Deployment: A Tangent of Observation and Growth

For the most part, I try not to mention Brance’s deployment to strangers. However, my job focuses on authentic relationships with guests, making the previous statement quite difficult. On days when his absence weighs on me, my genuine reaction is to talk about it positively. But, I’m never ready for the sincere reactions of others. Immediately pity washes over the faces of acquaintances and I regret my transparent personality. The last thing I want is the furled eyebrow that questions “how do you do it?”. Before I can answer, the pity transforms to guilt as they realize all the moments they’ve taken for granted in their own lives. They offer condolences, and I want nothing more than to apologize for bringing down the mood. I did not mean to darken the day. I just wanted to be real. Instead, my truth seems to victimize me. I smile and water down the details, because I don’t feel I deserve their pity. 

Fact: it’s not fun when you’re loved one is gone. 

Fact: the reading on the suck-o-meter is equally awful, whether he’s away at a conference for a few days or driving tanks in a war zone for a year. 

This is the part of army culture I loathe so greatly. There seems to be an unwritten competition between women over the many woes of the military lifestyle. If I’m struggling with deployment, instead of getting support, a fellow army wife might dilute the experience- “How long is your husband gone? Only 9 months?! Well John was gone for a whole year.”  

That’s great and all. But now John is sitting next to you, nursing a beer and caressing your thigh. You got your husband back.

It’s not the distance that bothers me, we’ve already proven we can conquer distance. It’s the uncertainty of it all. I want confirmation that I’ll get to have him in my arms again- I could wait forever if God would promise me that. But He doesn’t. Still, there is a hope and peace that counters the uncertainty. I don’t understand it, but I’ll take it. I just wish the few women who relate to my situation would stop comparing battle scars and start practicing empathy. 

There must be a middle ground between the awestruck pity party and the emotionless narcissist. I’m not saying I’m innocent, but this lifestyle I’m entering into is hard enough without us women telling one another that the other’s feelings are unfounded. Especially when these people are supposed to be a support system during tough times.  Fortunately, like all walks of life, there are good eggs within the stereotype (and I’ve found quite a few). 

It’s so easy to magnify your own suffering and overlook the pain of others. I’ve played the victim on multiple occasions. It took a situation the world views as difficult for me to realize how selfish that mindset is. I am now focused on eliminating myself from the equation when dealing with others. I never want to make another individual feel unworthy of being heard. Instead of listening until I have something to say, I leave room for others to speak. I’ve never considered myself a good listener- I was always much better at the talking part. 

It wasn’t until today that I recognized my growth in the area. I grabbed tea with a friend and she complimented my ability to ask caring questions and create a safe space for response. Her observation caught me off guard, it seemed so far from the person I viewed myself as. But I’m not the girl I used to be. As my experiences change me, I need to allow my definition of myself to morph with them. 

I’ve held on to the image of myself from our last season of long distance. I was often inconsolable over the distance I couldn’t control. Now, we’re in the same position and I’m not sure what triggered the positive adjustment. I’ve been genuinely happy, despite my circumstances, and consequently I am a better support system for Brance. I’m the person I wanted to be 1 year ago when I lived in New York and he moved to Washington. I'm living proof that change can happen, even when it’s impossible to trace its origins. 

Don't Judge A Person By Their Polaroid

I moved out to Seattle in May and, despite my constant exposure to change, I am not immune to the transition associated with it. We all adapt differently to change and I am beginning to recognize my own challenges in making a new place feel like home.

Recently, Richard, the head pastor at Bethany Community Church, stated that “intimacy is not microwaveable.” We cannot expedite our way into deep meaningful relationships by popping it in the microwave for two and a half minutes. It takes time, patience, and a lot of effort to create genuine lasting friendships. That was very hard for me to accept, as a woman who craves constant change. But as I let the idea marinate, I recognized the truth behind his words and found, in my own life, where I struggle to form intimate bonds.

When I first meet people, I see them as 2 dimensional. The facts I associate with them- their name (if I can remember it), occupation, home state, hobbies etc., become the only truths about them. Unfortunately, more times than not, these surface details leave a flat and relatively uninteresting impression. I forget to leave room for their character to reveal itself. As a writer and a people person, this revelation is nothing short of horrifying. Also, it confirms the origin of my least favorite habit.

I have an irrational need to spill my own soul to strangers and mere acquaintances. I want them to see my depth immediately for fear of dismissal or disinterest. I don’t want them to do to me, what I often do to others. In the process, I share too much, leaving myself vulnerable and exposed to those who didn’t earn my trust. Basically, I try very hard to microwave my own intimacy... always unsuccessfully. 

Fortunately, my 2D view is never permanent and always develops into something positive. Slowly (the way intimacy is meant to happen) I start to peel away the surface and delve into good stuff. My initial paper-thin perception starts to expand and gain width. This newfound girth creates understanding and compassion- revealed complexities leave little room for annoyance or judgement and make space for unconditional love. The 2D often captures an unflattering snapshot of a person, while the 3D allows us to dismiss the initial negative and reveal the infinite intricacies of human beings. Despite my awareness of this, I still find myself extremely surprised every time I encounter contradictions to my first impression. It’s like getting exactly what I wanted on Christmas morning without even asking. I love it. However, I do not approve of the instantaneous judgement that precedes it. So this week, I have turned my critical eye on myself in hopes of breaking my habit. Instead, I found I already harbored a superficial version of myself.  

To the inceptive eye, I am a talkative, friendly, confident army brat that feeds into the military stereotype of getting married young and hurriedly. I’m that girl that moved across country for the man she loved, who makes feminist cringe because she hasn’t figured out her career yet.  

All along, I’ve carried this 2D perception of myself in my sub conscience. Although a part of me knows I am more than that, I have given weight to the potential (not actual) misperceptions others might make of me. This need to be liked and understood breeds a damaging insecurity that can be paralyzing. Not to mention, it hinders intimacy. Despite the truth that I am a strong, independent woman (I moved out to Seattle to start a life knowing that my fiance would be deployed), my story is overshadowed by my insecurity that people will overlook my character and see this untrue shadow of myself as the whole package. 

To overcome this detrimental habit, I must let go of my 2D image of myself. I need to have grace for myself, so I can regain confidence and abolish insecurity. That way, I can look at other people with the same grace and stop the unflattering proofs from ever becoming photographs. Intimacy is not microwavable, but it is achievable if we are wiling to put in the time and overlook that initial snapshot. 

The Pearl Necklace: The Tale Behind The Title

I had the rare pleasure of growing up at West Point in upstate New York. While most military families rarely stay in one place for more than a few years, my father had the privilege of serving as a permanent professor at the United States Military Academy. I spent my sundays at the Cadet Chapel, surrounded by the nation’s future officers as they prepared for a life in the army. I found it interesting that one particular Chaplain would reach these uniformed individuals through heartfelt narratives. Once a year he would read the story “The Pearl Necklace”. 

It’s the narrative of a 5-year-old girl, Jenny, who desperately wants a plastic pearl necklace she sees at the grocery store. Her mother tells her that she can earn the $2.50 costume jewelry by doing chores. Jenny works hard for the necklace until it is finally hers. She wears the plastic pearls with pride and refuses to take them off for any reason- to her they are priceless.

One night, Jenny’s father asks her if she loves him. “Of course, daddy.” Jenny replies. “Then give me your pearls.” Her father says. Jenny refuses. She offers her father other respectable toys from her collection, but he simply kisses his daughter goodnight. 

The next night, the same conversation ensues with the same results. This continues for several night to come.

Then one evening, Jenny’s father comes to kiss his daughter goodnight and finds her waiting for him. Lips quivering, Jenny opens her hand to reveal her beloved pearls. “Here daddy.” She chokes and places them into her father’s hands. Jenny’s father then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a blue velvet case. Inside is a pair of real pearls he has been waiting to give to her.

Although it’s a little sappy, this story has always stuck with me. I remember not only its ability to convict me, but the effect it had on a congregation made up of America’s strongest and most intelligent individuals. At an age when we felt empowered, we learned from a 5-year-old that that we did not understand our best interests. 

I continually struggle to give up my illusion of control over my life. I use the word illusion, because I’ve never actually been in control. Again and again, I’ve worked hard to earn my plastic pearls and God patiently stands by asking me to give them up so that he can bless me with the real thing.  

Here is my story as it continues to write itself, the journey from plastic to pearls.