Happy

There's something to be said for truly happy people. People who can see the good in something even when there really doesn't seem much good in it at all. I know one of these people. He's genuinely Happy. Give him a minute and he'll find the good in it all. He will worry about those who most would direct anger toward. His path is changed, he shrugs and presses. He takes a stituation that would leave most bitter, and finds the good. He resents no one. He blames no one and in the end, he's better because of it. This morning's message was on this exact thing. Joseph was much like this. He stuck it out. He found the good in a situtation that didn't have much good in it at all. His path changed, he shrugged, and pressed. He had much to whank about and yet didn't. He had much to leave him bitter, yet it didn't. He blamed no one and was better because of it. He knew God was ultimately in control. God uses people like this. I want to be one of these people. Happy.

It's a Boy!!

"It's a Boy!" the doctor shouted after a long, hard labor that ended with me lying down behind a big curtain and my man next to me with a mushroom-type head cover on.

A Boy? No way. No way. That was all I could think as Patrick gave me a kiss on my forehead and began what would become his routine for each child, of following very, almost too, closely and watching every movement made with our newest addition. As I lay there alone on that table in this cold, bright place, all I could think of was the three words, It's a boy. Almost as quickly as that thought came, I was out and slowly waking in recovery. Alone again, behind a curtain, it all felt like a dream. Nurses were coming in and out and I could hardly remember the events of the last 7 hours. It didn't seem real. Slowly the day started coming back to me and I remembered...I had a boy. Wow. A boy. It didn't seem real.

The entire 9 months I had convinced myself it was a girl and in the process, I think I had convinced Patrick too although I knew he would love to have a little boy. You know, the football-throwing-fishing/hunting-buddy kind of boy. I had the same picture, only with a girl. My mom had two girls, my sister at this time had two girls. I knew girls. I grew up with many girl cousins. I had a brother but with him came two more sisters. I was having a girl. I was convinced. So much so, that I only pictured myself with a girl, I shopped for girl things, I picked out girl names, and I decorated our generic room in my mind with the new girl things I was going to add once she arrived.

No girl. It was a boy. In recovery, I still had not held him. In my groogy state, I had only seen him wrapped up head to foot with just a little nose and two eyes showing. It could have been a girl the way they presented him. I had not yet held him, I didn't know him, I couldn't picture him, I hadn't seen him. It was so unbelieveable. I didn't seem real.

Fast forward to today, knowing what I know now, 12 years later. "It's a boy!" would have had me grinning from ear to ear. Knowing what I know now, 12 years later. I would have anticipated the wonderful moments that come from having a boy, this boy in particular. Past all of the jumping, running, ball throwing, collarbone breaking, team cheering, air soft playing, hunting, fishing, there is a young man who is the neatest boy I know. He is very loving with his sisters, and they adore him. He watches out for them without being asked and he reads to them just because. They come to him when they are hurt or tired or want to be held and he always stops to do just that. He is tough on them and often keeps them in line. I never worry about my girls when Logan is at the helm. He is a great older brother to Cole. He is the most patient older brother I could imagine. He jokes with Cole, shares, plays around, and talks late into the night with him. 98% of the time, they are buds. He is the first one to jump out of the car to help me get in, the first one to grab a load out of my arms when he sees me coming and is the first one to help unload groceries from the car. He is the "man of the house," a responsiblity he has put on himself when Patrick is gone. He secures the garage at night, takes out trash, locks up doors, and checks on me. He has a hard time leaving if he knows I will be alone and is very quick to make sure I am ok. He loves to talk on his terms and I have learned the art of being quiet around him until he is ready. He still loves to be read to and prays daily for his family. He's got the funniest sense of humor and can take a joke better than anyone I know. He can laugh at himself, and unless losing a board game, does not take himself very seriously at all. He needs hugs more than he lets on and loves to weekly measure his growth by is-he-taller-than-his-mom-yet. He challenges me daily to be a better wife and mother because I know he is watching, and if what "they" say is true, he will look for someone like me one day.

Going back to that day in recovery. Knowing what I know now. I would shout at the top of my lungs, "It's a Boy!"

Happy #12 Pickle.

Terrible 12s?

"Oh, hang on, that's a Terrible age!" This comment from a lady last week in Walmart after asking the age of my oldest son, Logan. I had told her, with a nostalgic smile, that he would be 12 on St. Patrick's Day. I still remember being sad after her hasty response as she pushed up in line. I was not surprised though; I have heard that since he turned two. "Oh, the Terrible Two's!" Then came the Terrible Three's, followed by each age that a stranger, friend, or family member deemed to be THE miserable, Terrible golden age. Apparently, if I believed every stranger that offered up their opinion in Walmart, there is NO good age of a child.

I don't buy it. I just don't. My children are not perfect by any stretch of anyone's imagination but I can't think of any time that I would characterize their life by the word Terrible...that in and of itself is terrible. I hate it when I hear people who buy into this worldly way of thinking of children at any age. We have had seasons of their younger lives that I remember as being more challenging then others, children who had moments that seemed more baffling than others, and stages that required more of me than others, but never would I use the word Terrible to describe this time with my children.

You see, I believe these little ones to be gifts from God. Not all gifts are ones that are opened and immediately playable. Most, just ask my husband, have signs that say, "Some assembly required." Some box contents require work to eventually enjoy what's inside. It is very much the same with our little ones. They are work. My work is challenging at times, exhausting at others, repetitive always, and worth every minute. Terrible? No. Not one minute of the past 12 years has been terrible. Not one minute.

Galatians 6:9 Let us not lose heart in doing good, for in due time we will reap if we do not grow weary.

Logan came into my arms almost 12 years ago and I would never use the word Terrible to describe one moment of the time I have been given with this precious son. I want him growing up knowing this with all of his heart. Every moment with him, challenging or not, has been wonderful. As each age comes, I find myself saying, "Ok, THIS is my favorite age!"

Terrible 2s? 3s? 12s? I just don't buy into that lie. Our children's behavior does not have to shape how we see them. We are all sinners and fall short of God's standard. As I see it, it is my job to work through the behavior labeled as terrible and if I am diligent and purposeful, I will see fruit.

Proverbs 29:17 Correct your son, and he will give you comfort; He will also delight your soul.

Delightful 2s? Delightful 3s? Delightful 12s? Wow. Seems much more hopeful to me.

The Lord is my....Weatherman?!?

It's very hard to drip from thousands of miles away. It's hard to think your man could do anything wrong when he is thousands of miles away. I guess that is the main reason that when I read this verse while he was gone, it really never spoke to me. In fact, when I passed over it, I would specifically, pridefully think how very un-drippy I was.



"A constant dripping on a day of steady rain and a contentious woman are alike."

Proverbs 27:15




In fact, reading this while he was gone and being acutely aware of the dripping of my fellow females around me, I became somewhat prideful. I distinctly remember being in conversations that eventually ended in drippy-ness and complaining. "He is constantly leaving those muddy boots there!" "I don't think he could pick up his dirty clothes if his life depended on it." "He was on the computer all night." "Early? He didn't get home until after 9! I was so mad." "He never puts the top back on!" "I told him that I didn't have time, I don't think he realizes how crazy my days are!" "I was so mad!" "He knew I was mad and I didn't have to say a word." All I would have to say, (and being truthful yet it was definitely pride mixed in) "I would give anything for muddy boots to be in my hall." Instantly, conviction would set in and the conversation would turn to better things.



Now, I will be the first to admit I have dripped a bit in my marriage...ok, possibly more than a bit. In fact, right beside this verse in my Bible I have the words in the margin, "Do I drip?" I am usually very aware of my drippyness, but when he is gone and is thousands of miles away, I can't drip. I don't drip. I refuse to drip. Our phone conversations are anything but drippy. In fact, our conversations are perfect. We are not bombarded with questions, interruptions, and daily life. Everything stops when they are deployed and they find a minute to call. The conversations are schmoopie and sweet talk. It's wonderful.



My sweet Marine has been home now for exactly 30 days. Other than the usual adjustments of remembering how much earlier need I get up when he is home, lunches that need to be made the night before, additional laundry in the hamper, and remembering to buy those Swiss cake rolls he loves so much, our homecoming is usually very seamless. He is great about coming in, stepping in to help, giving baths, running errands, and just being Dad and husband again.



It wasn't until a quiet morning that I first realized that God was trying to convict me on my dripping. I remember that morning specifically because when I got to the verse about the dripping, I realized it was also raining outside. Not a heavy thunderstorm-for-an-hour-and-blow-over kind of rain, but a constant steady dripping kind of rain. Hmmmm, that's so interesting how God used that word picture. And on the same morning that I read this. That was my one and only thought before I finished my quiet time and began my day of schooling, laundry, and life. Errands that took us out of the house, a package that arrived at our door, and a dog that needed to be occasionally let out, all got me out in that constant dripping kind of rain. Our house does not have gutters so not only are you dealing with the steady rain but each time coming or going, you are dealing with the constant dripping from the steady rain. In your eyes, on your arm, in your hair. I love the rain, really I do, but it eventually wears on you. It gets your clothes damp, back stairs muddy, hair wet, floor dirty, and dogs smelly. "Ugh, I will be so glad when it stops raining!" Drip. That word seemed almost audible in my head and instantly I thought of my verse from this morning "A constant dripping on a day of steady rain....." What a word picture.



I thought about that night before with Patrick. He had had a long day and while I was upstairs tying up loose ends with school, he had shut off lights and had gotten into bed. I was annoyed coming down the stairs. Didn't he know I was not done in here I thought as I turned on a light. Ugh. Dishes in the sink from his "midnight snack." Huge sigh, trying to be loud enough to be heard. Dishes clanging together a little more loudly than need be. As I finished, I turned off lights and headed to the bedroom. The laundry that I had left on the bed that afternoon that needed to be folded, was in the hamper next to the bed...NOT folded. The least he could have done was started folding laundry. I made a point to sigh louder as I turned on the bedside lamp and hastily began folding the laundry. "Baby, I would have done that, but I am so tired. Leave it and just come to bed." Easy for him to say. "Baby, if I leave it for tomorrow, it will just add to tomorrow. I don't think you have any idea what my days look like." Drip. I won't go any further. You get the point.



As I sat there that rainy day, it occurred to me that was a Drip. How did I start dripping already?? He just got home. I quickly pushed the thought aside. One drip. Ok, so I had a moment. I will apologize later. My day continued but I couldn't get that out of my head. I could almost see the question next to that verse in my Bible as if it were right before me...Do I drip?



Very conscious of my "bad weather" moment, I pressed through my day. When he got home I made a point to greet him and show him with my hug how glad I was that not only was he home, but that he was home, home and not in an overseas country. As he walked toward the kitchen, I heard his wet flight boots squeaking, "ugh, your boots! Patrick." Drip. I did it again! My heart stopped as I watched him remove his boots and with a quick apology run off to see children. What am I doing? Who cares about his boots? Didn't I spend the last 7 months reminding my drippy friends how much I would love to have his boots in my house? I quickly said a prayer that God would help me to not drip. Oh, what a reminder I was about to get.



Slowly, God started bringing to mind my dripping. It was a slow trickle at first and then became a steady rain of memories of the past 30 days. I had fallen right back into my drippyness without even realizing it. He had been signed up for a cross-country the weekend he returned from leave. Drip. He left the bags from unpacking on the floor in our room. Drip. He didn't call one day from work. Drip. He decided he needed a new truck. Drip. He was off one day when we had school and made it very difficult to get stuff done. Drip. He left the creamer out one morning instead of putting it back into the refrigerator. Drip.



Thankfully, not every drip was verbalized, but every drip was a real thought nonetheless. It was keeping me on the defensive. I was so ashamed. God had, so quickly, shown me where I was falling into old habits and not choosing to love Patrick. The Drip was constant. It was, at times, clouding my good thoughts and keeping my focus away from the blessings of having my man home. It was making me ready for an argument, if not with Patrick, in my thoughts. My dripping was putting up barriers and robbing me of my joy.

God was teaching me and using the simple concept of rain to do it. I prayed that day, and everyday since that God would be my Weatherman. He would stop the dripping. He would remind me daily to keep my focus on His plan and not the wet boots on my floor. When I am dripping the forecast is anything but welcoming...cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms and definite dripping. When I am walking with my God and keeping my thoughts captive the forecast is much more inviting...sunny, no chance of drips.

10 Minutes Out

"They are 10 minutes out ma'am."

What? He will be here in 10 minutes? My heart began to beat and every emotion I should have already had, I had in about a span of...well, 10 minutes.

The weeks leading up to Patrick's return were some of the busiest, most intense weeks I have had since their leaving on July 6...and then again on July 7. My thoughts were constantly on the men returning home, getting messages out to the wives, and the logistics of my being there for each homecoming, not because I had to but truly because I wanted to. These women had come to mean so much to me. We had weathered this deployment together and I wanted to see the culminating end for each one of them. It is such a precious time and I was truly, unmistakeably happy for each one of them.

Knowing my husband was last to fly in, my thoughts and focus were on the string of jets from here to Japan. Once the jets depart from Japan, the easiest and fastest way of getting information is from them. In Hawaii, they are able to use their personal cell phones and that's when the information changes by the hour as jets break, jets take off, men walk, weather systems pass through, etc. I had asked each of the women to keep me posted on any information they got just to make sure no one missed a homecoming due to bad info on my part. I was getting text messages, emails, fb messages, and phone calls. As times and arrivals changed, my brain was in constant overdrive as to the logistics of my own family and trying to squeeze in multiple trips to the squadron to welcome them all home at any hour of a given day. I was constantly checking email between spelling tests, logging into fb to check messages while doing laundry, and returning phone calls in route to ballet classes. My brain was in constant motion and at the end of everyday, I was physically and emotionally drained. I knew Patrick was lagging behind in cell two and I didn't even have the time to contemplate his movement in our direction. For the better part of 10 days I was constantly thinking about main body, cell one, cell two, separate emails, text messages, phone calls, children, their activities, timelines, babysitters, etc.

The ready room was a buzz of activity. I can remember mentally checking off names as I saw faces in the ready room and when they arrived. I knew who was in cell two and I was worried that everyone would get there in time. When I first walked in, I saw a new wife's face that I didn't think would make it in time from NC and I was so relieved. I checked off another sitting opposite her. As they arrived, I checked them off mentally. I wanted to hug each one. I saw extra faces and I was so thankful. We had been such a tight group and this was just a testimony of that. They had their men. They didn't need to be there; but they were. We were a team. One for all and all for one. I was looking, hugging, checking.

I guess that is why when I asked the ready room desk if they had heard from cell two, I was stunned to hear them say, "They are 10 minutes out ma'am."

It all suddenly became still. With those six words, it suddenly all came into focus on my family. Those 10 minutes are frozen in my memory. I can almost remember every single second. I no longer was focused on faces in the ready room, but the face in my own mind of my sweet husband who was about to be physically in front of me. I remember my heart beginning to beat much faster and I was instantly nervous. All of a sudden, I no longer cared who was there, I was nervous. I was looking around to round up my crew. Searching the ready room crowd for the familiar faces of my children. It's funny what begins to go through my mind and how quickly the thoughts come and go. How will I look to him? Will he like my outfit? How do the girls look? What is that red stuff on Caley's cheeks? Lillie's hair needs to be smoothed. Where are the boys? Are the boys ready?

9 mins....People ask me all of the time what it is like, you know, seeing him for the first time, and I can not explain it nor fully put it into words. To be apart for so long, you get used to him not being physically there. Phone calls and emails do not replace the physical presence of anyone, especially not of your man. For 204 days, I slept alone, I held no one's hand, I never hugged a grown man in a romantic way, there were no playful pats, no sweet kisses, no looking into someone's eyes, and no sense of someone being right there. I wondered how my hair looked, did I still have lipstick on, and oh no! the wind is blowing so hard! What will my hair look like? Is my scarf straight? It won't matter! The wind is blowing so hard! It's going to be all up in my face! The girls will be cold. Cole doesn't have a jacket.

8 mins....As we began to mill outside, my thoughts began to switch to our home. Will he like the sign? Did I remember to pick up the magazines on the counter? Will dinner smell good? Will he like the new pillows on the couch? I should've gotten a new sheet set. I wonder if I should have bought that coffee table? Did the grass people come? I should have put flowers in those buckets by the front steps. Ugh. Did Logan remember to do poop patrol? I hope Lady Bug, just this once, stays out of her clean litter box!

7 mins. ... The kids began to wave their flags and play with the others. I watched my own. My Logan stood off to my side, very quiet and waiting. He looks tall to me today. And so much like Patrick. My young man was a rock. He was invaluable this deployment and was such a huge help. I love him. Cole was running around with the girls. He looked so sweet and innocent. His joy was evident. Still so much a boy. He worried about me so much during the last 7 months, almost too much at times, and missed his Daddy. His tears would come and he just needed to be hugged. He had the best hugs and he never pulls away first. My girls were waving flags and playing chase. They were chatting with the other kids. Their smiles pasted on their faces. So many tears over missing their Daddy. Caley learned to ride a bike and Lillie had lost two front teeth. He had missed it. Would he notice? They had a list of things they wanted to show him. It had been a long 204 days. I knew God had walked me gently through this deployment, but it had been a particularly emotional one for me. The missed holidays, the extra worry of the squadron wives and all of their personal trials, middle school for Logan, and being without family for longer stretches of time. My children wouldn't necessarily remember my struggle this time because it wasn't until the quiet of my nights that the tears would come. I thought of the things I had had to walk through alone. Things that by the time he and I talked or chatted, were already a thing of the past. I hated to bother him and I knew he worried about me. I am good about keeping my daily woes to myself. He has a job to do and he can do it better when he knows I am ok. I was ok. My God was so good. My moments were just that, my moments. He didn't need details, he just needed to know we were good. I needed him to know that; in the big picture of each of our weeks, we were good. Sometimes bearing that load without my husband to talk to nightly can take it's toll. But God provided ears and shoulders for me; He always does. I had wonderful friends from church who I knew were praying for me, I received two anonymous cards with such encouraging words, I had those special neighbors that knew when I needed something and were there, and I had "my person" in the squadron who allowed me to release and bounce ideas off of her and meet me to keep me company when I needed it the most. Yes, God had provided. But it's still not the same. I still remember this moment in time right before the jets came. Someone took a picture and I am crying. It's the only one. I wasn't sad, just remembering the past 204 days without him.

4 mins....Someone yelled, "I can hear them!" Sure enough, faintly in the distance, the unmistakeable sound of jets. I can still remember getting chill bumps. It was cold that day, but those weren't from the weather. The sound of jets coming in when you are waiting after such a long separation are the sweetest sounds. The kids are jumping and shouting, flags were waving, "my person" gave me a hug. I teared up again, but that time because her hug reminded me how thankful I was God crossed my path with her.

There they were!! 5 jets in perfect formation! Awesome! Wait, there were supposed to be 6?! Did one have to go back? Where was that jet?? I overheard someone say, the one jet had to go ahead and land. So they were all here. Oh thank goodness. They each peeled off to land. Such an amazing moment. The excitement is overwhleming.


3 mins....As you are waiting for the jets to come around, it is some of the longest moments. I remember gathering up my children and the nervousness came back. It's almost the feeling of those first dates. It's the first touch. It's that weak in the knees feeling. I get those emotional feelings all back again and it is so wonderful. The anticipation is so exciting!

1 min...The first jets round the bend and I begin to count. He is jet 4 and number 13. Why didn't I wear my glasses? That's jet number four. Is it number 13 though?? I should have gotten my glasses. In the last moments of me thinking it was jet number13, that pilot in that jet didn't respond like mine would have. Frantic, I began looking around and just then, as quick as I realized my error. I saw him. Shear joy! We did it! #6 was over! All of those months of being alone, doing it all alone, were done! I could see him pumping his fists in the air and in that moment in time, I did it too! Someone caught a picture of this too. Only one.

As my children ran out to the jet, as I got closer, it was him. His smile, his mannerisms, his quirky way. As he climbed out of the jet and our family hugged, I could see him look at me. He caught my eye. It was him. As I patiently watched my kids all hug him, I stared at him. His laugh, his voice, his quirky way. It was him. I was in love. At that moment, it wasn't the daily choice kind of love, it was the feeling kind of love. The butterflies in your stomach kind of love. It is the first kiss kind of love, the dancing in his arms kind of love, the quiet conversations late at night kind of love. I was in his arms. I was his wife. I was done shouldering the load without him. The relief was overwhelming. The love I had for this man was overwhelming. The joy was overwhelming.

All of this, in just 10 minutes out.

....and pink cake.

My Lillie Belle turned 7. My baby girl is 7. I am not really sure why 7 made me stop to think, but it has. 7 years with a girl. I still remember the day I found out we were having a girl. Pink. Bows. Baby dolls. It feels like yesterday. Patrick and I had two precious boys and I, as surprised as I was having two little boys first, enjoyed each moment being a boy mom. Not growing up with a brother in my house, I still remember the shock of seeing Logan for the first time and hearing the Doctor exclaim, "It's a BOY!" What do you do with a boy? I thought it was a girl! I was supposed to be having a girl!?! As time went on though, I discovered you do much of the same thing with a boy baby that you do with a girl baby...or so I thought. I enjoyed every minute of having boys. I still do. I loved their little chubby legs running through my halls, their sticky kisses, and dirty fingers. I loved hearing their truck noises and their gun sounds. They would build and knock down, run and fall, jump off things and climb up everything. They were the spitting images of their Daddy and oh! How the three of them could wrestle. And I never could've doubted their love for me. When we discovered we were having another baby, I truly assumed it would be another boy. I remember kind of thinking it would be neat to have a girl, but that thought was quickly pushed aside almost with the same questions I had before having a boy; what would I do with a girl? We had all these boy things and boy clothes...and I knew boys. I loved boys. At that point, I really couldn't picture myself with a girl...until the day we found out the baby I was carrying was a girl!

Fast forward to last Friday, I was decorating Lillie-Belle's Hello Kitty cupcakes, pink cake with pink icing, and Logan walked into the kitchen to just hang out for a minute. "Is that Lillie's cake?" I told him it was. Watching me for a minute, we talked about Lillie's birthday. After a few questions and a few comments from him, he looks at me very seriously and said, "Mom you know the best part of having sisters?"

I could have guessed a million things. Hello Kitty birthday parties for one. Meeting Princesses at Disney World after so many years of meeting Buzz Lightyear and Captain Hook. The movies Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, and Princess and the Frog. Pink rooms and dance classes. Hugs for brothers and quiet moments when a big brother reads to them. Watching big brothers hold little sister hands. Fashion shows. Helpers in the kitchen. Fingernail polish. Bows and French braiding again. My house softening for the addition of a little girl. Doors being held open and Barbie toothbrushes. Feet "dancing" on big Daddy feet. Screams, louder than I ever thought possible, at the sound of a Daddy's "scary" growl. Pink Zinka on noses at the beach and mermaid sandcastles. Promises to marry an older brother and lots of pictures to hang up. Pink bicycles with white baskets and little streamers from the handlebars. A daughter for my sweet man to walk down an aisle one day. Sweet smells and gentle hugs. Polly Pockets and Bitty Babies. The list in my mind goes on forever; as it does with my guesses for the reasons it is so great to have boys.

At that moment, I was so thankful for the gift of having both, but my mind was focused on my Lillie. She changed the dynamic of our home in one simple moment and the very dynamic of our family. She came in like a tornado, loving life and taking it by the horns. She has a strong personality and knows what "life" should look like. She loves everyday moments that we often miss and often retreats to "Lillie~land" as we lovingly call the place where only she is invited in her mind, where fairies are, and creation talks. She is strong, determined, and independent, but has a heart of gold. She doesn't like people to see her cry and doesn't like to see me cry. She can, at times, be painfully honest. She sings to herself, dances up the stairs, and loves, LOVES to push her Cole's buttons. She sword fights and plays a mean game of hide~n~go seek. She can catch a lizard with the best of her brothers, but has the prettiest pointed toes in ballet. She is wonderfully made and a perfect fit for our family. We couldn't have known it at the time when the ultrasound tech announced, "That's girl country right there!" (Can you tell our tech was from the deep South?) but our lives would forever be better because of Lillie Grace.

"I don't know, Logan. What's the best part of having sisters?"

"We get to have pink cake. It's so good." And he walked away licking icing off of his growing fingers.

I almost forgot...and pink cake.

All That's Left

I recently spent some time visiting my elderly grandmother in the nursing home. It was so hard to see her there, that way. To me, she was always a fun grandmother and as I got older she seemed to never age. Not so much anymore. Although she looks alot older, she is doing well. Talking to her though is completely different. She seems to be in a different time. She has gone back to a memory and it seems as if that is where she is. The people she remembers or is looking for, have long been gone from this earth. But not to her. I sat there for most of the visits, bringing myself back to those times with her. For me, it was memories stored away, for her, it's where she is, it is what's left.

This seems to be the norm. My mom's mom is much the same way. The last visit I had with her she was a high school senior going to a dance at City Hall. By the time our conversation was over, I wanted to go too. It sounded wonderful. She was happy. What was left in her mind, made her happy.

While visiting my grandmother, I was drawn to the older men. As they sat there, hunched over in their wheelchairs, sitting by themselves, or just staring at the space in front of them, I imagined those same men, only 30 years earlier. Tall, lean, strong, confident; somebodies. Presidents of companies, doctors, Marines, lawyers, construction workers, Daddies, husbands. My eyes still fill with tears at my picture of them on that day. There was one in particular that I was drawn to most. Even hunched over with a walker, I could tell he was tall. He steps were slow but purposeful and he stopped at every doorway and peeked in. There were two halls connected by a nurses station and in my hour visit with my Maw-Maw, he made it down one side and only a few doors up the other. Every door, peeking. Every step slow. He had a very determined look to him and I wanted to go and help him. Do what? I wasn't sure but he had a purpose in his day. Right before I left there was a shift change and lots of busy-ness with the nurses and caregivers. One nurse walked past me to take her place with a handful of charts and asked the nurse leaving, "Is he looking for her again?" "Everyday. I wish he would stop. It makes me sad." As she was leaving, the nurse caught my eye and I couldn't help myself. "Who is he looking for? Is he ok?" "No, he's fine, just looking for his dead wife." Her harshness startled me, but her statement broke my heart. She went on, "Evidently she was some kind of woman because he is always looking for her, always." She picked up her things and left. My eyes drifted back to his husband searching for his wife. Never to be found but in his mind, she was there. He didn't look sad, or worried, just purposeful. There really isn't any other way to describe him.

As I walked my Maw-Maw down the hall, we passed his room. I saw his biography on the doorway and read what I could. What stuck out most was, "Husband, father of 4, retired military." It could be any man, but it could very easily be mine. As we passed him, his hands were shaky, his steps were too, but he smiled a sweet smile at me and melted my heart. He shuffled and pushed his walker. Stopped at the door. Shuffle, push, stop. Shuffle, push, stop. I couldn't help but picture the man 40 or 50 years earlier. Working to provide for his family, coming home for dinner every night, fighting bravely for his country, kissing his children goodnight, cooking eggs on Saturday mornings so his wife could sleep in, giving piggyback rides, throwing the football with his boys, his giant man hands dressing tiny dolls for his girls, holding his wife's hand on a date, drinking coffee in the mornings, playfully slapping his wife's rear passing through the kitchen, laughing through family dinners, taking his kids to the beach, pushing his girls on the circle swing. Where he was at that moment, gave him peace and he was looking for her. All the memories he could be living through~ his work, his early days~ but he was looking for her. All that made him that man, what was left was his wife. And he was looking for her. To him, she would complete him. He could stop looking. That was his purpose.

My thoughts drifted to my man. With him gone, I have so much time to reflect about me, as his wife. When Patrick is that age, will he be looking for me? Will his time with me be that happy place he goes back to? Will he think that I completed him on this earth? Will he know I loved him? Will I have showed him that enough? Did I take care of him? Did I listen to him? Did he feel respected? Did he know I adored him everyday I knew him? Will he remember us laughing? Will he want to hold my hand again? Will he miss my cooking? Will he want to tell me a private joke? Will he be looking for me? Will he be looking for me to rub his feet? Will he be looking for me to give him a hug? Can he picture my face? Will he want me? Will he need me for something? Did he have a question? A comment? A laugh? A quote from a goofy movie? What will be left? For this man, he was looking for her. He wanted her. He needed her. That was what was left. That was the place his mind brought him back to. She was his comfort and he wanted her. Will Patrick?

It's easy to see changes that I want to make when I step back. When he is gone. And for such a long time. I want him home. I want to love him. I want to listen to him. I want to show him how very much I respect the man I fell in love with. I want to hold his hand and make our home a soft place for him to come home to. I want to be his retreat. I want to listen to him, to laugh with him, and share our goofy quotes. I want to cook for him, sit beside him at night and kiss his cheek. I want to talk to him, rub his back and watch him kiss the kids goodnight. I want to go camping, share a secret, and have a movie night. I want to hold him and tell him how very much I still love him. I want to give him memories to hold on to...so that when that's all that's left, he's looking for me.