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I know that's not what the picture says. But for those of you that are saying to yourself, "Uh-oh, here's another one of those frenzied militurrry posts dem Kellys like ter do, ain't nuthin' I ken git from this one," stay with me. This post is a feel-good one for anyone who's ever loved, been loved, or wanted to figure out how to do it better so they don't get yelled at as much.
(Side note: Jackie, this post is due in large part to your fabulous Valentine's sentiment. Thanks to you -- and Kenya's inspirational post for you -- for reminding me to speak from the heart when it strikes.)
Back during our first deployment... almost FIVE YEARS AGO (now I really feel like a veteran, too), I came up with this handy little wallet buddy: "Being An Army Wife." I had connected with two amazing, beautiful, hilarious, fabulous Army Wives (yes, I most certainly believe we have earned the "proper noun" status) -- Sarah and Jeanise -- and we became each others' wives for the time our husbands were each other's go-tos. While we actually did call each other "wife" during conversations, voicemails, phone calls, etc... I'm guessing/hoping/curiously questioning that our men didn't call each other "hubby." We may never know. Or want to.
While we women knew with every breath and every moment of our days that life was unimaginably difficult for our soldiers, it wasn't a walk in the park for us. I have a perfect analogy for you: I took Miles for a walk to a dog park near our apartment in Chapel Hill, and I spent the 30 minutes silently sobbing behind my black sunglasses while Miles romped around with nameless pups. Lord knows what I cried about... and only Him (ha). While Miles could have easily walked home on his own, he pulled back on his collar and whined in his way that said, "Carry me home, Mom," knowing full well that I needed the hug as much as he. I never told anyone about these striking everyday moments in my life, but I discovered that my very own Wives experienced similar moments and, thinking of them, and our sweet soldiers overseas, developed what I believe it means to be an Army Wife.
By a flick of Fate's little finger (because, by now, we should all know that Chance is a silly notion contrived by people who don't recognize the signs life presents to them on a silver platter), my wallet buddy fell out of my wallet the other day and it took until this morning for me to put it back in its rightful place for safekeeping. Before I did, I studied its tattered edges, worn face and back, and oft-turned corner; I opened it up for the first time in months and rediscovered its contents. What my naive newlywed brain conjured up a half-decade ago holds true today. For me, for Zeke, and for anyone who wants to get this whole Love thing at least somewhat right.
On the inside, I provided a list of seven thoughts to keep in mind. With every exhalation and inhalation, with every tick of the clock, with every unsent text message or email, with every just-barely-missed call. In my meager years of life, love, and experience, the pervading lesson I have taken from it all? It's not about tallies, or who should do what, or what we think we deserve. Maybe the greatest step you can take for yourself, for love, is the most humbling, least proud thing you can imagine. We've all heard in some religious or spiritual form that the greatest gift we can give is the gift of our life to others, yet we often refuse to give much of anything of ourselves to love without guaranteed return. What's the gift in that?
I now provide these seven thoughts for you, my fabulous lovers of life, to take with you and use as you please. I tried to find a way to change my original version to make it incredibly user-friendly, but it's just not possible. So, like I said, stay with me. You might find your heart within these seven thoughts, or you still might find that this post is another one of dem frenzied militurrry posts from dem Kellys... but regardless, you'll be satisfied with the post, right?
So here it is, in its original glory.
Here we all sit in the afterglow of Valentine's Day, a ridiculously perfect holiday, with its shady establishment and questionable existence (thank you, my alma mater Meredith College's scholars of love lore -- Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Donne -- for fueling that fire).
Some of us received flowers, given to us either by a lover or by ourselves (there's no shame in self-sending -- I had a fake boyfriend named Steve Anderson living in CA for most of 5th grade). Some of us ate chocolates, had dinner by candlelight, enjoyed bubble baths, got proposed to, celebrated new lives. Or simply had a quiet, relaxing evening filled with the laughter of our loved ones, a dinner we didn't have to cook, a bottle of champagne we didn't have to finish (but a dirty diaper that did have to be changed), the music of our favorite artists filling the air and the gentle comfort of our favorite bedsheets welcoming us to an early bedtime.
We might spend this afterglow cherishing 14 February, chanting, "I love being loved."
Or we may spend it damning the holiday, demanding, "Did I feel loved?"
But here's the real question we need to carry with us -- yesterday, today, every day: "Do I love?"
I leave you with a parting thought, taken (again) from my wallet buddy. On the back cover, I scrawled an afterthought...which any good writer knows is usually the only thought we have worth repeating. This one, however, is a bit of a paraphrase, meant for each one of you:
"Never forget the unique place you hold -- you are everything."
Go. Love. Now.
