"The Monopoly Card" or "Things are Shitty. I Love Jesus."

Last night my husband and I went to a meeting that I was both looking forward to and dreading. It was a family briefing for my husband's ship where we were to learn a bit more about the mission and the support that is offered to us while our loved ones are away from home. As we walked through the parking lot of the MFRC (Military Family Resource Centre), making our way inside, I heard the swearing, complaining and negativity begin from those around us. "Great, I thought... we haven't even made it inside yet and people are already complaining." Then a little voice piped up inside my head and said, "Including you."

We walked into the fluorescent-lit, linoleum-tiled, dusty blue and beige color-schemed building and I got the sense that I was in a hospital. People in uniforms were all around me smiling, about to gently break the news to me, give me my diagnosis, and be there to "help" me through this "rough patch" with their remedies. As a thermometer takes on color as its mercury rises, the resentment was beginning to tingle in my toes and slowly creep up to my ankles as we walked into the meeting room. I desperately wanted to be good... but doubted if that was possible this evening.

Everyone began to settle into the blue plastic chairs as a man in a pristine white shirt and several bars on his arm got up to welcome us all. He asked, "How is everyone doing this evening?" After a brief pause the room erupted in unison, "Good, Sir!" I jumped a little in my seat. Where was I? Why was everyone else so good? And how did they know to say it all together? How come no one told me that was the right answer? I sat and silently listened, feeling completely out of my element.

Throughout the evening I was told over and over again that I was the strength behind the uniform. This mission wasn't possible without me. I was told that there were some fun activities planned to "keep me busy" and prevent me from "getting bored" while my husband was away. The resentment was up to my waist by this point.

If anyone out there has ever played the game "Settlers of Catan," then you'll understand this next illustration. In the game you have commodities such as wheat, sheep, and ore. You trade them to build settlements and cities. There is a card in the game called a Monopoly card. When you play this card, you are able to take all of one type of resource away from every player in the game. Then, you usually sell it back to them at a higher price. This is how I felt. The military was playing their monopoly card. They were taking my spouse, my community, my sense of home and were trying to sell me a cheaper version of the real thing at a higher price.

By this point in the evening I had those people in the parking lot beat when it came to my attitude towards this deployment and the support offered to me by the MFRC, padres, social workers, and other truly caring individuals that were part of this large, sterile institution. I couldn't seem to get past that in my mind. I didn't want to be a statistic on a power point presentation. I didn't want to read about myself in a glossy tri-fold pamphlet. I didn't want to have to utilize these resources that are put into place for me... because that would be admission that I'm not okay. That things are off balance.

I'm realizing that instability is a such a huge part of being far from home, in whatever capacity. You're off kilter a good part of the time. Because you're constantly moving - forward or backward - you are always on the journey. It's rare to have both feet planted in one place for long. Admittedly, I do love these moments. These are the moments surrounded by understanding, clarity, beauty, a sense of purpose in the journey, and flickers of hope that say maybe I am home. But there are always sterile meeting rooms with fluorescent lighting to jerk you back out onto the path, remind you that you aren't, and get your feet moving again. And so there should be. We're never going to actually get home if we aren't in motion.

My roommate told me this morning, "You know, sometimes it's okay to say 'things are shitty' and 'I love Jesus' in the same breath." It's true. My tendency as a Christian on this search for home - my inbred response - is just to want to smile, confess my sin of not being perfect, and "count it all joy." Guilt drives me to shout along in unison, "I'm Good, Sir!" even when I'm not. There's something to be said for suffering and suffering well. I'm not to the suffering well part yet, not counting it all joy, but I know whose I am. I know the moments of true home are out there to be had. I know that things will be shitty at times on the way there. It wouldn't be worth it otherwise. I don't want a cheap faith. Christ only 'sells' expensive things. And right now, maybe he's playing his own monopoly card. In the process of learning what, who, and where my home is, perhaps he's plunking his monopoly card on the table and saying, "I'll take your spouse, please." I have no idea what he's going to trade me in return. All I know is that it is going to be expensive. It's going to cost me a lot. And in the end it will be worth it, but for now my heart's a little dark, things are shitty, and I love Jesus.