Fearless

Despite the fact that I travel quite often, either for work or for fun, and have been for several years, I still get anxious when approaching the airport.  If I'm being honest, and I try to be, it starts the minute my bags hit the trunk of the car and it doesn't end until I'm on the plane.  The moment of ultimate fear is when I stand in the line, without my shoes, trying to toss all of my items on the conveyor belt and waiting for the inevitable machine which forces me to raise my arms that now have embarrassing sweat stains because I'm THAT NERVOUS.  Recently while traveling on business to Dallas I was granted the opportunity to walk through all the security clearances (don't ask me how I got that special clearance, it just showed up on my ticket and I didn't ask questions).  Not having to wait in the "show me your ID" or "empty your suitcase and take off your shoes" line took that usual anxiety away.  And it hit me,  I'm not a nervous person afraid of flying, I'm a nervous waiter.  And so, it got me thinking. 

 

How many of us are nervous waiters?  You know, worried and wondering what comes next, when will we get there and what will it be like?  Worried about what we'll have to take off or let go of and anxious about the steps that we'll be made to take and the line we'll be asked to walk.  And well, if you're like me, these little things don't seem so little and well, it's nerve wracking.  The unknown is painfully and brutally distracting. 

 

Lately my friends, all quickly approaching their 30s and a few unfortunate ones like myself, inching closer to the next decade, have found themselves in the corral line moving slowly through back-and-forth lines where little progress seems to be made.  Once they reach what they believe to be the next step in reaching their ultimate goal, they're stopped, stripped clean of everything, and are left standing there while everyone else moves forward.  So, how do we stop from being anxious?  How do we become fearless?

 

I don't have the answers.  If I did, I wouldn't be the one standing in line with sweat stains.  But maybe you do.  Maybe you have answers or maybe, just maybe, we're all a little nervous and being fearless is nothing more than putting on a brave face and pretending that everything will be okay even if we don't know it will be. 

 

 

Let me tell you a secret...

If you don't have George Strait's lyrics running through your head then you cannot claim you're from the south. Period.  No, don't try to talk your way out of this one, because I'm telling you, once you here the words "Let me tell you a secret..." you should immediately think "...about a father's love".  Luckily, for me, I get to hear this song at least twice a week.  It's the song that plays, without fail, every Sunday morning on my husband's phone and it's always about the same thing: a father's love.  I can't remember the first time I noticed his calls, but I've come to expect them.  And in the rare occasions that they don't come through, it doesn't take long before my husband picks up the phone. 

Sometimes my husband's job takes him away from me for periods of time.  And considering we're still in our honeymoon phase (just coming up on three years), anything more than a day seems like an eternity. (Unless we're fighting over which of us is supposed to do dishes next.)  Prior to one of his trips, his father came to visit.

My husband's father is a simple man who doesn't say much.  He reminds me a lot of my favorite sweatpants, the corner spot on my grandparent's old couch, and that blue chair I'd sit in as the waves washed ashore.  He brings peace and a sense of calm.  He's comfortable.  He's not a man of many words, but he doesn't need to be.  His father remembers things, like the fact I have to have a Coke every morning and when he visits, he brings me a 6-pack just because he remembers things like that.  He knows I like Italian food over Mexican and my total dislike of cooking (though I've managed to keep both my husband and I alive on it so far).  And so, when we were faced with what to do with dinner just after saying goodbye to my husband, he knew just what I'd need- Italian food and a Coke!

We found ourselves in one of my favorite hole-in-the-wall, been around forever, so old you're not sure if it's even clean anymore Italian places just off the coast.  Remember when I said he was a man of few words?  Well, you never would have known that night.  Nope.  He talked my ear off.  And it was the kind of conversation you never wanted to forget.  The kind that makes you really know a person.  The kind that made me think of my husband and see him, for the first time, as a man who was loved by his father so much he'd risk it all just to give his son the world.  It was a man who did take great risks in life, went against the grain, and provided for his family of four.  I wish his children could have heard him and the way he spoke of them both.  It was the way you wish all parents spoke of their children and for the first time I felt less like I was talking to my Father-n-law and more like I was talking to my own Dad.  His eyes did that Santa like sparkle when he spoke of his children, his wife, and the life he had chosen.  It was refreshing and I found myself with even greater respect for the man sitting across from me eating his spaghetti.

During the time my husband was gone, the song didn't play.  It was weird missing something so small, yet so powerful.  His father did call to check on me and despite our attempts to catch up, weather, timing, and the fact we were always miles away from each other kept us from sharing a Coke and stories.  We did however talk often and every time it was the same; he asked about his son, asked if I had any new news on where our adventures would take us next, and whether there was anything he could do for us (though really, I know he was meaning his son).  This continued until my husband was home and I knew, without asking, his father would follow shortly thereafter.

I can't explain what it's like watching a father and son reunite.  I'd like to think it mimics that of when I first hug my mom after being away for a period of time.  I tried to capture it this last time, but my husband hates pictures, so I was left with trying to hide it by snapping a picture from my phone at my hip.  It's blurry, grainy, and all things wrong, but at the same time, it is all things right.  You can't see his father's face, but I assure you, he was smiling like a kid on Christmas.

This morning I woke up early with my husband who was heading to work with breakfast for his co-workers.  I sent him a text shortly after to let him know how much I loved him for the things he does for others.  (And let me be clear, he will be none too happy that I've posted what he did in such an open outlet.  He does things because he believes in them, not for anything else. And so, I just hope he doesn't read this last part as I'm sure I'll get a talking to.)  For the things he does for others wasn't learned in college or through his current job, but from years of being raised by a man who loved his family. 

Love goes a long way.  It shapes who we are as people and has the ability to impact thousands of people indirectly, not to mention the hundreds of people we interact within our lifetime.  So parents, while I realize I have no children of my own and little to stand on, I ask that you love your children.  But more so, I ask that you let them know you love them.  Even when your children are grown, have left your home, and have started their own family, call them.  Interrupt their lives with visits, emails, and phone calls.  These are the things that remind us all that love still exists in this world and it effects the way we treat others.  We are a direct reflection of our parents, whether we like it or not.  Love your kids.  And kids, love your parents. 

Thank you, John, for raising your son the way he is.  Every day I wake up and know that I am lucky and I am reminded of it in so many ways.  Your son loves me the way a husband is meant to love their wife and I am proud to be the one he comes home to.

Faith, Love, and a Whole Lot of Coffee

 

We waited.  For seven months, we waited.  And here we were, moments before their arrival, and still waiting. 

 

The time was crawling and still there was no sign of the plane that would signal their arrival home.  We held on to each other, every now and then wiping a tear that had found its way to the side of our cheeks, and waited. Together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were smiles and laughter throughout the day, but now mostly just an anxious silence that fell between us.  I couldn't open my mouth to speak but I knew there were words that needed to be said as we stood there, tears in our eyes, waiting for the ones we loved to come home.  I put my hand on her back and without saying a word, told them everything was going to be okay.  We had made it.

 

 

 

 

 

We stood together, side by side, like Marines.  We were each other's strength and although we all had our moments of weakness throughout the deployment, we knew standing there that day, we were strong and we had survived; together.

 

 

Together.  And that's how we'll always be, together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo Credits:  A Beautiful Moment Photography by Megan and LG Photography