Everybody Hates the First Row

The alarm clock rings again; we are all awake even though it is only “zero-dark-thirty.” One more hug, one more kiss, one more good-bye. The door closes, the headlights move across the curtains, and a soldier drives away.

I hate this part. The part where I am left with two tearful kids who really want their daddy and really don’t want to go to school today. But they must, and I have to go to the dentist (to add insult to injury).

SSG OPSEC is off for 9 months in DC. I am calling it a “pseudo-deployment” because we get none of the perks of him being downrange (which is fair because he’s not downrange, he’s relatively safe in DC) but...he’s still gone. 

I’m sad about this. Painfully sad. My heart aches at the thought of nine months of an empty bed, of hugs only from my precious children who I love very much but are not my husband. 

I wonder what kind of disaster will strike while he is gone. (My mom says I am not to worry like this, but every Army wife KNOWS that things only happen when the guys are gone. We KNOW. It HAPPENS. It’s the Army Wife Corollary to Murphy’s Law.)

This week I will probably not even be able to sleep properly--it’s how it always happens. The kids will act out, everyone will be more grumpy than usual, I will lose my keys and my wallet every day instead of just once during the week, but then we will get in the groove and things will smooth out. It’s kind of like crochet.

When I’m teaching ladies to crochet, we begin with the chain stitch and then have to work into the beginning chain. The first row is always the hardest, and beginners have a hard time learning to deal with the stitches. The yarn slips, the loops change size, it’s easy to pull on the wrong tiny bits of yarn. Everyone gets frustrated at this point, but I try to reassure them, “Don’t worry, everybody hates the first row.” (I still hate the first row, even after years of crocheting.) During lessons, when someone finishes their very first “first row,” everyone stops and claps for them. It’s much easier to work into this first row of real stitches than to work into the chain because the rhythm and the pattern is established.

(Sound familiar?)

This first week is going to be tough, no two ways about it, because we are treading on unfamiliar territory. But once we come to the end we will have our rhythms and patterns established, and the rest will be easier.

Everybody clap for me next week, okay?

“Life is a holding pattern...I’m gonna fly here all year long.”

As you know if you’ve been following me, we recently moved from Italy to America. I’m tellin’ ya, folks, it ain’t been easy. The way the countries think, the way they are organized, the way the cities are planned, is so completely different in America and Italy I’m having more and more sympathy for my friends who came to Italy and said “I hate this country, it’s stupid.” This thought goes through my mind in relation to America two or three times a week. But here’s the important part.

God grew me a LOT while I was in Italy. Spending two and a half years on the book of Job will do that to a person, I guess. So I have this really bad attitude about moving to America. I am mature enough to recognize that I have a really bad attitude. But I also take comfort in Romans 8:1, which says, “Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” This does not give me permission to wallow in my rotten attitude (unfortunately) but it means that God is not going to beat me up on the bad days as long as I am still looking to Him.

So where does the holding pattern theme come into play? A few weeks ago I had a “perfect storm” emotionally. SSG OPSEC returned from a TDY to DC (just seeing how many acronyms I can cram into one sentence...sorry); anyway, he told me that he probably is going to be deployed after all, and that he is having second thoughts over the looming re-enlistment next year. We had taken it for granted that we would be “lifers” with a long series of adventurous moves stretching out into the future. So it really rocked my world when he came home with the news of not only his leaving but also the potential loss of the future we thought we had. (I also freely admit that PMS played a large role in the perfect emotional storm.) We had planned on being in Clarksville for three years and teaching in our church, and if we don’t re-enlist we will most likely leave next year and that limits the kinds of ministry we can be involved in while we are here. A great many things fall away when you are suddenly leaving in one year instead of three.

My heart was so heavy that I could not even stand up straight. But it was Tuesday morning, so what else could I do but go to PWOC? I walked in with tears streaming down my face. “What’s wrong?” one of my new friends asked. “I hate it here and I want to go home.” “Where’s home?” “I...I...I don’t even know anymore. I kinda think it’s Italy.” I sobbed. Five women surrounded me and pulled me into one of the side rooms, where they prayed the grace and peace of Jesus over my soul. It didn’t take the problem away,  because I didn’t have answers about the future, but I felt better. God’s good about that. He gives comfort even when he doesn’t give answers.

This past weekend I went to the PWOC International conference for the first time. I had been looking forward to this conference since Worship and Study in Germany last year. In fact, when SSG OPSEC told me that we were moving to Ft. Campbell, one of the first things I said was, “Ha! International is in Nashville, and that’s only about an hour away! I am going to conference! Whoo-hoo!!!” It was four days full of laughing, crying, meeting new friends, squealing “Oh, it’s so good to see you again!” and learning learning learning. 

The last thing that happened was the installation of the new international board. The woman in each position spoke a Bible verse to the woman taking her place, and one of the verses was from the minor prophet of Habakkuk. Now, if you are quoting out of Habakkuk you are either hard up for inspiration or you have searched and searched for the exact right words to say. They were beautiful words indeed, and we were all blessed. I went home with my heart full and my brain overflowing, only to find out that the Beth Moore study on Deuteronomy was starting at church THAT NIGHT--I didn’t want to miss the beginning. 

One of the verses Beth quoted was from the book of Habakkuk. Now, what are the odds that I would hear two women quote verses from Habakkuk on the same day, much less that they should be the SAME verses? But these were verses that I very much needed to hear, personally. Habakkuk 2:2-3 Then the LORD answered me and said, "Record the vision And inscribe it on tablets, That the one who reads it may run. "For the vision is yet for the appointed time; It hastens toward the goal and it will not fail. Though it tarries, wait for it; For it will certainly come, it will not delay.”

SO...I still don’t have answers. For now, life is a holding pattern. I have some things to do, some small ministries to fulfill, a LOT of writing to accomplish while I am waiting for my bigger vision. It will certainly come, though it tarries. I will wait for it.

The Barn That Wasn’t On Fire

We’ve been in Tennessee for about two months, and some days I think we’re getting used to the place. The roads are still really long, but I think that’s more a function of “America” than “Tennessee.” (It still makes me a little crazy.)

SSG OPSEC is off for his first training, a week in Florida. Nope, no sympathy from me. It was funny sending him off, though. Me: “How are you getting there?” SSG OPSEC: “We drive to the airport and then fly to Florida.” Me: “One flight? That’s all?” SSG OPSEC: “Weird, isn’t it?” Me: “Will your phone still work when you get there?” SSG OPSEC: (looks at his phone and thinks about it, then answers WITHOUT SARCASM) “Yeah, I guess it will. I’m not leaving the country, am I?” 

So we’ve settled down to a week of too much TV and junk food while Daddy’s away. Of course, TDYs also seem to bring mishaps...

...so yesterday I decided to go to PWOC a different way, looking for Gate 10. It’s not on any of the maps of the area, and about this time I’ve decided it’s a myth, until a friend of mine from church said it’s actually pretty close to where we live. Besides, you can avoid all the craziness, red lights, and traffic on Ft. Campbell Blvd. (Why do they have a street that big in the middle of town? Sigh.) She told me to “turn at the riding stables.” Well, I found the riding stables and turned LEFT. Oops. An hour later I found the riding stables again and turned RIGHT like I was supposed to in the first place. 

ANYWAY while I was meandering around on these really long roads in the middle of nowhere (honestly, I didn’t even know what state I was in) I saw a big red barn with smoke billowing out of the roof. Because in most places this means the barn is on fire, I called 911. "There's a big red barn with smoke pouring out of the roof!” I told the operator.

She laughed. Oh dear, I thought.

“That’s ok,” she told me, “They’re just smoking tobacco.” 

“Oh...I’m...sorry...I’m...new in town...” I stuttered, seeing my gold star for a good deed going down the drain. 

“It’s okay, we get these calls all the time this time of year.” (To her credit, she didn’t treat me like an idiot or anything.)

As I said, I was an hour late for PWOC. But at least I had a funny story to share.

And I won’t be calling 911 again unless I see FLAMES.

A Bad Case of “Grass-is-greener-itis”

Yesterday I drove for the first time since leaving Italy. Yes, that’s right, I haven’t been behind the wheel in nearly SIX WEEKS and SSG OPSEC let me drive a TRUCK! It was a very odd experience, and I was met with all sorts of conflicting thoughts. Nearly the entire time I was driving, I was running a negative internal monologue about the presence of stoplights/absence of traffic circles/very low speed limits/very long roads/general “pedestrian unfriendliness” of this post and this city. I summed up all my thoughts with this one: “I am so tired of America! It’s not like Italy at all!”

And then I laughed at myself.

I was just like some of my friends back in Vicenza who said, “Oh, I hate Italy; it’s not America!” (I never understood this, quite frankly, because Italy is flippin’ AWESEOME!) Of course Italy isn’t America. Of course America isn’t Italy. We’ve all taken geography. It’s not the same. You’re in a different country!

So here I am, six weeks later, taking my own advice. What did I tell those ladies? Look where you are! You’re in ITALY! People save for their whole lives to come here for just three weeks...(ok, that’s probably not true for Clarksville, TN.) But where am I? In the land of opportunity, of Chick-Fil’A and Waffle House, where I can sell the crocheted blankets I make (take that, SOFA in Italy!). Where I can go to church and sing in the choir (or not), where I can go to a city an hour away and not have to have a translator or tour guide because of a language barrier. I can speak Southern with the best of y’all!

My goal, then, is to bloom where God and the Army have planted me. While there will still be things that drive me absolutely crazy about this country (would it kill you to put in some sidewalks?) I will look for things to enjoy instead of things to whine about. It’s much more fun that way, and it will make these next three years an adventure in a “foreign” country that will one day feel like home. Again.

America. It’s growing on me.

Toto, I have a Feeling We’re Not in Venice Anymore

It’s true what they say, you can’t go home again. What they don’t tell you is that it’s because there’s entirely too much red tape.

Our journey from Italy to Texas began entirely too early in the morning, waking up at 3 AM. That’s 0300. Honestly, I had forgotten that 3:00 had an AM version. So there we were, stumbling around with not nearly enough cappuccino in our systems, dragging our things to the front of the hotel to get on the bus. Nine checked suitcases, four carry-on suitcases, three cats, four people (and a partridge in a pear tree). The bus left at 4:00, and that’s where the smooth ride stopped. 

We arrived at the airport at 5:00, right on schedule, and stood in line about 15 minutes waiting to check in. So far, no problem. We were traveling with three cats, and planned to carry on two of them and have one of them stowed under the plane. SSG OPSEC had made many (MANY) phone calls to The Airline in the weeks prior to travel to make sure this would be ok. Everything is ready, they told us. We are good to go. Awesome.

But wait. This is Italy. And the Army. Therefore, it must be complicated. We get to the front of the line and learn that Scarpa, our Checked Luggage kitty, is not confirmed after all. Despite all the phone calls, all the emails, all the checks, she is not cleared to fly under the plane. Turns out The Airline changed the rules on pets five days ago and didn’t bother to tell anyone. The lady at the counter offers to call The Airline, but their desk doesn’t open until 7:00. Our flight leaves at 6:45. After a great deal of fussing and fuming we agree to put myself, Princess, all the checked luggage, and two cats on the first flight. SSG OPSEC and Little Man will follow with the third cat later. We barely make our flight.

First stop is Amsterdam, where we stand in line FOREVER to go through customs. This can’t be easy either. The man asks me, “How long have you been here?” Me: “In Amsterdam? About an hour and a half. In Europe? Nearly seven years.” Customs man:
“Do you have your residency document?” Me: “No, they took it away when we left. They wouldn’t let me keep it.” Customs man: “Oh really?” (He says this in a tone of voice that says “I completely do not believe you.”) Me: “Yes, they took it away when we left.” Finally, he is happy to see a copy of SSG OPSEC’s orders and the cats’ passports. Whew. However, we still have to get scanned. We take the cats out of their backpack carriers, tote them through the metal detector, then have to go back through the scanners ourselves, standing with feet apart and arms up while the walls of the scanning cylinder woosh around us. (I love air travel.)

Second stop, after a long but blessedly uneventful flight, is Minneapolis. We have to retrieve all nine checked bags and then check them again. Too bad there is no video of this, because we could have gotten a million hits on YouTube. Thankfully we were flying with a friend who helped us out. It would have been even funnier if it was just me and the princess. Then we go through immigration. Again. Customs man: “What is the value of things you purchased while in Italy?” Me: “We lived there for seven years. Half of everything I own was bought there.” Customs man: “Ok, well, is there anything in your baggage that was bought new, like a gift, and is unused?” Me: “Nope.” Customs man: “This says you were traveling with four people. Where is your husband?” Me: (giggling from not enough sleep or coffee) “Well, I don’t know exactly. See, wegottotheairportinVenice and they told us wehadtoomanycats and so theysplitusup and puthimonanotherflight but weleftfirst and Idon’tknowwhatflighthegoton; he could be anywhere.” Customs man has the decency to laugh, stamp my passport, and let the crazy Army wife into her home country.

After all this craziness, I am able to call The Airline to try to track down SSG OPSEC and Little Man. Me: “We got separated in Venice because wehadtoomanycats and I just want to know what flight he’s on and where he is.” Airline lady: “What is his confirmation number?” Me: “I have no idea. All I have is my boarding pass.” Airline lady: “The confirmation number should be on the boarding pass.” Me: “Um...all I see is our flight numbers, our seat numbers, and times. No confirmation numbers.” Airline lady: “Well, tell me the number of you first original flight.” I do this. She tells me that he is on a flight from Paris to Atlanta. I am very, very glad that they sent all the checked bags with me, and that the cat is a carry-on, because they always lose our luggage in Paris and there’s no telling where she would have turned up.

Finally, after about 20 hours of travel, four airports in three countries and two continents, Princess and I land in Austin. Huzzah! SSG OPSEC and Little Man arrive only 3 hours later. 

We have Chick Fil A for dinner. I am a happy camper. Bed, anyone?

Parting Words

To the American women in Vicenza, present and future (eh, the ones who lived here in the past can read it too if they want):

I am getting ready to leave this country after seven wonderful years. Like many of you, it‘s our first duty station. I was new to the Army, new to Europe, and we got pregnant right away. I was very lucky to have my mom come when my son was born, but she wasn’t with me in the room--she stayed at our house with our daughter. 

This can be a scary place. You have to learn two new languages: Italian and Army (which is more difficult because it’s all acronyms). Nothing makes sense. Everything takes FOREVER. And then your husband has to leave all the time. But I would like to offer you some words of encouragement.

Appreciate the beauty that is Italy. Venice, vineyards, mountains that you can see if you’re lucky enough to catch them on a good day, Venice, the beach, beautiful towns that make you rethink your definition of “old,” and, have I mentioned Venice? Travel as often as you can. I know it’s difficult, especially with kids. (Ditch the kids with friends if you can and go away with your husband for the weekend. I know. I’m a horrible mother. Hold the tomatoes.) I know it can be expensive. I know it can be scary at first. But YOU’RE IN ITALY!!! Get out and explore! 

Eat the food here. You think you know pizza, but what you have had before is only an imitation of the real thing that is pizza. And cheese? They make whole meals of just cheese. I have said many times that I’m afraid I’ll go to America and die from lack of cheese. Well, fromaggio. Eat lasagna bolognese in Bologna (because it’s funny). We discovered gnocchi here. It almost makes me want to learn to cook. (And I will probably never go to Olive Garden again. Ever.)

Remember: Italy is not like America. In any way, shape, form, or food. Forget the word “deadline.” It doesn’t translate. Or if it does, it sounds something like “red tape.” Nothing is simple in this country (well, I have found an easy way to get to Venice) and very little happens quickly (“easy way” to Venice involves a slow train). This can be a real headache. Or you can just get a Kindle/e-reader that you always have on you and prepare for the directors-cut extended version of the Army’s “hurry up and wait” scenario. Whatever needs to happen will happen. Allora. Domani. (Eventually.)

Has every day of these seven years been wonderful? Of course not. We live here, which means I have to do laundry and clean my house. Blech. My husband almost died five years ago. Those were not good days.  I have missed many events with my family back in Texas--weddings, births, even funerals. (I miss you so much, Mom, and I’m excited that we’re moving to the same continent as you!) There are places we didn’t get to travel, because even with seven years, you run out time. We face many restrictions here, with so few jobs, so few ways to make money even if you learn a great new skill like crochet or cake decorating. (You could look at your time here as an internship--think of all the people you will impress when you say you went to cake decorating school in Italy!)

Those annoying things (wait...the power’s out again...ok, it’s back on now) have not been, cannot be the focus of your stay. Find something you love about this country. (Can you guess mine? It’s Venice, in case you missed it. And cheese. And moscato. And gnocchi. And...) Make friends. Go to chapel--you will find a home there (many services on Sunday, Protestant Women of the Chapel on Tuesday, and MCCW for Catholic women on Thursday). Find a “favorite thing” that you love about Italy. People save their whole lives to come here for three weeks, and you have three whole years. Enjoy something! Love something! Go to Venice! 

I hope that the time you have left here, the weeks, months, years, are blessed and enjoyable. If you just got here, or if you’re not here yet, I hope I didn’t scare you. I will miss Italy every day for the rest of my life. I was talking to a friend recently and said “we don’t have that where I’m from;” the “where I’m from” was Italy. This has become my home. May you grow to love it as I have. May God bless you all.

Always,

Laura

The Church Lady , Mr. Felix, and The Almost Bluegrass Band

Early last year, around February, my friend Lorri’s husband took over directing the praise band at our chapel. Before I could stop myself, I told him that I could play the piano (and even read music!). The next Tuesday, and for about 75 Tuesdays after that, I found myself jamming with a group that became known as “The Almost Bluegrass Band.” 

We have counted among our number a guitar, a banjo, a mandolin, a violin, a fiddle, a bass guitar, a flute, an electric guitar, a clarinet, a trap set (that’s drums, for the uninitiated), and a piano--but never all at once. We have at least one additional vocalist, and sometimes as many as seven. And this past Christmas, much to my dismay, I discovered that I actually CAN sing and play at the same time. So then our leader (known by my children as “Mr. Felix”) actually expected me to DO THIS. I managed, as long as we had a spare microphone.

Every Sunday for about a year and a half we led our chapel congregation in worship. Some days this is easy, like when all the songs are fun and I actually remember to play all the chords. Some weeks it was difficult, like the time we played a song called “Deliverance” on the day my family was celebrating my cousin’s Deliverance into heaven. There were triumphs, in particular this past Easter when we played and sang an Easter Hymn medley I arranged. (Mr. Felix was fully justified in giving me the nickname “The Church Lady.”) I FINALLY got to hear what it sounds like with vocalists. And a drummer.

And then there was today. We’re moving in a few months, and our life is about to get really hectic, so it’s going to be next-to-impossible to make it to rehearsals. So today was my last Sunday with the Almost Bluegrass Band. And we sounded AWESOME. I know that the reason we play and sing is to honor God. But it is really nice when we know that we do a great job. “Be Bold, Be Strong.” “That’s Why We Praise Him.” “The Days of Elijah.” “My Savior, My God.” “How Deep the Father’s Love For Us.” “People Need the Lord.” Honest songs, songs we love. About the God who loved us first.

Felix presented me with the “game ball” (a.k.a. guitar pick) from tonight. Of course, I cried (you’re not surprised, are you?).

I can’t believe that I’m looking at April 22 in the rear-view mirror. Where is the brake on the car called Time? 

When we get to our new duty station, I hope I can find a new place to play. It won’t be another Almost Bluegrass Band--there is only one of those. But the music is far from over.

My Keys, My Car, and Lego Yoda.

I accidentally cleaned my car out today. Now I know people don’t usually clean out their cars “accidentally,” but there were special circumstances.

I also lost my keys today. This is not a shock to anyone who has actually met me in person. But these two events, the losing of the keys and the accidental cleaning of the car, are related.

Most of the time when I lose my keys (it happens quite often, despite all my desperate attempts to actually hang my keys on the hook WHERE THEY BELONG)...anyway, this usually happens when I am trying to LEAVE. Today I lost them on the way IN the house. I came home in the car (having driven with said keys), saw my neighbor, handed him something that I had for his family, and then sat back down to get the keys so me, my kids, and all our stuff could go in the house.

No keys in the ignition. Gone.

What...? Where...? How...? But I didn’t go anywhere! I must have dropped them. So there I am, on my knees in the street, pulling EVERYTHING out of the car. Tote bags, backpacks, leftovers, heels that I have been wearing for too many hours, and then floor mats, the required Day-Glo safety vests, and trash. I even stuck my hand under the front seat, and that is a very scary thing to do, my friends. Everything got frantically tossed into the yard in hopes that I would unearth that jangly silver cluster adorned with Texas and Lego Yoda.

No keys.

On the plus side, I did find 20 euro cents and the book of Christmas CDs I’ve been looking for since...Christmas. (I know, I know, it’s April. Sheesh.)

With my brain careening rapidly towards Full Tilt panic mode, I prayed, “Dear God, help me find my keys, because they were just here and I didn’t even do anything or go anywhere!” After more tossing and gingerly feeling under seats and even folding up the back seat--which made absolutely no sense, but neither did losing the keys when I hadn’t even left the car when they went missing--I was at a loss. I slammed the seat down, stood up--

and there they were. Sitting on top of the car. Mocking me. 

Sigh. The lesson? Lego Yoda says it best: “When lose keys you do, pray first you shall. Then keys shall you find.”

This Light and Salty Life

A friend of mine asked me to give a devotional for a board meeting earlier this week. As my mind is in such a whirlwind with our upcoming move, winding down responsibilities here, and (finally!) the publication of my book, in addition to, you know, the rest of the stuff that still has to go on in daily life (dinner, laundry, you know the drill) I struggled with what to say: first I explored topics such as “Biblical reasons for lowering your expectations,” “Times of Transition,” and “Finishing well.” Not until I was walking out the door on Tuesday did God reveal to me His message: Being Salt and Light in His Kingdom.

In Sunday School this week we looked at Matthew 5:13-16. In these verses, Jesus says: “You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled under foot by men. You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden; nor does anyone light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.” This is from the Sermon on the Mount, just after the Beatitudes. We discussed how, exactly, we are to be salt and light, as Jesus says we must.

So what is salt? What does salt do? Salt was once so valuable that it was used as payment or currency (this is why we say a man is “worth his salt”). Salt preserves, enhances flavor, and creates thirst. It is also an astringent or cleanser. Jesus speaks of salt that has “become tasteless.” Salt itself does not ever lose it flavor, as other foods do. It becomes “unsalty” when it is contaminated by gypsum or other minerals. It’s returned to its salty state when it is purified. Are we like this? Do we enhance the flavor of life for those around us? Do we create a thirst for Christ and preserve His word? Do we keep our witness pure, not saying we are “saved by Christ and...” or “strengthened by Christ and...”

What does light do? It goes everywhere! It gives guidance. It defeats darkness, brings joy. It is contagious. (Have you ever been in a candlelight service? One candle’s light can eventually light a whole sanctuary!) Light gives comfort, reveals color, and can transform. It can also reveal dirt--this must be done carefully, for light can also be blinding and painful.

How can I pull this off? I don’t have time to enhance flavor and show color--I’m getting ready to PCS and I have family responsibilities, I have PWOC stuff to finish...and... and...how do I ADD “Be salt and light” to this?

But...salt does not have to work to be salt. Light does not have to put forth extra effort in order to shine. This is what they are, so this is what they naturally do. Is this what I naturally am? Is this what I naturally do?

I can be salt and light when I visit the transportation office (again) because someone’s schedule got changed (again). We are salt and light when we take our kids to the park, in our conversations with other women. It’s much MORE about what we ARE and much LESS about extra things that we DO, because heaven knows the last thing anyone needs is SOMETHING ELSE on our to-do list.

The theme verse for PWOC international this year is the Lord’s prayer, which includes the phrase “...on earth as it is in heaven.” Our light and salty lives can bring a taste and a view of heaven to those we meet in our daily walk.

I hope I make people thirsty.

How Long Will It Take...

This summer my family is moving to a foreign country. It's called "America." My son has never lived there, my daughter has lived only 4 of her 11 years there. So it's going to take some adjustment.

When you live in Europe but belong to the military you get used to two sets of everything. (Currency, electricity, measurement, everything. It’s crazy, really). We have jokes in our family about how long it's going to take before we stop asking certain kinds of questions. Like these:

"Is that 110 or 220?"

"Is that in dollars or euros?"

"Is that in Fahrenheit or Celsius?"

"How many kilometers is that on the autostrada?"

"Doesn't that close for riposo?" (Half the stores in Italy close for three hours at lunchtime. We have to adjust to this NOT happening.)

"Did you remember the gas coupons?"

And then there's these questions:

How long will it take before I stop referring to everything off post as "on the economy"?

How long will it take before I stop greeting the gate guards in Italian?

My family says "You'll be fine, you grew up in America, this is home for you." And it is. I will ALWAYS consider myself a citizen of Texas. (hahaha) But when you live in a country outside of Texas (ok, fine, outside America) for seven years, you wake up one morning and realize it's not a foreign country anymore. This is "where I'm from," too. And leaving my other home country will be very hard. (pausing to search for tissues).

The city, state, country, and CONTINENT we live on is about to change, as well as the languages of the people around us. Kids will go to new schools. I may have to get an actual “job”. We will probably live in a house that isn’t connected to the one next to us. Absolutely everything about our lives will be different. 

Except our family. And our faith. God remains the constant in our lives, the reason that I don’t completely fall apart when paperwork gets the best of me (I’m choosing to ignore the 5-minute breakdown I had yesterday). 

When I start getting weepy over this (and it’s happening a lot) I remember that Moses and Abraham had once been “strangers in a strange land” (Exodus 2:22 KJV). I also remember that God is going before us to prepare the way. He is with us at all times. There’s even a verse that tells us “the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard” (Isaiah 58:8). These verses speak volumes of comfort to my heart.

But I’m not quite sure whether it’s in liters or gallons.

Does This Post Make Me Look Fat?

Well, it’s Spring in Italy (WHOO-HOO!!!) which means it’s time for The Great Wardrobe Switch. All the winter clothes go away, and all the spring/summer clothes come out. (Usually it happens in two phases, but we’re moving this summer and I just wanted to get it all out of the way.) 

By the way, “winter clothes” is a phenomenon that I never experienced until moving to Italy. In Texas we wear pretty much the same thing year-round: jeans and t-shirts. It gets cold? (This means, like, 70 degrees) Then you grab a windbreaker. I have seriously never had this many different kinds of coats in my life. So weird.

Anyway...this also means that the kids try on all the stuff I put away last year, and all the stuff that miiiiight fit next year but probably won’t since they INSIST on getting taller (sheesh...). Things get packed away or put in the yard sale pile.

And then there’s my closet. Sigh. Now, my husband learned long ago that there is no safe answer to the question “Does this make me look fat?” And, being fairly intelligent myself, when we had to do this first Great Wardrobe Switch I decided to COME UP WITH A DIFFERENT QUESTION. It’s some variation of “How does this dress look on me?” 

Is this dress still flattering?

Does this dress still highlight my figure?

Etcetera.

Now I have one skirt in particular that I LOVE. It’s purple (need I say more?) and twirly (apparently so). But, well, it’s not the most flattering thing I own. Even I admit this. When I came downstairs this time SSG OPSEC got a funny look on his face. “That skirt...is less forgiving.” Translation: You’ve had two kids, and that skirt does NOTHING to hide it.

The good news is that we’ve been through this so many times that I know he is criticizing the skirt and not my figure. 

So...deep theological meaning? Nope. Big Important Point? Not really. Just a Hint for a Happy Marriage:

Hint: Keep the comments about the clothes and not about the person. Ladies, you know  before you ask whether or not that dress compliments your...eyes.

The Lenten Experiment, 2012

So this year I couldn’t decide what to give up for Lent. I was also reading Jen Hatmaker’s gut-wrenching book 7 (yes, the number is the title) about seven areas of excess and the importance of cutting back. It’s no accident that God had me reading that book at the beginning of Lent. So what did I give up? 

A little bit of everything. 

I will be giving away something to someone outside of my house every day. Without bringing something back in to replace it. (Exception: outgrown kid’s clothes which actually need to be replaced). And I pray that each item can meet a specific need. Yesterday it was muffins for my neighbor. Today it will be a bag of (gently used) crayons for a friend. We have a bazillion and I was not about to throw them away. Tomorrow? I have no idea.

So why am I posting this? It’s not so I can say “Look at me, I’m doing good stuff!” Because this will not be easy. Giving away your things--when you would much rather have a yard sale and make at least a few bucks--is not fun.  Finding someone to bless with specific items, making that match, will not be easy. But I have a feeling God will send specific needs my way. He has a way of doing that.

I’m looking forward to the journey. But not looking forward to what He may ask me to give up. Especially if it’s books (just being honest).

The Lenten Experiment, Parts 1 and 2

The Lenten Experiment

What happens when a Baptist gives up chocolate for Lent? Why would a Baptist do such a thing? (What woman in her right mind gives up chocolate for 40 days?) These were all questions I asked myself when I prepared to give something up for Lent for the first time ever, three years ago. The first week was the worst. When I walked down the aisles at the commissary, all I could see was chocolate. It was EVERYWHERE! My husband (dear sweet man) walked to the shoppette and bought two candy bars “One for me, one for you” and then two seconds later realized that he had forgotten. Fortunately, we could laugh about it.

After about a week, it began to wear off. There were a few days in the middle where I didn’t actually want chocolate at all. (I know, weird, right?) That wore off. As I walked down the aisle at the commissary and chocolate tried to jump in my cart, I thought, “Really, what is 40 days without chocolate compared to 3 hours on the cross? Christ’s sacrifice was so much greater.”

One time I did slip. We were at a farewell dinner for a friend and the one-menu-fits-all dessert was chocolate and I ate it, not wanting to cause a stir. I felt bad, though, because I had promised God I would do this thing and I messed it up. The next day I got up, renewed my promise, and followed through...until 00:01 Easter morning.

I was at the chapel every evening during Holy Week running the sound board for Catholic Mass, including the Midnight Mass on Saturday. Afterward Father assured me that Lent was indeed over, even if it was just 00:01 on Easter morning. We had chocolate cake. It was delicious.

The Lenten Experiment, Part 2

Last year I gave up Facebook for Lent. At first, I would just sit and stare at my computer screen, hoping to get an email. It was really rather pathetic. But I had been spending WAY too much time on FB and needed to cut myself off cold turkey so I could learn to function in the real world again. Lent seemed like a really convenient time to do this. So...I had a 40-day Facebook fast.

Again, after a few weeks it got better. Towards the end I looked forward to the return of Facebook in my life, with a focus on not letting it run my life. This is still something I struggle with, especially now that we have wireless internet in the house and I can sit on the couch and be on Facebook and ignore my family. (Bad Laura! Bad Laura!) I don’t do this very often. I hope.

This year? I haven’t decided. One of my friends adds a spiritual discipline every year (spending more time reading the Bible, praying more, etc) instead of giving something up. Don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I’m thirty...something years old, and I’ve only participated in Lent twice. So I don’t know if it’s going to become a regular thing. Whatever I do, the decision won’t be taken lightly. 

I’ll keep you posted.