Help and Home

The first question you get asked when you tell people your husband is deploying is, "Are you going home?" My response has always been no, for multiple reasons, all of them halfway decent (stability for the boys, wanting to stay with our military community who understand deployment, no room in the inn...).

Of course, when people found out I was pregnant, they asked again, thinking the answer might have changed.

And then again, when we discovered I was pregnant with twins.

One day they will learn that I am mule-stubborn and hate changing my plans even more than I hate eating eggs.

The truth is that I know if I wanted to move to Tennessee or Virginia or Pennsylvania (or Indonesia!) for the duration of this deployment, the Man would support me and our families would find a place for us. I know the boys would have a wonderful time. And I know I would find at least a few people who understand deployments or at the very least would be willing to listen. I love our family, and our family loves us.

And there are definitely days when it would be nice to plop down on my mom's couch or my mother-in-law's or my sister's or my aunt's and say, "Pregnancy sucks; feed me everything in the house and then go mop my floors for me." Really, that's only acceptable with family. They have to love you even when you're rude, demanding, and lazy. Which is pretty much the whole nine months of pregnancy for me.

But I have never doubted my choice to stay put, and I'm not sure it has anything to do with the three reasons I usually tell people. The reality is, this is my home. Not the small town we're currently living in, but the military community that we are a part of. I learn that over and over again.

I learn it when I am invited to dinner two nights in a row by two different families.

I learn it through emails and phone calls, just checking in.

I learn it from a bag of hand me down clothes for Littles and an invitation to go to the pool with an extra set of hands.

I learn it when a neighbor and his son come by to feed the cat and pick up dog poop.

I learn it from another mom taking Tiny to the play room at church so I can listen to the sermon.

I learn it from a clean box of kitty litter--not changed by me.

I learn it from a chocolate cake baked to help celebrate the Man's birthday, even when he's not here.

I learn it when friends gang up on me to make sure I ask for help and when they just start doing things when I haven't had the courage to ask.

Over and over again, I learn that this is home. I learn that this is home because we are not even a week in and I already have lost the capacity to say thank you enough. I am a broken record of gratitude, and this is good. In my brokenness, I am allowing others to bless, and I hope that's the blessing that they need right now in their lives too. And perhaps, like Mary, if I treasure up all these things in my heart, one day, I will be able to bless them back too.

In the meantime, all I can say, again and again, is thank you. For loving me. For loving my boys. For loving my husband. And for loving in a tangible, real way. You are Christ to me. You are home.