we miss you already, my beloved

I haven’t posted in a week, not because John has already left, but because I haven’t had internet connection for my laptop.

That, and the fact that there are only so many ways to say, no, he hasn’t left yet.

The military is well known for its “hurry up and wait” procedures. This Afghanistan trip is, of course, no exception.

Deployment Day has been changed a time or ten (not really, but I enjoy exaggeration). We think we have a definite day. I’m unable to share the exact date, but it is soon.

Single digits—smaller than the ages of either of my sons—kind of soon.

People who love us keep asking how we’re doing in these anticipation days.

“We’re doing okay,” we reply. “We’re hanging in there.”

(And by doing okay, I mean that denial is my friend.)

We have been doing okay. We’ve been living—trying to live, at least—as if everything is normal. We know we’ll make it through the goodbye, because we made it through last time. We have a God who has carried us through this in times past, and we’re trusting him to do it again.

But it’s still hard.

I’ve known the denial would crumble as the days, hours grow closer. Last night brought that crashing point.

I’d like to talk about where I’m at right now, knowing my husband and my little boys’ daddy is about to head to war. I’d like to reach deep and find relief through crafting sentences. But sometimes the difficulty itself is just too deep, too multifaceted, too raw, too muddled in my own heart  to even write about. Eloquence is impossible and words fail. So I’m not even trying.

(You don’t mind, do you?)

Until we reach The Day, we’re hanging out in a little beach cottage on our Marine Corps base in California, we’re spending time with friends, we’re playing in the sand, we’re taking pictures…

…and we’re just waiting.

~~~

Two things, briefly:

• Here’s a great video of John and Chad Markley covering Revelation Song, recorded a couple nights ago at Chad and Sarah’s house. Perhaps the video will give you at least a tiny glimmer of the sheer awesomeness that was the night.

• A proper blog would have already listed the winner of the Rain On Me and Daddy’s In Iraq But I Want Him Back giveaway. Actually, a proper blog would have at least given a closing date for entry on the original post.

Clearly, this is not exactly a proper blog.

But the winner is Mab, which makes me rather giddy, because she said her soldier has been deployed for nearly a year, but that they’re expecting a baby in a few months, thanks to the two weeks he was able to come home. Is there anything sweeter than an R&R baby? I’ll be emailing Mab and getting those books out to her and her precious family.

And to the rest of you…

Thank you all so much for your support during these pre-deployment days. I hope to be able to put my appreciation into words at some point, but I’m just too overwhelmed right now by your outpouring of love.

Seriously.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou

I really love you people.

It was time to tell them. To hope they’d understand.

Sitting on the couch, the four of us, cuddled close. We tried to explain.

We tried to smile.

“Daddy’s going to be far away. He’s going to do really nifty cool Marine stuff. He gets to ride on a bus and an airplane!”

Where is he going? Are we not going to see him anymore?

“Do you remember when Daddy went to Iraq when you were smaller? This place is close to Iraq. It’s called Afghanistan. Can you say Afghanistan?”

I don’t like those words! Our three year old furrowed his brow. Those are bad words!

Our two year old buried his head in Daddy’s shoulder. No go, Daddy. Stay home.

Their daddy’s rich brown eyes were glassy.

“Daddy’s going to fight the bad guys, boys.”

Fight giants, Daddy? The two year old’s eyes were wide.

Will you be home when I get four, Daddy?

“No, Daddy won’t be home for your fourth birthday. No, not Christmas, either. But when you turn five, it’ll mean it’s almost time for Daddy to come home.”

But I’m not three. I’m not four either. I’m 21 now. I’m big and I’m going to go fight bad guys, too.

Help you, Daddy. Take mine sword!

“You have to stay here, guys. You have to take care of Mommy.”

No, Daddy. The three year old curled into a ball under Daddy’s arm. His little shoulders shaking and small voice broken with sobs.

No, Daddy.  The two year old stood on Daddy’s leg and wrapped his arms around Daddy’s neck, summoning all his toddler strength and squeezing hard.

My Marine looked at me over the heads of these, our precious ones, part of both of us. Our love displayed in the form of two little boys. One looks like him and acts like me. The other looks like me and acts like him. Binding us together for the rest of our days.

The moment, silent, still.

My throat closed so tightly, it threatened to suffocate me.

Is this really happening again, my beloved?

~~~

I’d like to give another family close to the military—whether you are the family, you are close to a Marine, Soldier, Airman or Sailor, or you know a military family who could be encouraged—a duo of books that have touched a tender spot in my heart.

The first is one I picked up at a library book sale months ago. I read it alone during nap time later that day and couldn’t stop the tears.

The book is simply called Daddy’s In Iraq, But I Want Him Back.

It was our story, in someone else’s words.

But really, it was the story of any family who has been through deployment. Because it’s not just the spouse or the parent who goes to war. The family left on the homefront is fighting a battle all their own, and just as important.

The second is Rain On Me, a powerful book of love-filled words by my sweet friend  Holley Gerth. She gifted me with a copy of her devotional a few weeks ago when I was in Nashville and I read it through, cover to cover, in two days. The gentle truths were written in the midst of a personal storm—and I couldn’t soak them up fast enough.

Holley has graciously offered a copy of her beautiful book to a reader here, and I’ve also secured a copy of Daddy’s In Iraq But I Want Him Back. We’d like to bless a family in or close to the military with this set of books. They are sure to be a treasure to whomever holds them in their hands.

To win the duo, simply leave the name of a military service member or family you love (even if–especially if–that family is your own) along with their branch of service. I’d like to make a list of these people, whether or not they’ve been through ten deployments or none, and keep them in prayer over the coming months. I’m not going to get gimmicky on you, because that’s not the point of this giveaway, but if you tweet about this and let me know you did so, you’ll get an extra entry.

I know you’ll be blessed.

“Please stop,” he asks.”You know I hate it when you talk like that.”

“Come on,” she says. “It’s getting ridiculous.”

“Get used to it,” a friend tells another. “She talks like this about herself all the time.”

“Do I look fat in this skirt?”

“Back when I was thin…”

“If I was still skinny…”

“Have you seen these thighs?”

“Ugh. I look like a cow.”

I thought talking about it meant I was okay with it.

I didn’t want people to assume I was oblivious to my weight fluctuations.

I thought if I could talk openly, candidly, jokingly, other people would feel they could talk about it too.

They’d know it was all okay.

But it wasn’t okay.

It wasn’t okay with me.

And it certainly wasn’t okay with the people around me.

The truth was they didn’t care whether I was wearing a size four or a size eight or a size twelve. They didn’t notice every two pound gain or loss. They didn’t love me more based on how many days a week I spent at the gym.

But they were sick and tired of hearing me talk about it. The bashing. The joking. The bemoaning.

Those closest to me begged, pleaded, implored.

The rest rolled their eyes, changed the subject and coughed with meaning.

I imagined that talking about my weight issues (or perceived issues) would clear the air in my conversations, and people wouldn’t have to skirt around  the issue that was, to me, the loudly sounding elephant among us.

But suddenly, not very long ago, it occurred to me that not once had the recipient of my self-depreciating weight comments been anything other than completely uncomfortable.

I thought the Monster wouldn’t be so big if I could name it.

Though my mind told me the talking–the sad attempts at humor, the self-degrading jesting, bringing it up often–would make me feel better, I broke a bit more every time I spoke of it.

I thought talking about it meant I was okay with it.

The truth couldn’t be more distant.

~~~

One of my most sought-after goals in the Losing It competition is that of changing my thinking.

Last week I bared my soul to you about my struggle with consistently eating for health instead of starving myself into long term metabolic damage. I have to change my thinking and remember that food itself is not the enemy.

The next goal on my totem pole is that of the way I talk, and, at the root of it, the way I think. Constantly berating myself for real or perceived flaws does nothing to reach the end destination. Instead, it draws attention to the very thing I’m trying to convince everyone isn’t a big deal.

Pointless.

~~~

The Week 1 report:

Food: I ate three meals a day, every single day. That is huge. I even ate some snacks. We’ve been able to find a few resources for good, whole food here in our new town, which has been wonderful–I’ll be talking more about that in future Losing It posts.

I also ate Chinese (total weakness of mine) and ice cream on a date night. But I’m totally forgiving myself for that, being it was our last real date of that sort before the deployment.

Water: It is so hard for me to remember to drink water. I didn’t drink enough, by any stretch of the imagination. I’m going to aim to finish two of my big water bottles every day, because I can actually feel the dehydration.

Exercise: I have a new exercise program I’m planning to use in place of the gym since I don’t have the same options available any longer in our new tiny mountain town. I planned to start it this week, but didn’t ever get enough boxes and floor space cleared out of our new house to actually do so. Instead, we went snowshoeing, walking, sledding and skiing.

I definitely burned a calorie or a trillion and after the skiing yesterday (WITH the boys!) I can hardly walk. Just sayin.

Losing It: As of this morning, I’ve lost two pounds this week. That’s right on track.





Losing It (but not our sanity) is a 10 week weight loss competition hosted by Mary at Giving Up On Perfect, along with Jessie at Vanderbilt Wife and me. If you’d like to join in the fun–and the loss!–go to Giving Up On Perfect and link up to your own post about the challenge. If you link up six of the ten weeks and are the contestant with the highest weight percentage lost, you will win a gift card to Dick’s Sporting Good, a pedometer provided by Weight Watchers, and a six month subscription to The 6 o’Clock Scramble, a healthful menu planning service.

Thanks for joining us on our journey toward health!

Morning.

Closeness.

Swollen eyes. Messy hair. Breakfast. Stuffy noses. Thomas the Tank Engine cartoons.

Snuggling. Clamoring. Climbing. Hair pulling. Snuggling closer.

Tired boys. Irritability. Whining.

More clamoring.

Mommy. Mama. Mommy. I need you. Can you? Mama. I need. Please? Mommy. Mama. I need this. Can I? Will you? Hold me. He hit me. Mama. I want that. Mommy? I need.

Need.

Need.

More clamoring. More whining. More touching. More climbing.

Suffocating.

“Stop. STOP. No touching. PLEASE. Nobody touches Mama. Just… stop.”

My hands gripping the roots of my own hair.

Looking at their daddy. My teeth interlocking.

“I’m going to freak out. Five minutes. Just five minutes without being needed. Or touched. I’m done. I’m going to lose it.”

“Um,” his look was gentle. “You kind of just did.”

Oh.

Yeah.

~~~

Silence.

Sitting at the edge of the couch. Slipper clad feet planted purposely, firmly on the floor. Pulling the laptop from the coffee table.

So much to do. Catch up. Stay on top of the game. So much noise coming from the silent screen.

Five minutes. Just five minutes. To focus.

Mommy?

Whispered. From the other end of the couch. Cautious. Because of the freak out.

No turning of my head. Fingers typing. Absent. “Yes, babe?”

I just need a little kiss.

Stinging. Deep. So deep.

Breathe.

Laptop closed and slid back on the coffee table. Slippers kicked off and feet propped up. Sinking back into the overstuffed cushions.

“Come ‘ere, guys.”

Snuggling. Giggling. Holding. Arms entwined. Fingers running through messy hair.

Kisses.

Sometimes the touching is too much. Sometimes the needing is never ending.

Sometimes the freak out is legitimate.

But sometimes the touching is simply traded in for another form of contact. And sometimes the needing comes through notifications and electronic chimes.

Sometimes the issue isn’t the touching or the needing.

It’s simply who is allowed to touch and need.

Mama? I need a little kiss.