I bought this card a few years ago.

It was us. The dark haired girl, the light haired boy.

Gazing up at a starry, fairy dust sky.

Just weeks later, we found out that light-haired guy of mine was headed to Iraq.

I tucked the card away, deep in a maple drawer.

I couldn’t give him a card that spoke of something that wasn’t reality.

I found the little piece of folded card stock again when we moved to Colorado.

With only a few weeks before we embarked on the second long separation, it seemed ridiculous to even keep the card.

Never being apart only served to underline the fact that, as long as we’re in the military, we’ll always have another separation on the horizon.

But one day, not long after he boarded that bus bound for the sandy spot across the globe, I pulled that card out of the wooden drawer.

And I sent it.

Because, this second time around, I realized something.

Distance is physical.

But hearts are not.

And they don’t always get the message that the bodies they inhabit are separated by oceans and continents.

Today I hung up the phone after an international phone call from Afghanistan.

And with a slow sigh, I knew my heart didn’t know that Marine of mine was across the globe.

He’s still the brightest spot in my day.

He’s still the one who makes me smile.

He can still take a hard day and make it sparkle.

He’s still the person I want to spend all my time with,

be it while drying dishes side by side,

walking around a little island in Southern California,

looking at each other via television screen,

or simply talking across phone lines.

Our hearts are never apart.

Ever.

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Some days the weight of being alone sits heavy, a yoke upon my shoulders.



Some days my heart cries, realizing how much life he’s missing, that Marine of mine.

Some days, my eyes cry, too.



Some days the boys wake from their naps, crying for their daddy.

Some days, their mommy is helpless to console them.

Some days, their little shouts of joy bring ache to my soul.

Some days, I wonder if absence really does make the heart fonder.

Some days, I worry that we’re all going to grow apart.

Some days my fingers entangle the roots of my hair and my teeth grit until my jaw is sore.

Some days I stomp my own feet on the tiled kitchen floor, hearing the hollow beneath me.

Some days, I feel the hollow in my heart.

Some days, my heart is steeled with guilt, because we saw him. A stolen treasure, that.

Some days, I’m angry it was just a trip.

Some days, the five months he’s been away seem to have sped away, fast as the mountain lightning.

Some days, my eyes squint, straining to see the end of the eight months ahead.

Some days, I’m proud of his service.

Some days, I want to hide it, away from critical eyes and wagging tongues.

Some days, I shake my fist that this isn’t over yet, that we’re closing in on year nine.

Some days, I wonder why we signed up for another four years, and another.

Some days, I remember all the reasons.



Some days, crayons and coloring sheets make day-brightening presents, sent across the sea.

Some days, the mail brings gifts of gold, letters written in his hand.

Some days, we see him on a computer screen.

Some days, the telephone grows warm with hour long heart talks.

Some days, we remember what a gift this is.



Some nights, our little boys fight exhaustion, calling from their room that they can’t sleep without daddy.

Some nights, I send them back to bed fifty times, exasperation on my lips.

Some nights, I curse the television and its common scenes of lovers and gentle kisses.

Some nights, I drift away into sleep, on the couch, rather than face the cold, empty bed.

Some nights, I pray for dreams in which his hand holds mine, his arm encircles my shoulders.



Sometimes, I lay, face on the carpet, begging Jesus for strength to stand.

Always, I feel His arms pulling me up.

Sometimes, I cry that I can’t do this thing alone for one more moment.

Always, He fills the empty heart and gives warmth, peace.

Sometimes, I rest.

Always, He tells me loneliness isn’t shameful.

Sometimes, I can do naught but weep.

Always, He draws me closer, collecting my tears in a bottle.



Some days, the missing is so strong I believe my body breaking in two.

Some days, I’m but a half to a whole.

The flight was long.

We were on a ginormous Air Force jet, typically serving to transport cargo.

Today’s load? Boxes and boxes and boxes of ammunition.

I quickly squashed a thought or two about what would happen if someone lit a match…

The pallets, loaded with cargo, filled the cavernous center of the plane and all of us–the passengers–lined two grey outer walls, belted in on our fold down seats.

We covered our ears with ear muffs to drown out the sound of the loud engine. We’d been warned about the cold of flying across an ocean without heat, but not even our sweatshirts and jeans cut the chill.

I didn’t care. The boys thought is was fun and we were on a flight.

~*~

At cruising altitude, the Airman on board passed out thin wool blankets and airline-esque mini pillows. And–here’s the redeeming factor (beside the fact that the flight was, you know, FREE)–because of the layout of the plane and the lack of row-style seating, people started sprawling out, everywhere. On the floor. Of the plane.

So we did, too. Because who cared if it was safe? At that point, we were so tired that if the people in the plane had jumped off a cliff because of the promise of sleep a the bottom…

And so we woke, nine hours later, just before touching German soil.

The sun smarted our dazed eyes as we climbed down the steps onto the tarmac. We’d left Charleston late in the evening and had lost six hours while crossing time zones.It was hot, in stark contrast to the freezing temperatures in the belly of the plane.

~*~

Our passports were stamped, we gathered our bags, and….

Now what?

After tying a cranky two year old onto my back in our mei tai carrier, I held the hand of my four year old and attempted to wheel our suitcase across the street to the on-base hotel. The handle had broken somewhere along the journey and I was having to lift and drag the suitcase without letting the heavy backpack–booted from its place on my back by a toddler–fall off its perch on top.

A girl with a German accent told us they didn’t have any rooms.

None. Nada. Zip.

~*~

We spent the night that night in a German hotel, carried off-base in a German taxi by a man with many questions about America. He told me of enjoying driving a taxi simply because of all the stories he hears. I told him stories are my specialty.

(I didn’t tell him he was now part of one of my craziest chapters.)

We ordered room service because there weren’t any restaurants within driving distance and then all three of us fell asleep, sprawled across two twin beds pushed together, listening to the sound of Bob the Builder dubbed in German.

We woke and it was nearly dark, but the hotel room didn’t have a clock. We played a game, watched more American TV with German voices and fell asleep for a few more hours, repeating the cycle several times before the hotel opened their breakfast bar.

After breakfast–during which the boys were highly enthralled by the array of cheeses and meats and I was highly amused by the pitcher of beer sitting on the buffet tables at 6:30 am–we called another taxi and headed back to base to await our Marine’s arrival.

Now. Rabbit trail here. Actually two.

Trail One: I had no way of contacting anyone. No international cell phone. Not even my computer, being I’d neglected to think about the need for a power converter to plug in said computer and my battery has the lifespan of a firecracker. So I didn’t know when, where, or how my husband was going to end up in Germany.

Trail Two: The boys had no idea why we were in Germany at this point. I’d managed (because they’re still little, of course, and don’t easily catch hints) to keep the reason a secret and to them, this was just a crazy, pointless trip. They knew there was a surprise involved, but in all their guessing, they never got past suggesting a candy bar or trip to see a movie in a theater.

Once we got back to base, we spent a few hours walking through their little German/American “mall” and finally found internet kiosks in the book store. I checked my email and discovered John would be–oh my heart–landing in only a few short hours.

We secured an on-base hotel room and took naps (our body clocks had been thrown for a loop) before prepping and primping and catching a shuttle back over to the air terminal.

Guess what, little boys? It’s time for you to see the big surprise!

We waited. And waited. Discovered his plane had been diverted due to weather and that he might be arriving via bus, or he might be renting a car, or he might be flying in the next day.

So we waited some more.

By this time, people, we were professional waiters. We should have been paid for our mad waiting skillz.

~*~

At 10:00 pm that night, after four hours of waiting, we were sitting on the steps of a large, curving staircase outside the mall. I had just called a taxi because I’d been told that now John would likely have arrived across base.

We were just sitting,

when a van drove by with the windows rolled down.

I heard a laugh. There and gone again, coming and fading as the van drove down the street.

I knew that laugh.

The van turned, coming back around and slowing a little way down the street.

“Boys,” I whispered, frozen, a bit unsure. “I think the surprise is here.”

They both stopped where they were jumping and playing on the steps. They turned and watched.

The van door opened.

Out stepped a pair of camouflage-clad legs and dusty boots.

Our two year old gasped, a tiny, breathless sound in the stillness.

“Daddy?”

And they ran, flying down the stairs, across the pavement, jumping, laughing, squealing, into his arms.

I ran to him. And I kissed him.

And we were happy.

~*~

How does one sum up ten days of bliss?

A peek through pictures.

We visited pretties.

We munched on scrumptiousness.

Our favorite was the Spaetzel.

But I didn’t take pictures of the cheesy wonderfulness.

But the best part?

Just hanging out.

Together.

We had to try the German McDonald’s.

We are, after all, American.

We laughed at the difference in taste and custom.

(But we were more than a little annoyed that fast food in Germany would be a foreign concept if not for the American MickeyD’s and Burger King. I think that’s probably a “gift” Germany could have done without…)

(But that’s just my little opinion.)

~*~

We visited more pretties.

(this one was a dream come true)

~*~

When we left for Germany, John expected to be there for five days.

But at the end of five days… he couldn’t catch a flight.

And at the end of six days… he couldn’t catch a flight.

And at the end of seven… and eight… and nine…

We cheered each day as they stretched… from five… to ten.

Funny how waiting for flights and spending the night in a terminal doesn’t seem so bad with one’s beloved by one’s side, isn’t it?

And then dawned day ten. With it, came a flight back to Afghanistan.

And so… it was over.

But it was a beautiful dream.

~*~

The boys and I waited another two nights, again, sleeping in the terminal, listening for the ominous bell tolls and the voice telling us, “We regret to inform you there will be no seats available on the next flight.”

But this terminal was equipped with a Subway and a children’s play gym,  so we fared much better than we did on our way to Germany.

(Even without showers for four days and the eventual need to buy a second set of commercial plane tickets to make the very last leg back home.)

But we’re home.

And slowly–very slowly–we’re recovering from our crazy, wonderful, insane, blissful European adventure.

And we’re looking ahead to November, when our Marine will be given a few days to come home, and again to April, when, after thirteen months in Afghanistan, he will be home…

…to stay.

Click here to read Parts One and Two.

I panicked.

No flights?

I had just made a two day trip with two small children, no cell phone, and no idea where I was going.

For nothing.

“The trip is off… again.” I put my head in my hands and took a shakey breath.

My mom shook her head and pressed her lips. “No. It’s not.”

~*~

I dressed the boys in their clothes that night before bed.

We left long before dawn, arriving in Charleston, South Carolina mid-morning via a commercial jet.

I could hear my husband’s smile when I talked to him on our way to the Air Force terminal, in a yellow taxi. “It looks like you and the boys will be in Germany before I do!”

“Yep. Charleston has three or four flights to Ramstein a day. I’ll probably be there in a day or two.” I was so stinkin’ glad the hard part was finally over.

We were really on our way to Germany. All we had to do was make it to the terminal, find some food, and…

Except…

there was no food.

Nada. None. Nothing.

The “terminal” was a one-gate room with a little “family room” off to one side.

And no food.

We hadn’t eaten anything but graham crackers and cheddar bunnies all day.

Thankfully, a sweet older woman in the terminal took pity on us and drove the boys and I to get sub sandwiches. Our tummies were full, and it was almost time to find out if we made it on the first flight.

“Six seats.” The Airman announced across the building. And there were at least fifteen people waiting.

But, hey, it was just the first flight and there would be three the next day. No biggie.

We hailed another taxi and found a nearby hotel.

I felt adventurous. Brave. Bold.

We were on our way. I’d be in Germany within 24 hours.

There was still just the tiny problem of not having any food. And not having a car with which to find food. But we could just live off of pop tarts from the vending machine if we had to. Right?

~*~

The next morning brought a ray of sunshine to our hotel lobby in the form of my beloved Arianne.

We wrapped each other in a tight bear hug and talked as if it was perfectly normal to drive around in Ari’s van with our five boys laughing behind us.

We looked like two crazies (which we are) walking into a restaurant with five little boys. People stared. But, hey, we’d never see them again, right? And our boys were all surprisingly well behaved.

Until the food on their plates ran out and they were ready to move.

So, like true boy moms, we traipsed across a surface road, in the rain, to a grassy area.

The grassy area? Just happened to be on the side of a highway off-ramp.

We like living on the edge. Literally.

I reminded myself of this an hour later, when I missed the next flight.

And the next one.

Aaaand the next one.

~*~

Ari left the terminal that evening to make it be late to a chiropractor appointment. The boys were sad. And so were we.

It turned out there was food–other than the vending machine we’d discovered, full of candy, chips and pop tarts. The food was a half mile away. In 458% humidity. And crazy high heat. At the bowling alley. And, the rules stated luggage had to make the trip with you, if you decided to brave it for a hotdog.

I was immensely grateful for my husband’s faraway wisdom that told me, “ONLY PACK ONE SUITCASE.” I guess he probably would have advised against packing a backpack that would be heavier than any suitcase. But, you know… I didn’t ask him about that one.

We ate hotdogs. And walked back.

And missed another flight.

~*~

The funny thing about places like tiny military airport terminals with doors that open to both weary and hopeful mothers traveling, alone, with their children, is that make-shift families form quickly.

We’re all doing the exact same thing. If we’re spouse-less and traveling, it means our other half is in Afghanistan.

There’s no wimpering about the fact. There’s no proving you’re strong or showing you’re weak. No whining or crying about the hardship.

Because every other woman in that place is rowing the same boat.

So that night, at 2:30 am,  I woke the sleeping, cranky boys and climbed into another taxi with a new friend and her toddler daughter, and rode back to the hotel we’d left the day before. We shared a room with two queen beds. But there was a shower. And a vending machine with pop tarts.

The next morning, on our way out the door, my new friend said, “I don’t even know your last name.”

It was a line meant for Vegas.

And so we cracked up.

~*~

That night everyone pitched in and someone with a car picked up pizza.

It was the only meal we ate that day. Unless you count a poptart.

We missed another flight. Or three.

And we slept in the terminal. On the floor–concrete covered with thin industrial carpet.

My four year old was up half the night, crying because of his tummy–aching from eating nothing but junk.

~*~

The days started to blur.

We made another trip to the bowling alley.

This time we ordered chicken fingers. Now THAT is Living on the edge right there.

We all watched as planes filled, carrying deploying soldiers, leaving no room for any extra passengers.

We’re military wives with deployed husbands and a couple dozen crazy kids running around the terminal like wild banshees.

We didn’t give the soldiers a whole lot of sympathy.

Three more flights. Three more “no seats available.”

Another night on the floor.

~*~

Day Four.

Still in the terminal.

We were all brushing our teeth in the bathrooms and using scratchy brown paper towels to wash our faces.

But the STANK in that building? My word.

Midday, I turned on a movie for the boys, and curled up in a corner. I started tweeting about where I was at on this wild ride.

Twitter went ablaze.

I was getting tweeted from people who lived right there in Charleston, offering me food, lodging, money.

Thanks to Lisa-Jo’s outpouring of Twitter love, a sweet Amanda came bearing Chik-fil-A an hour later. She even brought a dish of fruit and the boys fought over every piece.

And because of Kaira, I received a phone call from a friend of hers, telling me she’d prepared a room for us and that if we missed the midnight flight that night, we had better call her.

Just the prospect of being in the same house as a shower was enough to convince me.

~*~

We did miss the midnight flight.

The words commerical tickets kept floating through my consciousness. But as much as I wanted to see that Marine of mine, I just couldn’t quite justify spending almost $10,000 to make it happen. I didn’t think he would be able to, either.

I texted Kaira’s friend April, who hurried over–at 2:30 in the morning, people–and drove us to her welcoming home.

I carried my sleeping boys inside, pulling off shoes and clothes that had been worn for three days.

Collapsing between them on the bed, I prayed that these complete strangers weren’t axe murderers.

And that we’d get a flight in the morning.

Because I didn’t know how much longer I could keep going.

My pillow was wet with salty tears as I fell, quickly, soundly, into the rest of the bone-weary.

~*~

They weren’t axe murderers or members of a thievery operation or a child kidnapping ring.

April and her little ones were beyond what I could have imagined. Beside the number of life tidbits we had in common, she let us sleep till noon AND take showers.

SHOWERS, folks!

And she fed us. FOOD not made with plastic! The boys played. Ate some apples. I rested. Sipped clean water. The boys devoured some oranges. I felt my shoulders relaxing. The boys laughed.

April’s close friend Amanda came by for a visit (so we’ve had two Amandas, an April and an Ashleigh–good thing nobody had to remember who was who) and upon hearing that we were on our last pair of training pants, tricked me into thinking she had to make a Walgreens run. Instead, Amanda–an avid couponer–used a Walgreens coupon to buy us some training pants.

And on the way there? She stopped at a local fruit stand and bought us a bag full of fresh, juicy, beautiful fruit. You’d think it was obvious we were feeling fresh food deprived or something.

I kid you not–my two year old ate an entire container of strawberries in one day. By himself. Heaven help the person who touched his st’awbewwies.

I melted when faced with being so blessed. Who  knew God would remind me of His love and His provision through my online community and the way they reached out for me?

I knew these open, loving arms were His and I ran to them.

I need those arms. And this love.

I tweeted:

“If nothing else, this crazy trip is showing me Jesus in huge, amazing ways. And that is enough.”

~*~

That afternoon, April’s mother in law helped us load up and head back toward the terminal.

I carried my bags inside and met the eyes of another of the terminal-camping moms. The defeat I saw worried me.

“Did you hear?” She asked. “No flights today.”

My feet froze. I dropped my 20 50 300 pound backpack with a thud. “None?!”

“Nope. All canceled or full.”

Leaving my bags in a heap, I trudged back toward to the car to get my sleeping boys, stopping by the check-in counter to find out about the next possible flight.

“So.” Heavy sigh. “Since there aren’t any flights today, when is the next roll call?”

My back was already aching at the thought of sleeping on that cold, hard industrial carpet again.

“Where’d you hear that?” The Airman glanced at his screen. “We still have a flight in about an hour. And look–the seats just came up. Fifty-four.”

“What?” I was motionless, arms poised against the ticket counter. “Did you just say fifty-four seats?”

The other Airmanbehind the counter turned in his swivel chair and nudged his buddy’s shoulder. “Hey, did you just see that next flight has 54 seats?”

“Are you two serious? Like, I mean, what if, is this… are you sure?”

“Yes ma’am. And. let’s see, you are passengers number… five, six and seven.”

“So I’m on the flight? We’ve… we’ve got seats?”

He started to roll his eyes and caught himself.

“Yes, ma’am. You’re on the plane.”

“Now this isn’t going to change, is it? I’m not going to hear your voice on the loudspeaker in ten minutes, saying the flight was canceled, am I?”

This time he did let his eyes speak of exasperation with The Crazy Lady.

“Ma’am. You will be on the next plane to Ramstein, Germany.”

Wings carried me outside.

I spun in circles.

I choked back sobs.

We all whooped and hollered and danced between the rows of terminal seats.

I tweeted:

“Happy buzz in the terminal today! Fifty-four seats on the plane tonight AND WE’LL BE ON IT!!!!!!!”

~*~

An hour later, every single person in that terminal clustered in the main waiting area. The veterans trying to get to Normandy, the families on their way home after vacation, the women going to visit family in Germany, the wives hoping to meet up with their men, the children, giddy over riding in an airplane.

Another young mom looked my way. “How long have you been waiting?”

One of the veterans piped up. “She’s the one that’s been here five full days. With kids, even.”

“Wow. Five days? And is your husband already there?”

“No. He’ll arrive tomorrow.”

“Just in time! How funny is that?” She laughed.

I smiled slowly. “Yeah. Funny…”

And I tweeted:

“They called our names for roll call. The entire terminal clapped and cheered. I seriously fought tears.“

Then we walked through the gate.

~*~

Pictorial proof ~ coming next!