These are not my people, I am not of this group. It's a feeling that has been prevalent in my life. It is exceptionally difficult to find one's "people." They are a unique sort and it's impossible how to define who they are, but I know them when I meet them.
I feel isolated and alone. I feel bored and restless.
In our society, these feelings often generate conversations about hobbies, or depression and counselling. In my personal opinion, I am thankful for them. Solitude is not something to fear, and there is much to learn from silence.
My life is on the cusp (or in the infancy stages) of great change. I know that this year will bring tremendous loss, new experiences, and unspeakable challenges. I know that I will grieve. I know that I will celebrate. I know I will cry. I've already cried. I've also sat wrapped up in a blanket in my grandfather's chair, completely silent... devoid of the ability to put words to emotions. Unable to cry. Unable to cheer. Just present.
Peppered in with the silence is laughter. I am learning that joy can be abundant even in the midst of the dark night of the soul. I am learning what Love looks like, without the emotional camp highs and lows. I am learning what Loving God looks like, through a faithful, steadfast lens. I am learning what worship looks like, what prayer looks like, what relationship looks like, in silence.
My childlike mind craves the noise. My heart hungers and lusts after the emotional experiences. St. John of the Cross explains it so perfectly, much better than I. Learning to Love with a heart that craves passion, is a beautiful torment of the soul.
I know I am moving through darkness to dawn.
Friday, January 19, 2018
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Answers
America,
He asked him to sacrifice his child. It's a horrible, ugly, agonizing thought. Who would ask that of a parent? Who would ask someone to give away their only son?
It's a thought too painful to fathom. Yet it is something that I understand for the first time in my life in a more tangible way than ever before. He asked me to sacrifice my child. He asked me to give up minutes, moments, snuggles, memories, experiences, etc. He asked me to lay it all down and turn around and walk away, and to find peace in His plan. His plan that I couldn't understand, and I couldn't grasp, but I knew was better than what I could hope for.
In the biblical narrative of what God asked of Abraham and Sara, we don't read about the tears. We don't read about the emotional agony behind the steps of trusting God. We don't read about the sleepless nights or the emotional exhaustion. We only read about the actions of faith. His faith was credited to him as righteousness.
My son was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa. As a result of this my only son is going blind. For some unknown reason, his vision is disappearing very rapidly (a reality that surprises his opthalmologists). In a period of 9 months, he went from no longer needing to see an opthalmologist to being legally blind at night and having lost a significant portion of his peripheral vision. In the past three months, his field of vision has continued to decline at an alarming rate and he can no longer see the color purple.
I am a homeschooling parent. How does one homeschool a child who can not see? I'm not so naive to think I can figure everything out on a whim, and my son is so smart! He deserves the best possible education he can get. Because of this, and a LOT of narrative in between that I won't bore you with here, we had no option but to look at a residential school for the blind.
I can go on and on about the hurdles that had to be overcome in regards to this residential school. I can't tell you how intensely I sobbed when the door was even opened to him. I cried so hard I couldn't even breathe, and I think my sister's (who was on the other end of the phone) quiet tears and prayers and hugs from miles and miles away, helped me to get myself back together so I could leave my room and keep on parenting that day.
There have been months and weeks of gathering medical records, evaluations, documents, and then the final "test" of summer camp (this was a camp connected with the school, where they would evaluate my son's ability to attend). If you're unsure about my emotional state, click back to my previous post. You'll see that I was a complete mess. Sacrifices, even ones taken with complete faith, are not without agony. Let me say that again. I had to lay down my dream of everything for my son. I had to let go of what I hoped would be, let go of homeschooling him, and pendulum swing to the opposite end of homeschooling, and grasp an empty bed, an empty room, an empty chair at the dinner table, and more for my ten year old child. I had to let all of this go, and walk.by.faith.
He came home from camp and we were torn about what to do. We decided to trust in God's plan, made known to us by whether or not he was accepted in to the school. If he was accepted, he would go. If not, that was our sign that something else was in store.
It's amazing to me how devoid of agony things can appear, when we are no longer waiting for answers. I'm incapable of sharing with you how broken my heart was. I can't even begin to say the oceans of tears I have cried. The idea of my son's empty bed... even now sends me into sobs.
My spiritual director advised me to pray a novena. For my non-Catholic readers, a novena is a specific prayer prayed in increments of nine. It could be nine times in a row, or over nine days, or some other multiple of nine. I am on day six of that novena. The school called me today to give us the news. My son was accepted. But...
For the sake of comic relief, I could let that "but" linger here. I could write about how my dog is currently pestering me for attention, or my children are asking me about eight thousand variations that they would like to add to their dinner. But I'm sure you'd like to know what the "but" was. Yes? No?
The "but" is that we have to be resident's of a state that we are not resident's of. The school reached out to the state's board of education to see if there was a possibility to waive that requirement with my son. This is a testament to the passion for helping visually impaired children that this school has. Their support, encouragement, and helpfulness goes beyond what I could have ever hoped for or imagined. They even went so far as to call the nearest military installation to see if it would be possible to have my soldier transferred there so that my son could attend (or to see if there was anything else that could be done). Unfortunately, there is not. The door is wide open for my son's attendance, if and when, we sell our house and move. So basically? He can't go. At least not in a few weeks when school begins.
I wish I could tell you the joy I feel over the clear answer. I am so excited to see what God has in store for my son and our family this year. The waiting is over, the answer has come. I was asked to be willing to let him go. I was challenged to examine Whom I really trusted. I was forced to put my money where my mouth was, and in this moment, I have been spared the agony of having to actually do it. We went all the way, as far as we could go. The door has closed, at least for now.
In the past couple of weeks, we have been blessed with options for continuing to homeschool my son.
At summer camp, we met another family who homeschools their visually impaired child. The school recommended several adaptive technological devices to continue my son's education at home (they knew that there was a chance he might be unable to attend. They created a packet of resources and recommendations that are specific to each child they evaluated at camp. Just another way that they are amazing!).
Today, we have a lot of decisions to make about what's ahead. Today, I don't know what tomorrow will look like. Today, I am so so thankful that the waiting is over and the answer is here. Today, I can't even begin to define the joy of knowing that in a few weeks I don't have to drop off my child and drive home without him.
I'll take it.
He asked him to sacrifice his child. It's a horrible, ugly, agonizing thought. Who would ask that of a parent? Who would ask someone to give away their only son?
It's a thought too painful to fathom. Yet it is something that I understand for the first time in my life in a more tangible way than ever before. He asked me to sacrifice my child. He asked me to give up minutes, moments, snuggles, memories, experiences, etc. He asked me to lay it all down and turn around and walk away, and to find peace in His plan. His plan that I couldn't understand, and I couldn't grasp, but I knew was better than what I could hope for.
In the biblical narrative of what God asked of Abraham and Sara, we don't read about the tears. We don't read about the emotional agony behind the steps of trusting God. We don't read about the sleepless nights or the emotional exhaustion. We only read about the actions of faith. His faith was credited to him as righteousness.
My son was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa. As a result of this my only son is going blind. For some unknown reason, his vision is disappearing very rapidly (a reality that surprises his opthalmologists). In a period of 9 months, he went from no longer needing to see an opthalmologist to being legally blind at night and having lost a significant portion of his peripheral vision. In the past three months, his field of vision has continued to decline at an alarming rate and he can no longer see the color purple.
I am a homeschooling parent. How does one homeschool a child who can not see? I'm not so naive to think I can figure everything out on a whim, and my son is so smart! He deserves the best possible education he can get. Because of this, and a LOT of narrative in between that I won't bore you with here, we had no option but to look at a residential school for the blind.
I can go on and on about the hurdles that had to be overcome in regards to this residential school. I can't tell you how intensely I sobbed when the door was even opened to him. I cried so hard I couldn't even breathe, and I think my sister's (who was on the other end of the phone) quiet tears and prayers and hugs from miles and miles away, helped me to get myself back together so I could leave my room and keep on parenting that day.
There have been months and weeks of gathering medical records, evaluations, documents, and then the final "test" of summer camp (this was a camp connected with the school, where they would evaluate my son's ability to attend). If you're unsure about my emotional state, click back to my previous post. You'll see that I was a complete mess. Sacrifices, even ones taken with complete faith, are not without agony. Let me say that again. I had to lay down my dream of everything for my son. I had to let go of what I hoped would be, let go of homeschooling him, and pendulum swing to the opposite end of homeschooling, and grasp an empty bed, an empty room, an empty chair at the dinner table, and more for my ten year old child. I had to let all of this go, and walk.by.faith.
He came home from camp and we were torn about what to do. We decided to trust in God's plan, made known to us by whether or not he was accepted in to the school. If he was accepted, he would go. If not, that was our sign that something else was in store.
It's amazing to me how devoid of agony things can appear, when we are no longer waiting for answers. I'm incapable of sharing with you how broken my heart was. I can't even begin to say the oceans of tears I have cried. The idea of my son's empty bed... even now sends me into sobs.
My spiritual director advised me to pray a novena. For my non-Catholic readers, a novena is a specific prayer prayed in increments of nine. It could be nine times in a row, or over nine days, or some other multiple of nine. I am on day six of that novena. The school called me today to give us the news. My son was accepted. But...
For the sake of comic relief, I could let that "but" linger here. I could write about how my dog is currently pestering me for attention, or my children are asking me about eight thousand variations that they would like to add to their dinner. But I'm sure you'd like to know what the "but" was. Yes? No?
The "but" is that we have to be resident's of a state that we are not resident's of. The school reached out to the state's board of education to see if there was a possibility to waive that requirement with my son. This is a testament to the passion for helping visually impaired children that this school has. Their support, encouragement, and helpfulness goes beyond what I could have ever hoped for or imagined. They even went so far as to call the nearest military installation to see if it would be possible to have my soldier transferred there so that my son could attend (or to see if there was anything else that could be done). Unfortunately, there is not. The door is wide open for my son's attendance, if and when, we sell our house and move. So basically? He can't go. At least not in a few weeks when school begins.
I wish I could tell you the joy I feel over the clear answer. I am so excited to see what God has in store for my son and our family this year. The waiting is over, the answer has come. I was asked to be willing to let him go. I was challenged to examine Whom I really trusted. I was forced to put my money where my mouth was, and in this moment, I have been spared the agony of having to actually do it. We went all the way, as far as we could go. The door has closed, at least for now.
In the past couple of weeks, we have been blessed with options for continuing to homeschool my son.
At summer camp, we met another family who homeschools their visually impaired child. The school recommended several adaptive technological devices to continue my son's education at home (they knew that there was a chance he might be unable to attend. They created a packet of resources and recommendations that are specific to each child they evaluated at camp. Just another way that they are amazing!).
Today, we have a lot of decisions to make about what's ahead. Today, I don't know what tomorrow will look like. Today, I am so so thankful that the waiting is over and the answer is here. Today, I can't even begin to define the joy of knowing that in a few weeks I don't have to drop off my child and drive home without him.
I'll take it.
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Grigio and tonight
America,
It's ten o'clock at night and the empty bed is screaming at me. The echo of the silence is pounding so loud in my head that it aches more powerfully than I can say. My brain is shouting How the hell are you going to do this in six weeks!?!?! And my heart is saying Calm down. You don't know yet... It's what's best for him. It is, what's "best" for him. I'm so mad about that I can barely see straight.
If only this camp was just that. If only it wasn't a trial or a glimpse of what's ahead. If only it wasn't an examination and a potential acceptance to this school that will build so many opportunities and options for him. If only all of these fantastic things that it offers didn't come at the cost of my whole heart ripping into five million pieces and then being blown across the south. If only...
It's easy to sit there and see how pathetic I am. Boarding school is not that serious. Blindness isn't as bad as other things. The blessings abound. That's true. It's so true that I hate every single second of it and I find immense comfort in the goodness of it all. But the "but" is so loud it's still screaming at me in the form of his empty bed, and the pounding echo of a him-shaped-hole in my house. And in this moment, this ten o'clock hour, I hate RP! I hate how much it's hurting me. I hate all that it's ripping away from me. I hate that my heart is so focused in this moment, on the cost to myself. I hate that I can't fix it. I can't medicate it, or research it, or therapy it, or health-food it. I hate that there is no cure and no solution and no option and I want to scream a thousand curse words, and run a billion miles, and eat nothing, and eat everything, and pray, and cry, and ache because that's all my heart feels at ten o'clock tonight. I hate that I had to laser focus my brain on any possible subject it could latch on to, while my nervous little boy hugged me a hundred times and said I love you mommy! repeatedly because he was afraid. I smiled, and laughed, and said positive words, by the grace of God, because he needed it. I hate that tonight I can't stop crying, when I hate crying.
How the hell am I going to do this in six weeks?
I don't know how to do this. I don't know what this looks like. I don't know what this looks like so much that I can't even imagine it. How do I go from begging to not home school, to loving home schooling, to boarding school? How do I comfort myself, let alone the two other human beings who have been as intricately connected to him as I have, from the beginning of their existence? What do you say to your daughters who ache because they want him here, because they feel the pounding and screaming and aching of the him-shaped-hole that you do?
There's nothing to say. That's the truth of it. There aren't words, and there aren't hugs, or laughs or anythings that can do anything at all. This disease just is. And tonight I hate it. Damn it, I wasn't supposed to have to do this so soon. And I hate RP for making me do it eight years early. I hate it for taking away the time I assumed I would have.
There's a him shaped hole, and his empty bed is screaming at me, and I'm sobbing at ten o'clock tonight.
It's ten o'clock at night and the empty bed is screaming at me. The echo of the silence is pounding so loud in my head that it aches more powerfully than I can say. My brain is shouting How the hell are you going to do this in six weeks!?!?! And my heart is saying Calm down. You don't know yet... It's what's best for him. It is, what's "best" for him. I'm so mad about that I can barely see straight.
If only this camp was just that. If only it wasn't a trial or a glimpse of what's ahead. If only it wasn't an examination and a potential acceptance to this school that will build so many opportunities and options for him. If only all of these fantastic things that it offers didn't come at the cost of my whole heart ripping into five million pieces and then being blown across the south. If only...
It's easy to sit there and see how pathetic I am. Boarding school is not that serious. Blindness isn't as bad as other things. The blessings abound. That's true. It's so true that I hate every single second of it and I find immense comfort in the goodness of it all. But the "but" is so loud it's still screaming at me in the form of his empty bed, and the pounding echo of a him-shaped-hole in my house. And in this moment, this ten o'clock hour, I hate RP! I hate how much it's hurting me. I hate all that it's ripping away from me. I hate that my heart is so focused in this moment, on the cost to myself. I hate that I can't fix it. I can't medicate it, or research it, or therapy it, or health-food it. I hate that there is no cure and no solution and no option and I want to scream a thousand curse words, and run a billion miles, and eat nothing, and eat everything, and pray, and cry, and ache because that's all my heart feels at ten o'clock tonight. I hate that I had to laser focus my brain on any possible subject it could latch on to, while my nervous little boy hugged me a hundred times and said I love you mommy! repeatedly because he was afraid. I smiled, and laughed, and said positive words, by the grace of God, because he needed it. I hate that tonight I can't stop crying, when I hate crying.
How the hell am I going to do this in six weeks?
I don't know how to do this. I don't know what this looks like. I don't know what this looks like so much that I can't even imagine it. How do I go from begging to not home school, to loving home schooling, to boarding school? How do I comfort myself, let alone the two other human beings who have been as intricately connected to him as I have, from the beginning of their existence? What do you say to your daughters who ache because they want him here, because they feel the pounding and screaming and aching of the him-shaped-hole that you do?
There's nothing to say. That's the truth of it. There aren't words, and there aren't hugs, or laughs or anythings that can do anything at all. This disease just is. And tonight I hate it. Damn it, I wasn't supposed to have to do this so soon. And I hate RP for making me do it eight years early. I hate it for taking away the time I assumed I would have.
There's a him shaped hole, and his empty bed is screaming at me, and I'm sobbing at ten o'clock tonight.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
Disease
It's the night time, and the kids are in bed. Glass of wine, fire crackling, me alone on the couch. My fingers are clicking away on the computer. I'm enjoying the quiet, but for the occasional cracking of the fire.
I'm not looking over at anyone on their cell phones, or listening to dogs battling unseen enemies. I'm not navigating fighting children, or making phone calls. It's just me and this laptop.
I'm exhausted. It's such a dramatic word, but it doesn't even scratch the surface of the reality behind it. I feel more tired now than I ever have. I feel more sad and angry.
Feelings can be so conflicting. They can mean so much and so little all at once. I can feel a thousand feelings that mean nothing in regards to knowing things. I know all will be okay. I know I am loved. I know this is not a death sentence. I know God has a plan.
I still feel overwhelmed by it all. I still feel like my whole world is coming crashing down. The glimmer of "hope" has been blown out. The belief that everything-will-be-as-I-want is gone. What's left is the aftermath of a diagnosis I neither expected, saw on my radar, or believed would ever come.
For we walk by faith, not by sight. 2 Cor 5.7
This has been my theme verse throughout the years. Now it seems to be oh so relevant. The loss of the "seen" is staring us in the face. But the walk will continue. It has to. We don't get to stand frozen in space because our eyes are covered over. We don't get to stand still and pretend like everything is gone, because what we want to be there, isn't. We don't get to give in to disease and decay and destruction. We walk by faith...not by sight...
The guilt of the gift of my genes overwhelms me. The guilt of my only son having this aggravating disease. The guilt of the knowledge that it came from me, despite all my good intentions, all my understandings, all my hopes and dreams.
I'm exhausted.
I have to be brave. He's watching me. Every time I cry at the doctor's offices, every time I sob in his father's arms, every time I break down... he's watching. He's looking to me to see how he should feel about this. He's waiting to get his cues about how devastating this all will be, from me. He needs me to be confident, assured, and clear that he will be okay. And he will. Even as my nine year old watches his dreams fade away, he will be okay.
He asked me a question the other night, searching for hope in me.
I told him You can do almost anything that anyone else can. You don't have to give everything up. There will be things you won't be able to do. But most things are just problems, waiting for you to solve.
He said Problems?
I said Yes. They're just puzzles for you to solve. How can I do this? How can I be successful at this? And you're the best at solving puzzles. I know you will be able to solve them all.
With those few words, he bounded upstairs and back to life.
It's a lot of pressure, holding the confidence of someone so small, in your hands...
I'm not looking over at anyone on their cell phones, or listening to dogs battling unseen enemies. I'm not navigating fighting children, or making phone calls. It's just me and this laptop.
I'm exhausted. It's such a dramatic word, but it doesn't even scratch the surface of the reality behind it. I feel more tired now than I ever have. I feel more sad and angry.
Feelings can be so conflicting. They can mean so much and so little all at once. I can feel a thousand feelings that mean nothing in regards to knowing things. I know all will be okay. I know I am loved. I know this is not a death sentence. I know God has a plan.
I still feel overwhelmed by it all. I still feel like my whole world is coming crashing down. The glimmer of "hope" has been blown out. The belief that everything-will-be-as-I-want is gone. What's left is the aftermath of a diagnosis I neither expected, saw on my radar, or believed would ever come.
For we walk by faith, not by sight. 2 Cor 5.7
This has been my theme verse throughout the years. Now it seems to be oh so relevant. The loss of the "seen" is staring us in the face. But the walk will continue. It has to. We don't get to stand frozen in space because our eyes are covered over. We don't get to stand still and pretend like everything is gone, because what we want to be there, isn't. We don't get to give in to disease and decay and destruction. We walk by faith...not by sight...
The guilt of the gift of my genes overwhelms me. The guilt of my only son having this aggravating disease. The guilt of the knowledge that it came from me, despite all my good intentions, all my understandings, all my hopes and dreams.
I'm exhausted.
I have to be brave. He's watching me. Every time I cry at the doctor's offices, every time I sob in his father's arms, every time I break down... he's watching. He's looking to me to see how he should feel about this. He's waiting to get his cues about how devastating this all will be, from me. He needs me to be confident, assured, and clear that he will be okay. And he will. Even as my nine year old watches his dreams fade away, he will be okay.
He asked me a question the other night, searching for hope in me.
I told him You can do almost anything that anyone else can. You don't have to give everything up. There will be things you won't be able to do. But most things are just problems, waiting for you to solve.
He said Problems?
I said Yes. They're just puzzles for you to solve. How can I do this? How can I be successful at this? And you're the best at solving puzzles. I know you will be able to solve them all.
With those few words, he bounded upstairs and back to life.
It's a lot of pressure, holding the confidence of someone so small, in your hands...
Thursday, November 3, 2016
Angry
It's after seven in the morning, America, and I've been awake for over two hours. I've done laundry, cooked breakfast, played with the dog, prayed, and talked with my G.A. I've got twenty minutes until my children come down stairs and join me.
Talidu is currently begging me for a bite of my eggs, onions, spinach, and sweet potato hash. She's whining because she can smell it "so bad" and she "needs it!" I find such comfort in how easily my four legged friend communicates what she wants. I find such sorrow that I am the complete opposite.
I'm angry, America. I shouldn't be. I am so blessed to live where I live, have what I have, to love and be loved in return. I'm blessed beyond what I deserve, and I know it. So many, in other places, are struggling underneath burdens that are miles wider and mountains higher than mine. I know all of this, and I am immensely grateful for what I have. I'm still angry.
My priest says anger is about growth. We can't move beyond our weaknesses, or expose our struggles, if they're never tested. Muscles have to be exercised, in order to become strong. Challenges have to come, in order to learn to overcome. I've got refining to do.
I can't say exactly what needs refined. Peace? Joy? Self control? Gentleness? Goodness? I'm so tired. I'm tired of fighting children. I'm tired of a messy house, that is never clean. I'm tired of rudeness. I'm tired of unending noise. I'm tired of illnesses I can't solve.
Maybe that's the straw that broke the camel's back. I hate what is and I desperately don't want it to be. The "is" could be so much worse. It could be death. It's not death, at least not in a heart-beat type of way. It is a death of dreams, a death of the picture of what was ahead. And in its "death" new life will develop. I know these things. I believe them. I look forward to being able to see how it comes about. I'm still angry.
Talidu is currently begging me for a bite of my eggs, onions, spinach, and sweet potato hash. She's whining because she can smell it "so bad" and she "needs it!" I find such comfort in how easily my four legged friend communicates what she wants. I find such sorrow that I am the complete opposite.
I'm angry, America. I shouldn't be. I am so blessed to live where I live, have what I have, to love and be loved in return. I'm blessed beyond what I deserve, and I know it. So many, in other places, are struggling underneath burdens that are miles wider and mountains higher than mine. I know all of this, and I am immensely grateful for what I have. I'm still angry.
My priest says anger is about growth. We can't move beyond our weaknesses, or expose our struggles, if they're never tested. Muscles have to be exercised, in order to become strong. Challenges have to come, in order to learn to overcome. I've got refining to do.
I can't say exactly what needs refined. Peace? Joy? Self control? Gentleness? Goodness? I'm so tired. I'm tired of fighting children. I'm tired of a messy house, that is never clean. I'm tired of rudeness. I'm tired of unending noise. I'm tired of illnesses I can't solve.
Maybe that's the straw that broke the camel's back. I hate what is and I desperately don't want it to be. The "is" could be so much worse. It could be death. It's not death, at least not in a heart-beat type of way. It is a death of dreams, a death of the picture of what was ahead. And in its "death" new life will develop. I know these things. I believe them. I look forward to being able to see how it comes about. I'm still angry.
Monday, September 12, 2016
Trainees
They sit there staring at me, with pleading eyes.
What's it all really like?
What's your favorite duty station?
Are you happily married? They say you can't be and be in the Army.
Do you care about us?
Every time I see them, something in me is changed. Every time I drive past, my heart aches. I love seeing how they change around their families, the version of them that I am blessed to spend time with disappears, confidence swells and joy overwhelms. America, I wish you could see how these boys are brave. They have a courage that I can't define, and it's simultaneously wrapped up in what-the-heck-have-I-done???
I tell them how much I admire them. They joined knowing that we are at war. There are no illusions in their minds about what they are facing. They know that a fight is ahead of them: fights against their fears, their drill sergeants, their desire to sleep, the enemy...
My husband asked me why it impacts me so. I told him it's because I know what's ahead. I've been to too many funerals and hospitals. I've had a front row seat for too many divorces, and fears. I know the enormity of the task before them, and I know that the vast majority of them will have an extremely difficult time handling it. I know that they will desperately look for someone to comfort them, and then make it almost impossible for them to come anywhere near to their heart. I know the walls that will exist, and I know the effort it takes to tear them down. So I feel compelled. I feel burdened. Pour in as much Love, as much courage, and as much Goodness as I humanly can, in the few hours I spend with them, as those walls are being built up. And I hope that it will stay there, with them, forever.
What's it all really like?
What's your favorite duty station?
Are you happily married? They say you can't be and be in the Army.
Do you care about us?
Every time I see them, something in me is changed. Every time I drive past, my heart aches. I love seeing how they change around their families, the version of them that I am blessed to spend time with disappears, confidence swells and joy overwhelms. America, I wish you could see how these boys are brave. They have a courage that I can't define, and it's simultaneously wrapped up in what-the-heck-have-I-done???
I tell them how much I admire them. They joined knowing that we are at war. There are no illusions in their minds about what they are facing. They know that a fight is ahead of them: fights against their fears, their drill sergeants, their desire to sleep, the enemy...
My husband asked me why it impacts me so. I told him it's because I know what's ahead. I've been to too many funerals and hospitals. I've had a front row seat for too many divorces, and fears. I know the enormity of the task before them, and I know that the vast majority of them will have an extremely difficult time handling it. I know that they will desperately look for someone to comfort them, and then make it almost impossible for them to come anywhere near to their heart. I know the walls that will exist, and I know the effort it takes to tear them down. So I feel compelled. I feel burdened. Pour in as much Love, as much courage, and as much Goodness as I humanly can, in the few hours I spend with them, as those walls are being built up. And I hope that it will stay there, with them, forever.
To know is to Love
When I was younger, I hungered for information. I wanted wisdom desperately. I watched, I listened, I asked, I learned as much as I possibly could. I challenged everyone on practically everything. I had no desire to please my peers, or to seek out their approval. Where I turned to approval from, were people who had achieved, as far as my young person's brain could process: joyful marriages, joyful parenting, PHD's, doctors, etc etc etc. If you were joyfully succeeding in the world, I wanted your approval. Perhaps that's still true today.
My priest asked me who I turn to when I'm in need. The honest answer was no one. The conversation was striking, as I heard myself acknowledging, out loud, that simple truth. My children asked me a similar question that evening (a sign that the lesson really needed to be driven home) Mommy? Who knows you best? "I don't know.... No one."
I don't talk about myself. I like to make people laugh, and I love to listen, but there is oh so little to share, and oh so much at the exact same time, and words are solid. They're concrete. They can't be unspoken. For every opinion I have, there's an opposite. How can I speak words that are evolving? How can I formulate thoughts that are changing? How can I declare anything to anyone when what I "think" might be different in the next moment?
About the only concrete I have is Love. God's Love, and the love I hold in my heart for others. It's the solid foundation that exists, in my brain, in a verbal context. I can Love, clearly, because it's been firmly resolved. It isn't a question, but an action. I do it with the fiercest energy I have in my bones. I hope I do it well.
My priest asked me who I turn to when I'm in need. The honest answer was no one. The conversation was striking, as I heard myself acknowledging, out loud, that simple truth. My children asked me a similar question that evening (a sign that the lesson really needed to be driven home) Mommy? Who knows you best? "I don't know.... No one."
I don't talk about myself. I like to make people laugh, and I love to listen, but there is oh so little to share, and oh so much at the exact same time, and words are solid. They're concrete. They can't be unspoken. For every opinion I have, there's an opposite. How can I speak words that are evolving? How can I formulate thoughts that are changing? How can I declare anything to anyone when what I "think" might be different in the next moment?
About the only concrete I have is Love. God's Love, and the love I hold in my heart for others. It's the solid foundation that exists, in my brain, in a verbal context. I can Love, clearly, because it's been firmly resolved. It isn't a question, but an action. I do it with the fiercest energy I have in my bones. I hope I do it well.
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