Empty Hooks and Empty Hangers

Last week my daughter and I were going through her closet, preparing for school. She mentioned that all she could see were "empty hooks and empty hangers."

And now, with my apologies to the writers of the incredible musical Les Miserables:

There's a grief that can't be spoken.

There's a pain goes on and on.

Empty hooks and empty hangers

Now my clothes are torn and gone.

I have grown so much this summer

I have gotten oh so tall

Seventh grade will start tomorrow

And my clothes don’t fit at all

On the table in the corner

Are the shorts that I have torn

They’ll be donated to Goodwill

I can see them now!

The very shoes that I have prized

Have climbed their very last tree.

And school will start again, at dawn.

Oh my mom, I must go shopping 

I have nothing I can wear

There's a grief that can't be spoken.

Oh my closet, it is bare

Phantom dresses at the window.

Phantom shoes upon the floor.

Empty hooks and empty hangers

Clothes my friends will wear no more.

Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me

Why my wardrobe is so small

Empty hooks and empty hangers

For my clothes don’t fit...at...all

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