A Fresh Start

Oh friends, what a whirlwind these last few months have been. A good whirlwind, with fun and adventure, but a challenging whirlwind all the same.

We left everything we knew, from the Army greens, to our church family, to our beautiful home in the South. And moved West… to the mountains, to a new job… to a new beginning.

I’ve always loved a fresh start. I’ve loved jumping into the newness like putting on a new coat. I love embracing its feel and shape, getting used to its length and the fabric. The trimness. The smoothness. The great beauty and joy of something fresh. Yes, I love it. I love a fresh start. The possibilities… the adventures… the people… I love it.

But oh, oh I hate it too. I hate taking off the old and setting it aside. I hate saying goodbye and leaving. I hate the emotional pull to live in the past, instead of the present… to wonder and worry what is going on in the life behind me. I find I want to hold on to my safe and comfortable home, with all its familiar creaks and drips and groans; its strong friendship and warm conversation instead of plunging into this world of coldness and unfamiliarity.

And since early December, this has been my challenge.

This has been my beautiful mess.

This place we now call home is bright and lovely. The mountains beckon us, with their snowcapped beauty and unexplored wilderness. This busy little town, with new shops and new streets, it calls to me, it whispers my name. I’m filled with longing to explore, to taste and see. The new faces, the new perspectives, the new personalities… they are exciting too. I find myself wanting to jump in, converse, and soak.

But I also want to shrink and hide. At times, I’m overtaken with the newness. And instead of being wonderful, its scary. Its lonely. The mountains, the cowboy boots, and the frigid temperatures…it is different. And it is not home. I struggle to be the new person. The awkward person. The sore thumb. The one who desperately wants to be a part, but struggles to put herself out there, to be vulnerable, to let her own awkwardness show.

Its humbling. And hard.

The kids feel it too. “Mom, they ask, will we make new friends?”  “Will there be any kids there?” “Will I have anyone to invite to my birthday party?”

And so together, we dive in. Heartstrings suitably pulled, we press on, as a family with a united front. Not just for ourselves, but this time for the children also.

We join a weekly Classical Conversations group and a Wednesday evening children’s group. We enroll in Upward Basketball. We get library cards and meet the story time ladies. We go to church, Sunday School and evening prayer meetings. We bring Christmas cookies to our neighbors. We walk to the park and chat with locals. We bring dinner to Mr. Milton. We stop and talk with people at the grocery store and at Starbucks. We host meals and play dates. We push. We pull. We work.

And slowly we’re getting there.

But even still I must remember--in my quest to belong and feel part of this new place-- that this world is not my home. I am a stranger. A pilgrim. A sojourner.

And while I may long for that comfortable coziness of home… I must remember that this side of glory nothing will ever fill that need. I’ll never be home. And the reality must yet again hit me: our old home? It wasn’t home either. The home before that. Nope, not it.

Never. Never on this earth have I been home. And never will my need and desire be filled. 

But even still, I need to keep pushing, and plunging, and pressing. I need to keep serving, keep stretching, keep meeting, keep putting myself out there. But not for me. No. Not for my kids either.

But for Him.

To be His instrument. To be His messenger. To be His servant. To bring the hope of Christ, the joy of salvation, the beauty and newness of life that comes from walking in and with God alone.

That’s my purpose. And that’s the beauty of this fresh start—its a chance to share that joy and bring that hope to others.

Party Planning?

Have you ever planned a dinner event for 100+ people?

I haven’t. Or at least I hadn’t until this past week. My husband’s unit had their annual Christmas Party and as the Commander’s Wife and the FRG leader, it was left for me to plan.

It was a little daunting at first, especially knowing that the number of attendees could vary incredibly (94 Soldier’s in the unit, half are married, half have children) but if you know me, you know that I love this type of thing… even if it’s very time consuming for a homeschooling mother of three young children.

For the most part it went well, though I did have to buy a Venti Peppermint Mocha to get through the day. Oh well. It could have been worse (wink wink).

The biggest thing was that I had a strict budget to follow-- but the Lord provided again and again. We were able to line up a beautiful community center on base that allowed us to host our event for free. FREE. A perfect location, at the perfect price. Nice.

I had a number of gals (spouses to our dear Soldier’s) volunteer to help organize the games, food, and decorations. We met together, planned out the details, and delegated tasks. I was in charge of food/drinks (and of course responsible for all the detail work: logistics, advertising, coordinating, supplies, music, welcoming etc.). And the other two gals did games/entertainment and decorations.

I cooked up a storm and supplied the main course for the dinner—several delicious, crowd pleasing pasta dishes for the masses. The food was perfect for the occasion as it is the one thing that easily feeds large numbers and is appealing to most everyone.The Soldiers and their families brought appetizers and desserts so we had quite the spread.

I had carefully calculated the quantity of food penne, rigatoni and spaghetti, but in the end, we ran out of the main course. (Many single soldiers who hadn’t had a home cooked meal in years loaded their plates high before everyone had the chance to make it through the line—haha, can’t say I blame them). But truth be told, I was actually glad that all the pasta was consumed. We didn’t eat half the desserts and ended up having to take tons of sweets home. Another huge trial for me to bear (wink wink).

The night before the party, my decorator (who was also donating all the decorations) called  and said she couldn’t make it. Groan. I wish people could be more reliable. But somehow the Lord gave me peace of mind and instead of panicking, I rummaged through my closets and found everything I had left that was even remotely Christmassy and loaded it into a bags. Strings of lights, pieces of tinsel, and rolls and rolls of wrapping paper.

Some unexpected volunteers (and some wonderful soldiers tasked by my husband) showed up early and helped me work some magic. Instead of table clothes, we covered the tables with wrapping paper. Instead of poinsettia’s as center pieces, we laid out pinecones, red cranberries, and gold ribbon. We strung lights across the buffet table and hung tinsel on the walls. It wasn’t ideal, but in the end it looked beautiful. I wish I’d had time to take pictures!

The games didn’t go as I’d hoped either, as the gal who was in charge of games fizzled out. I’m still not sure what happened. She was there early to help and did a great job setting out the food, she totally skipped bringing/preparing for any of the games, (which was to be the main entertainment for the adults and kids). Whew!! So again I went scrambling. I figured out some quick games for the kids (making snowflakes with construction paper and scissors, tossing discs into a bin etc.). A gal at the party jumped in and made up her own Christmas Pictionary game for the adults, and the Soldier’s brought down a white board and dry erase markers from the unit to use for the game. It was a big hit.

Even with the glitches, overall, the party really went well. It was neat to see the Lord smooth out the rough spots. The big coffee pots were delivered late, but still the coffee was hot and ready when the time came. People put trash in Santa’s gift bag thinking it was a trash bag, but none of the toys were ruined (it was actually really funny). It took us an 2 hours to clean up after the party (even with a bunch of Soldier’s there to help), but we got all of our deposit back in the end.

We had a huge crowd and there was lots of laughter, the kids enjoyed Santa, and many people were able to meet and connect for the first time.

I think I’d do it again. It’s really so much like planning a small party, just with twice as many people and details to line up. The biggest thing I learned was to have reliable help. Haha. The second most important thing? Having a back up plan.

Safe and Sound

He’s home!!

My husband, that is.

As a military family, lengthy separations are part of life. Training, classes, field exercises, deployments— anything from 2 days to 15 months, it’s all part of the job description. It’s common and even expected.

But the one thing it’s not?

It’s not easy.

It might only have been two weeks, but because we couldn’t call or email, it felt like twice as long.

But you know what? After two weeks apart, that felt twice as long… I’m certain I love him twice as much.

If that makes any sense.

In fact, he arrived back on base in the early afternoon, but with all the equipment inventory and recovery that occurs when you arrive home from living in tents for 2 weeks, he needed to stay at work till the late hours of the evening directing traffic and getting things cleaned up.

So do you know what this silly school girl did? She just couldn’t wait until the o’dark thirty hour when he’d be home-home. So she woke her sons up from their naps, packed a picnic lunch, made a “welcome home” sign and drove onto base to see her soldier for a few brief moments before he got back to work.

I know, I’m such a silly school girl.

 But I really couldn’t resist; knowing that he was back, that I could see, hear, and touch him... I couldn’t wait a few more hours. And neither could the boys.

Our reunion was happy and filled with “Hi Daddy’s” and “Look how big I am’s.” (See! the boys felt like it was longer than 2 weeks too) and many many “I love you’s.”

This military life may not be easy, but boy oh boy, the homecoming’s are always so sweet.

Selfless Service

I love American Soldiers.

Of course, I'm a bit biased because my husband happens to be one... and happens to be the strongest, bravest, best looking American Soldier out there... but even still, I love soldiers.

I have a real heart for them. I love talking with them, hearing their stories, laughing and listening... I love watching them work, seeing them parade, or jumping out of airplanes.

I admire the work that they do, their dedication and selfless service. I love their consideration for others... and for the lives of others... above and beyond their own.

Their selfless service amazes me.

And today was no exception.

I was driving onto our military base on the way to a friend's house, when I approached a traffic light. As I slowed down to a stop I realized that something was not right. There were cars stopped in all the wrong place. People slowly getting out of their vehicles. Looks of horror and concern across their faces.


There had been a terrible accident. A terrible terrible accident.


Multiple cars were crushed and in pieces. And one... one car was upside down in the bushes, flattened down to half its size.


As I gasped, I told my boys, "We need to pray. RIGHT. NOW."


For a split second, I paused; trying to decide whether I should get out too (I am a nurse, after all). I quickly noted the 10 or 12 people who had already gotten out of their vehicles. But they were all standing by their own cars on their phones. Though presumably calling 911, no one had stepped toward the rubble to check on the people inside.

In another split second, I saw something else. A vehicle filled with soldiers had stopped just a few cars ahead of me at the intersection. And before I knew it, a whole fleet of them jumped out of their vehicle and went running across the road.

Running fast. Running together. Running in a piece of beautiful Army green harmony in the middle of the discordant and chaotic scene.

It did not appear that they were trained medics, just a group of uniformed soldiers out on a drive. Yet they ran without hesitation. They ran quickly and authoritatively. They didn't wait. They didn't question. They didn't wonder. They knew what to do. They knew how to respond.

It didn't seem to matter whether it was a stranger in that car or not... whether it was an old man or a young woman; whether it was someone they knew or someone they'd never met. It didn't matter who it was. They knew they had a job to do. And they knew the Soldiers Ethos to never leave a fallen comrade.


I felt my eyes fill with tears as I saw them run and approach the vehicle. What a comfort it must have been to those trapped inside to see the men in uniform and to hear, "Here we are, and we're going to help." And to see that someone wasn't afraid in the face of fear itself... what a calming presence in the midst of tragedy!

It was comforting and calming to me too. And I wept. I was so thankful, so proud, so glad, for those dear soldiers. God bless them!!


When they do things like this, all the time, all around the world, how can you help but love them?

Lord, bless and protect our soldiers, as we have been blessed and protected by them.

Pride

This past weekend, we were able to watch Nick perform his paratrooping skills again. Many of his jumps are at night, and many of them have follow-on missions, so we are not able to see him jump very often.

But when we are able to go… boy do we love it!. And I’m pretty sure Nick loves to jump for us. I don’t think I saw a frowning face from anyone that whole morning. Or if I did, I just chose to ignore them. Wink wink.

It’s hard to describe the feelings I have inside as I watch Nick jump. Fear. Anxiety. Joy. Patriotism. Amazement.

My breath always catches when I see the first paratrooper exit the plane… and I pray until I see the last one jump and all the parachutes open.

And just like the crew on chute detail, I’m thankful to count out the reserve parachutes… and to note that not a single one was needed.

But I think the biggest emotion that fills my heart is pride.

Huge, overwhelming, all-encompassing, pride.

My husband is a paratrooper and fearlessly jumps out of planes; ready and willing to serve our country at a moments notice.

Wow.

Guess I’m not the only one who thinks Daddy is amazing.

Happy Veteran's Day

Happy Veteran's Day to my favorite Company Commander. I'm so proud of you, Dear!