Our Story

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To The Military Spouse

For the military spouse.  Monday night was spent saying goodbye to old and new friends. They are moving on, to parts west and far east of here and it’s got me thinking about my people. We’ve landed here in the woods of Northern Virginia close to a year now and still the moving is hard. And truth be told, this girl is tired. So tired. And we are at the tail end of a weighty two weeks and I look around...

On Deployment, and Hard Stories

Deployment is a cornerstone of our story. The story I am working on in book form. Miscarriages. Moves. Deployment. Loss. So much grief. So much grace. I’ve shared bits and pieces of the beginning here in this space, but now I am a wee bit stuck. See, now I have to write this story. And truthfully, eight years later, I am still searching for the right words to tell you how my deployment changed me, as a Christian, as a mother,...

Top Gun – Part 3 of 3.

(For the beginning of the story, read part 1 and part 2.) Shaping my trajectory was a deep, abiding love for all things aviation. Top Gun was largely to blame for this. I was eight, rattling around my great-grandmother’s basement with my cousins during our family reunion. I was the odd one out-not old enough for the double digit crowd, but way too mature for the six year olds, obviously. In the melee, my older sister and cousins managed to...

More about Rocks, my big brother, and my dad. (Part 2 of 3).

To read Part 1, please click here… I have a half-brother, eleven years older than me, who, until college, was unable to have much contact with us. I spent most of my young childhood desperately wishing for an older brother. Two sisters just did not measure up at the time.  Eighteen year old John presented himself in our lives just in time for me to project all of my hero worship right squarely on his broad shouldered back. It may...

Memorial Day: The Wrecking

It is surprising how grief changes over the years. Some things I know, I expect. The edges of the wound soften over time. The fear fades, mostly. We aren’t sad every day. Some things I don’t. Nine years and change later, you see a picture on Facebook of a Volkswagon Beetle, remember being the unwilling participant in a particularly hardhitting game of punchbug, and you find yourself tearing up while you paint your guest bedroom because her life stopped, and...