simply because when my feelings were screaming You're all alone! her presence reminded my brain that my feelings are not always true. 

    May we all understand the truth of ourselves, and give grace in abundance. I love you!

Service

 Kids,

    When my cousin mentioned he was moving here and I offered to help him move in, I did not assume you four would help. If I volunteer myself for something, it is me who is volunteering. Knowing the four of you, I expected at least one of you to volunteer to help too because that's the way you are: hard workers, helpful, kind. In the spitting image of your father. It's beautiful.

    When I got off the phone with my cousin, I mentioned I was going to help him move in and asked if any of you wanted to help. To my surprise all four of you cheerfully volunteered. Even the one of you who is the least excited about physical labor (you know who you are). 

    It was beautiful to do something kind with all of you. It was such a delight to my heart to watch all of you work so hard to be useful. I know I said several times how proud of you I was, and how much I valued your help. But I know that as the years pass, and you finally sit down and read this thing, you may have forgotten the moments where you blew me away. In an hour and a half, we had everything off the truck and moved in. None of you complained, or whined, even with scratches and a sprained ankle. Wow. 

    I hope you never stop having hearts of service. To be fair, it is a fundamental element of your parents are. We both believe in serving others. We both believe that the greatest gift we could ever give to someone is our time, though it looks like different things in our lives. I imagine that service will look differently in your own lives as well.

    Thank you for being who you are. As you are growing up the moments of snuggles and cuddles fade away, and it becomes difficult to find the opportunities to express the very genuine and deep high regard with which I hold you all. You are fantastic human beings. I am so privileged and honored that I get to be one of the adult humans who help you navigate the world while you are young. What a joy it is to be your mom. Thank you for being so wonderful. 

April 21, 2022

 Kids,

This was part of a writing assignment for my favorite class. It's a couple of months old, but I wanted to share it here so that when you finally get old enough to read this thing, you can read it to glimpse a bit into my head space with Daddy gone again. Here it is, unedited:

How am I doing? It’s the simplest phrase yet filled with an overwhelming sense of complexity. In some ways, I’m doing “fine.” I’m feeding myself and my children. I live in a home which is slowly becoming what I hope it will be (we bought a fixer upper which is now almost completely “fixed up!”). I have a vehicle, which works, and gasoline and food in my refrigerator. My children will not go to sleep tonight wondering when their next meal will be. I have zero question about my husband’s deep and beautiful love for me. He offers me enormous grace, comfort, and support, something I treasure deeply after 20 years of togetherness. These gifts, these treasures, are not lost on me. I work hard to be grateful. I like to celebrate the good.

               Life isn’t always “good,” though, is it? We’ve been living the Army life for 21 years. My husband has served in every single Iraq War campaign, a distinction I have been told only 4 other active Army personnel have. I have sat by our closest friend, as she buried my husband’s best friend. I have heard so many 21-gun salutes, shed so many tears, I can’t even begin to quantify them all. We were supposed to retire. He was supposed to stay home, and we were supposed to be transitioning into life outside of the military telling us when we get days off, when we can go on vacation, where we will live… I come across as ungrateful. I realize this all too well. His military job has afforded us many benefits. But when he came home and told me he was moving to a new unit, and would be deploying in two weeks, because some stupid man has stupid ideas about destroying countries that are doing nothing to him… As I write this, tears fall. I am so.tired.of.war.

               School, all of a sudden, lost me. I am a passionate learner. I love reading and learning and diving in. I realize that sounds so lame in our society today, but it’s who I am. I enjoy hearing about people’s opinions and beliefs. I want to learn everything I can for as long as I can. I love being challenged and questioned. I am a perfectionist to the core, but I enjoy the journey of growth, genuinely. The week my husband left, I had to do an Art History assignment which forced me to look at the staged bodies of dead Civil War Soldiers. It was immensely traumatic. I found my heart overwhelmed with rage. I wrote, and rewrote, and rewrote the assignment for that activity a thousand times, editing out the curse words and vitriol that kept escaping. Timing is everything. I don’t believe in coincidences. That shit show happened, that week, for a reason. I feel no animosity towards my professor. How could she possibly have known, and I assume if I could have communicated the situation with her, she would have been abundantly merciful. I wasn’t mad at her. I was mad that in days I would be saying goodbye to my best friend because of fucking war.

               At the same time, I am navigating all of the emotions regarding my first family. I am unpacking the Mount Everests I have built up in my spirit, and I’m trying to begin the process of taking one foot and placing it in front of the other. In some ways, time feels like it slows. I feel acutely aware of the earth, the seasons, and the intensity. I simultaneously want to bury myself under a blanket and ignore it all, especially now with my husband gone. But again, timing is everything and all of this shit is rising up without him here, for a reason. At some point, one must learn how to navigate grief, rage, sorrow, and even forgiveness, on their own. But how do you forgive the monster that floods your dreams? How do you accept the devastation that’s been done? The only answer I can give is to write, talk, and share.

               I am grieved about the state of our country, our world, our planet. I am saddened by people feeling so angry over being asked to wear a mask for others. I am sad that selfishness is the language of the day. I feel sorrow that Native Americans have so much disregard. I feel grief that my husband and children are reduced to Indigenous imagery such as loving nature and being full of wisdom (side note: they do love nature and my husband, even my kids, has a lot of wisdom. The point is that they are not viewed as whole persons, rather as Indian characters). I feel sad when my daughter’s Cherokee status is dismissed and rejected because she has pale skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. I feel sorrow that we still live in a world that decides everything about you based on how you look, whether it’s true or not.

               I love to laugh. I love sitting down with a good friend, pouring out our hearts, challenging each other’s opinions, and laughing until my cheeks hurt. This is my idea of a beautiful moment. Today, however, it’s as if laughter has lost me. I feel so much sorrow. I have switched my focus to one hour at a time, and for some moments, one minute. I ask myself What can I do right now, this moment? What do I need to do for myself? The answer isn’t always the same. Self-care looks vague when you have deadlines and responsibilities. But nothing is permanent. This too shall pass…

Update.

 America,

It's been two months since America sent my favorite human being away. I don't think I would say I'm doing well. Times like these do not allow for wellness. One does not feel "well" when embarking on a marathon. Instead, the mind shifts to survival, endurance, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other... It's a constant fight to feel anything at all. There is so much pretending when one's husband is away. Our children need me to be "me." My husband needs me to keep everything running smoothly. My friends and family need me to fill the roles they've grown accustomed to. So I smile, I make a joke, I listen, I pretend. No one really wants to hear about the heartache, and even if they did, I don't know that I could muster up the energy or the confidence to define it. 

I am not disintegrating, but in every single moment of my day there is a hollowness that can not be erased or shared. There is no person on this earth who can help me process like he can. No one who understands what it's like to be in my head and my heart. There is no one who grasps the complicated set of feelings that I share regarding our daughter becoming an adult, our son's blindness and epilepsy, my own health issues, our other childrens' needs, our grief, our losses, our successes. He has seen me curled up in the fetal position screaming at God that HE CAN NOT TAKE THIS CHILD AWAY FROM ME and shutting down as my son lost his mind hours after my father died because of medication. He has seen me skinny and morbidly obese and every variation in between. He has held my hand while I cried and cried and he knows without any need for explanation that Mass is my safe place. Except he is also my safe place...

America, I miss him. I hope you understand that there are real families aching and sobbing this Father's Day away. I hope you grasp, when you read or talk about Ukraine or Russia or Europe, or anything war at all, that there is a real human being, with a real spouse, real children, real parents, on the other end of the grand statements of what we need to do. I hope you measure the cost and are willing for it to be you, your spouse, your child, your actual self. I don't pretend to know any answers, and I would not be so presumptive to think my voice holds any relevance on the subject of necessary (or unnecessary wars), I just ask for you to reflect on the ache, the cost, the hardship. It is more difficult than words could ever say. It hurts more than I could ever begin to describe to you. This year I will have celebrated our eighteenth anniversary, my fortieth birthday, our daughter's eighteenth birthday, our triplets' sixteenth birthdays, sicknesses, dog illnesses, major life transitions, all without him. That sucks.

Everything has a cost. Some days paying it really freaking sucks.

Letter to You

 It's Father's Day and we spoke for only a few minutes. There are moments in a marriage where one runs out of words. I miss the moments where touch could communicate everything I wanted to say to you. I miss not having to figure out the explosions in my mind, how to define them, and then releasing them from my mouth. I miss my heart racing, my pulse jumping, my breath catching, because you walked.in.the.door. I miss the way your eyes dance when you're laughing. I miss throwing my head back because you said or did something hilarious. I miss sitting next to each other on the couch. I miss feeling like our lives were moving forward. I hate living, while also being on pause. 

I'm tired.

Who are we in this next chapter? Who are we in this current one? Why does it all feel so confusing, boring, underwhelming, and overwhelming all at the same time? Why do I feel incapacitated, like I can't take a deep breath, because I don't get to see you every day? Why does love feel so unfair sometimes? Why am I so jealous of schools and hope and promise of the future? Who are we anymore, babe? What are we even doing here?

There was such a lengthy period of time where I could answer those questions with ease. Everything felt so clear and focused. I knew the point. I got the brief. We were in it to win it. Then I saw the shit show of the fallout. The decisions that have broken my heart into thousands of pieces and then poured salt in the gaping wounds. There are moments where I used to scream from the mountaintops, tell the stories as loudly as I could. I used to fight for the families, fight for the marriages, fight for the country to understand the reality behind it all. We are not the characters that are displayed on tv. We are so much more nuanced than that. I spent years fighting to make leaders understand what the experience was of the spouses and the kids, the girlfriends and the parents. I fought with all that I could to make everyone's voices heard. I fought until my heart was broken and bruised.

I want our children to understand that while the Army defines its backbone as the NCO, there's no soldier without their family. Period. There's no military fathers without the other half of the equation sitting back in America, while everyone barbeques, holding their crying children, putting on a happy face, hunkering down and just.getting.through.it. While simultaneously figuring out care packages, fighting to keep the connection alive via text, conversation, email, letter.

I'm so tired.

I feel so broken. I feel so drained. I feel exhausted and conflicted and unable to describe with any level of efficiency even the slightest element of how I feel. The minutes take forever to pass, and what has felt like a year has only been a couple of months. War is not for those who have seen too much of it. There's a necessary naivete. I feel angry when I hear people say We have to support this to save the world. I want to scream that they have exactly zero understanding of what that means, feels like, or looks like. Zero. I want to yell how easy it is to state when one's not sitting alone without their absolute favorite human being, for the seventh deployment, for the 102nd (and counting - adding in a separate tour, and not including training) month of sleepless, lonely nights. I'm the one sitting here trying to keep it all together waiting for the day when this current shit show will end and I will be able to take a deep breath and finally fall asleep.

I miss things making sense, then you get on facetime and I lay there staring at you, in the dark of our room, until the sound of your breath makes me fall asleep. I push my aching heart up against the imagination of what it feels like to be wrapped up in your embrace. I slow my breathing and go to the moments where you're hand is interlocked with mine, and everything feels simple and calm. I miss you.

 When we were young, our relationship was filled with emotional extremes. You and I were dramatic. We felt everything as if it was Mount Everest. We were big, bold, intense, passionate. We were all-in. When I reflect on the way I feel about this current deployment, I am surprised by the lack of extremes. This morning I woke up and ached for you, but it was not the ache that I would have expressed twenty years ago. It was deeper, slower, more quiet and still. I suppose I would describe it as more of a hollow sense. 

Last night as I lay in bed on the phone with you, we both went silent. You and I were drained from our very different experiences. Instead of filling the moments with words we just breathed. In that moment I closed my eyes and pretended that you were not on the other side of the planet. I pretended that this is not what it currently is. Maybe that's why I woke up feeling so hollow.

Since you have been gone, I have been struck by my difficulty to find words. Words are what I do, they're kind of my thing, and living these moments without you feels difficult to define. Gone are the extreme emotions that I have grown accustomed to in regards to deployment, here are these empty, drained, quiet ones that I don't particularly care for. What is there to say that has not already been said in spades?

You are my best friend. That phrase is thrown around so flippantly in our society, yet for me, it encompasses a degree of loyalty that is not common in our age. I have followed you, loved you, ached for you, supported you, and been united to you for so many years that I don't really know what the world without you means to me. Empty. 

I sit in Mass and struggle to even know what to pray. Normally, my heart and my brain are overwhelmed by communication. I often have to work hard to slow everything down and concentrate what is in front of me. Lately, it's silence. In an eerie way. I struggle to be present at all, though my body is sitting there. I feel disconnected and disengaged. I feel as if I have nothing to say. I find some solace that there are periods where silence is vital. 

Everything feels so different, Love. I don't recognize the world this way. So I sit in this quiet, feeling this sense of silence and hollowness. I wish we were together.

Anniversary

We celebrated our eighteenth wedding anniversary yesterday. He is one side of the planet; I am on the other. When I look up at the sky, he sees the moon and I see the sun. This time in our lives is unique to say the least. We have been together for so long that I cannot recall what or who I was before he arrived. When I reflect back on that period of my life, it is cloudy and vague. Not that he made my life begin, but more that it was a shadow, and a preparation, for what is now.

We have so many different opinions about war and the military in this country right now. I look at my fellow citizens and see people looking for heroes and villains. So much is painted as black and white, hard and easy, good and bad, fair and unfair, etc. I look at this deployment with both fresh eyes and the heart of someone who has walked this road an abundance of times. I feel simultaneously achy and sore, unwilling and broken, but also grateful. It's like the moments after something life changing occurs. Everything moves in slow motion. Your senses become more aware; your brain chemistry changes. You are present but also strangely removed, as if you are watching yourself navigate the world around you.

My Love is someone who can destroy me. His ambivalence, his distracted self, his focus on what is in front of him and lack of privacy to pour his heart out to me feels like the slow motion of lava flowing out of a volcano. It's a path of red hot, slow-moving energy that eats my sense of joy and leaves darkness in its wake. Writing that feels pathetic in our modern era of female power. I am my own individual. I am also his wife. There is no way to separate the two senses of myself. 

In the same light, I have moments of overwhelming grief, where the hardened lava of my heart breaks down and crumbles. I have moments where the most random situation will send me across the world to the side of the person who helps me to sleep, makes me laugh, and brightens up the darkness in my heart like no other person on this planet can. I want to be stronger than I feel. I want to be resilient and calm, pouring out peace on those around me. 

For eighteen years he and I have held hands and walked through the world with the same last name. We have navigated so many hardships that nearly ripped us to pieces. We have seen each other at our absolute worst and have helped each other achieve our best. We have fought like hell. We have laughed even harder. We have loved with fists closed so tight around our own will and determination to survive. We have no illusions that disintegration is around every corner. Marriage is hard... but it can be such a beautiful joy, a delight to the soul. It can keep you going when the lava seeks to turn you to stone. 

May God give us strength to weather this time apart. 

Ache

 Last night I couldn't sleep. I laid in bed for hours, waiting for the night to tick away. The physical element of your absence is immense. My body aches for yours to be next to me. It lays awake, waiting for the feel of you to lull it to sleep and there are moments where it just isn't possible to ignore it. I was exhausted, but my soul was aching and searching for what I knew would not arrive.

Sometimes I feel hollow, love. I wonder what the purpose is to my days. I am probably far too wrapped up in you, yet I am not apologetic about it. My days are divided by the presence and absence of you. When you are gone there is no division. Hours, days, weeks, months blur together in a giant glob of relentless ache. I feel incomplete. What will I do when you die? 

War is a young man's game. It's a phrase that I've heard you say recently. I relate so deeply. I observe and see how this is playing out and find myself saying so many times I'm too old for this. Even with that perspective, I'm simultaneously grateful. Missing you, longing for you, recognizing the great contribution that you bring to my heart and my days is a privilege that is not lost on me. Too many people get lost in the monotony of marriage and they lose track of the way that love is like wind. Powerful, life changing, impossible to define beyond its impact on the world. You are my wind. You move me, sway me, impact me, yet I can't see you. You hold me prisoner when I'm lying awake waiting for the hours to tick away and the day to come. 

I miss you.

Seven

Marriage is a process of habitualization. It’s small actions, happening every day, until they are so engrained in you that you don’t recognize their existence at all, until they’re gone. Marriage is presented as non-habit-forming, but time and years have shown that to be a lie. I am an addict, I am HIS addict, and here I sit without him.

The Army comes with all sorts of degrees of challenges and heartaches. It has served up, on a platter, multiple instances of ripping my most prized relationship away from me, leaving me sobbing, aching, empty. It has forced me to unwrap my fingers from his, my arms from his, my sleep, my laughter, our moments from him and in its wake is a hollowness that is damned near impossible to define.

Lucky number seven came with all of its fury. It came in an unexpected manner, yet its wound is no less significant. The scars from the previous six are etched across my mind and body. My soul moves with the bumps of their presence, reminding me that nothing is permanent, everything changes, this too will one day end. Cherish every single second.

Never take the moments where they hold your hand for granted. Don’t stop celebrating that they make you coffee every morning, or wrap themselves around you when you are cold. Don’t stop being grateful that they always put the toilet seat down, or stop delighting in the way they sound just before they fall asleep. Never take for granted how much you enjoy folding their laundry and putting away their shoes for the umpteenth time. Never stop noticing how your flesh was made to perfectly mold into them, and how in that embrace you fall asleep every.single.time. Never stop falling apart in their presence, or believing them when they tell you that you are capable and strong and good. Never take a single moment for granted because it’s the habits, the every day moments, that rip you to shreds when the ghost of them is all you have to hold on to.

He is my heartbeat. Unwrapping my arms from him hurts like hell.

Again

 There are moments where silence is necessary. I have to keep my mouth shut because I know too much or it's not the appropriate time. There are decisions that are made that have lasting and permanent impacts on our family. The heart aches, so it prays. It spreads all of the gossip and the rumors and the anger and fear and sadness and angst to the only One who understands all of it and has seen it at its completion, even as it is currently ongoing.

What is happening in our world, is going to impact us all. Our nuclear entity that I wear around like a comfortable pair of old jeans, and a worn and tattered sweatshirt, is being altered. You four, alone, understand what it is to watch me let him go. You four, alone, understand what it is to have him gone. We five alone know what it is to walk this road... Hypotheticals are so much easier than realities. Aren't they? Why is it always that way?

I am afraid of what the world looks like without him in it. I understand that is true for all of us. I know that you know he is the other half of me, more clearly than any other human beings on this planet. I don't know what I look like as a human, a mother, and woman without him. Some people might say that's pathetic, but I say that's what being "all-in" looks like. There's no me without him, there's no Joneses minus him. 

It has always been my goal and intention to be honest with you. I have intentionally displayed the full range of my personality. I am scared. I'm afraid that he won't come home. I know his experience, understanding, and wisdom are what would be most beneficial to the lives entrusted to him. He's unique in his vast amount of experience in war. These are the treasures I will do my best to hold on to come what may.

May God have mercy. May He grant us strength to walk the path He has selected for us. May we be gracious, forgiving, and gentle. May our countenance be of such a manner than no one could look at us and fail to see the Savior who holds our hearts, lives, and comfort in His hands. 

Lolly

 Lolly,

I cried myself awake this morning. I know that reads dramatically, but it's the simple truth. I was asleep, and I woke up crying. I don't understand where the time as gone. I have rooted myself in every moment, prevented myself from that perspective of I can't wait for you to grow up. I have purposefully treasured every single day with you, knowing that one day I would long for them. This morning I woke up in a panic thinking about you going away to college. It's the flip side to the coin of growing up, that as a young adult I had zero concept of (to be fair, perhaps it was not something my mother ached about). The idea of you being states away, or even houses away, hurts.like.hell.

I sat there in the kitchen while you cried about the fear of it. I sat there, reassured you, reminded you of your capabilities, and I remembered how scary and difficult it was to unlatch myself from my own family and move away to school. I told you that you are brave, strong, and full of might. I told you it's okay to be scared, but that your moments will be filled with adventure, and you will make new memories. All of these things are true. You are so brave, so intelligent, so courageous. You will make yourself do what you must. I admire you.

I have treasured every single moment of being your Mommy. I loved the very early days, when you refused to sleep if it wasn't right next to me or your Daddy. I loved the nights of getting up to feed you, change you, and put you back to sleep. I loved watching you discover light, water, and books. I loved reading the same stories to you over and over again, changing them every so often just to give myself something new. I loved that despite you having every single word of those books memorized, you never minded when I did that (though you protested loudly if your Dad did. HAHA). I loved being there when you walked, laughed, talked, fed yourself, learned to use the toilet, lost your first tooth, felt your first heartbreak, made your first friend, first auditions, first challenges, firsts...

I know that in your immense sensibility, there is a strong possibility that you will go the community college route before transferring into a four-year program. I love how deeply you think about the future. I appreciate that you don't get annoyed every time I remind you to keep an open mind, and that God will provide what you need for the place He wants you to go. 

All of this, does not erase the very real emotional agony of me having to push you, encourage you, and help you to leave. The simple truth is, I don't want you to. I want you to stay here so that I can selfishly share life with you. I want to hear about all of your experiences and moments. I want to see you every single day, so that we can talk about politics and religion and current events. I want to be a part of the moments of your life: friends, romance, etc. I selfishly want to go to sleep at night knowing you're in the room next door, not worrying about whether or not some monster has assaulted you or hurt you. I don't want to walk through this first for myself: having a child move out.

There are no books or manuals or anythings that I have ever read that assist a mother in navigating this chapter. When you were placed in my soul, no one taught me how to find peace and comfort with the next chapter. No one prepares you for this moment, they just tell you that it will come and you'll miss what was. This is new territory for me. I will do my best to be strong for you. I will work hard to be encouraging. Forgive me for the mistakes I will inevitably make as this transition heads our way. Be merciful. Thank you for being such a fantastic human being so that this is such a challenge. 

I love you with all of my breath, and every one of my heart beats.