Don't hold your breath

A post.

A new one.

Blogs always seem like a good idea to me. An instant outlet; possibility of routine. It's not that I haven't been writing... I have a closet full of "scribblers" as my friend Mary Fay calls them. Pen to page is a daily occurance.

What is it about a public diary? A project. A focus. Don't hold your breath, I tell myself as I write this... you may just not be a blogger.

Being far from home is still as close as ever and lately memories of physical farness from home are popping to mind as I think on hope. Scripture says that hope that is seen isn't hope at all. Hope is a dangerous and beautiful thing. Nothing will wreck your heart like hope unfulfilled. And nothing will strengthen your faith like being asked to continue to hope anyway.

I was walking this morning by Lake Banook and the rowers were out training - their movements in perfect time to the soundtrack on my iPod. Children were splashing on the beach and old people occupied the benches scattered along the path. I was thrown back to winter in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. Where it is always winter, but never Christmas, my brother used to joke with me. I remember one 40 below day where the snow drifts covered the concrete steps of our military row house - I was feeling particularly resentful of the place. I put on my boots, my winter parka, covered every inch of skin that I could and opened the door. I jumped off of the front steps and began to trek out into the cold. Inside the hood of my parka with my mouth muzzled by a scarf, I screamed and cried and trudged through the field in front of our house. The field met a line of trees and there in the snow I found a piece of paper. A moving box label from one of the many other displaced military wives stuck out of the snow. With gloved hand, I freed it and read the words written sloppily in black sharpie: HOPE CHEST STUFF.

I wanted to know what stuff. I imagined the woman who wrote these words wandering around in her basement, frantically opening boxes looking for the contents of her hope chest.

The things that I was hoping for at the time couldn't be placed in a box with a label. Many of those things have come to pass - the beauty of the place that I live in, a closeness to Christ, strength in the midst of my ever changing home.

I find myself again, despite the beauty around me, despite the strength I've gained, in a place that could mistakingly be labeled discontentment. I believe it's hope. In a home - this earth - that is longing for change itself, for perfection, for redemption, how can it be otherwise?

My hope chest is, I'm finding, is always with me... directly beneath my collar bone and settled just above my waistline. Expanding and contracting as the journey continues. Filling and emptying as life and circumstance have their way; as faith triumphs and as faith fails.

RAH, RAH, Meat.

One week down and several more to go, I'm amazed at how many variables affect the rhythm of this time apart. It's no secret to me that I've been supernaturally well over these last few days, emotions little more that latent, rising and settling, and it's almost as if I'm watching from the outside. Truly a gift from God.

The first week was filled with busyness, activity, and creating. Lots of space to create. I remembered to sleep and eat and those other basic things that tend to fall to the waste side when you don't have someone else to do them with... at least that's been my experience. By last Friday I was feeling a bit exhausted. After a conversation with my housemate, we began to wonder if meat was the variable to blame. Yes, meat. It had been about a week since I had eaten any... I hestitate to write this because I know that a phone call from my dad, one that I don't want (PS), is liable to take place. But it is a risk that I'm willing to take to raise a banner to meat and remind the public not to under estimate its power.

All weekend I had plans to cook some chicken, but for one reason or another those plans turned into yet another plate of scrambled eggs and goat cheese/red pepper quesadillas. By Sunday I was ready for my husband to come home and my housemate to move out. Jokes over. Been great times, now let's get back to life as usual... the home that I know, the familiar. We blame emotions, hormones, and the devil on many things that they are responsible for - but what about food? It plays a role. It was time and my housemate came home from her walk with a deli bag of honey cured ham. Now, I never eat ham these days... but I have to say that I nearly devoured the bag. The sun came out. The laundry got done. And my housemate was permitted to stay. Darling, take your time sailing around the world. We've got meat, here to bring our iron levels back up; to put a spring in our step.

Now, of course I'm joking and meat can't save your soul or keep you warm at night or make your eyes disappear with maniacal laughter and if you think it can I'd like to know which beast you've been eating. But, as emotionally driven a person as I am and have been my whole life, it is refreshing to consider the role of nutrition in all of the doldrums of life.

Rah, rah, meat.

Running

Hey out there. Still processing. Do we ever stop processing? There are moments where I'm actually able to be present and forget that half a year of "empty bed syndrome" (thanks for the new catch phrase, Sarah) is emanate. The last few days I've been struck with the strange desire to do things that I hate. Not in an Apostle Paul sort of way... that's inevitable, but in a run towards your fears sort of way. I am finding that while the total rage and resentment that Thursday night's family briefing dislodged is starting to settle, a healthy amount of "pissed" is still looming on the surface. And it's as if this edge is pushing me to run head first into things that rub me the wrong way... and tackle them.

Example: I hate running. HATE. Hate being uncomfortable if you want to get right down to it and hate that I hate it... but I think all of that is several posts away. But running in particular with the burning chest, the disgustingly thick mook collecting in my mouth, coating my throat, the pain, etc. is just not my favorite thing.

Today I ran.

Albeit for 15 minutes... but I thought I may die. I was pissed for sure. But in the midst of this temporary pain and discomfort at least I felt like I had a reason to be mad. A physical, easily describable reason. In some weird way that made me feel better about all of the cloudy, strange emotions surrounding this upcoming deployment - the ones that I don't understand and can't fully articulate. It gave me a place to put them. I guess the goal is to keep running. Run until I'm not mad at running any more. I wonder if that is possible. It doesn't seem so.

Other things on the list: stand in long lines, be cold, get up early in the morning...

Things that regular people do everyday without a second thought I suppose, but I struggle with them. I feel drawn to these things at the moment. Just to say - see, I can do this. I can. I don't want there to be anything in my life to which I can point and say, no... I just can't do that.

This is probably because many years ago when I was about fourteen and planning out my future with my husband I told God that I didn't care who I married... as long as he wasn't in the military. That is one thing I couldn't do; couldn't be. God and I knew that I was talking about separation at length. There were and are other reasons that the military has been a challenge, but this was at the top of the list. Here I am: living out a "worst fear," a bargain that I made with God so many years ago. The "can't" of that statement, plea, request, whatever is loud in my head and it just makes me want to run, for my chest to burn, for my throat to get thick with phlegm, and to spit in the face of ever single fear or aversion I've ever had.

Reminds me of a story. My best friend in high school was a strange fellow. I adored him. He decided one day that it would be a good idea to pee into some mason jars and keep them in his dad's shed. You know, just in case. In case of what - you'll find out later. We were in choir together. It was a large choir, nearly 100 students and one very crazy most likely bipolar director. One day my friend, his nickname was Badge, was acting up in class. Our teacher stopped and turned to him proclaiming, "Badge if you don't cut it out I'm going to tell everyone what you have in your shed!" Badge looked at him and said, "What? Lots and lots of jars of piss?" Everyone roared. I was probably mortified at the time. But I think of that story so often. He completely pulled the rug out from under our choir teacher. He had no more power. And a few weeks later he got a surprise in his mail box.

So, will I be an amazingly patient marathon running morning person who enjoys parka-wearing weather by then end of these next six months? Probably not. But today, for now I'm running. And by then I will certainly, by the grace of God, be able to say yes and can to more than I ever thought possible. And by then, I will most likely be able to do it without gritting my teeth and deepening that wrinkle between my eyebrows.

cattle prod

Halifax's theatre community is a small, but vibrant one. It leaves room for play and invention. I like this. Last night I was part of a fundraiser - raising money for a fellow actress to do a mission's trip to India. I was one of eleven women who got up to perform a monologue, song, poem, or piece. It was an encouraging evening to say the least. I felt so strongly part of this community after only a year and a half. It was humbling to have been invited to be involved. It was humbling to be well received. It was a great reminder that I need to be doing my craft regularly and it was an even bigger reminder that I need to be in community. We can't live in a vacuum, of course, and we can't create in a vacuum, either. Creativity begets creativity and I was cattle prodded (to use an eloquent image) last night with the inspiration and encouragement that I needed to jolt me into this fall - this time of creating.

I leave with that thought, short and sweet.

"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.

What's in a name?

A friend of mine explained to me recently that words are just signifiers. They have meaning because we've placed meaning on them. I've known this, I suppose, since I was a kid when in my boredom I'd repeat a word over and over and over, "fork, fork, fork, fork, fork" until the word lost any meaning to me and I would burst into laughter.

Across cultures we often don't have the same signifiers and for many of us it takes great pains and hours of study in order to communicate. We do however have shared experiences. We're all born, we all love, we all lose, we all eat, drink, and breathe. We all have a sense of home.

I teach English as a Second Language to military spouses as part of my eclectic existence. Over the years I've taught women from Hungary, Italy, Peru, and many French Canadians. Once or twice I've had this moment in class where someone asks the difference between the words "house" and "home." As if it were that black and white. The irony lies in the fact that the answer is held in their present experience, and yet I struggle to answer this question clearly. I don't know if I can answer this question clearly. Because I am not sure how to answer it for myself. You say, "you're reading too much into it... these poor women just asked a simple vocabulary question." Am I? Have they?

Home, home, home, home, home. I don't have to say this word over and over for it's meaning to be lost for me. I don't know what it means and it means so much. I currently live in Nova Scotia. Nova Scotia is and is not my home. I'm not from here. I'm not even from Canada. But being American (don't throw rocks yet) isn't what makes me feel far from home like the women that I teach to speak English. Although, I feel that, too. It's something that anyone can relate to. Anyone who remembers any sweet part of their childhood, has ever been separated from a loved one, tried to return to the house they grew up in, or questioned God's purpose for their life.

I'm an American in Canada. I'm an artist in the world. I'm a wife in the military. I'm a child. I'm an adult. I'm a Christ follower on this side of heaven. Where is my home? This is what I seek to explore. I've lived too much to believe I'll answer this question, but like a nomad without a place to pitch his tent I plan to journey in search of the answer just the same.

So... I write to you under a newly shingled roof, in a city where I've lived for a year in a half, in a country whose national anthem I've yet to learn, with husband who's making ready for a six-month deployment to the Persian Gulf... and a longing for home. Where ever, whatever, whoever that is.