Change is inevitable. We grow older, wiser, and unfortunately… usually a little fatter as time continues its onward march. Nothing stays the same—heck, even my laptop somehow manages to update itself while I sleep. Our kids grow, our TV’s get flatter, and our cell phones become infinitely more complicated (yet still seem to drop about half the calls at the most inconvenient times). Luckily, change seems to happen at such a constant pace that we tend not to notice it in our everyday lives. In fact, we are usually blissfully unaware-- rarely, do our kids eat an entire pizza, go to bed, and wake-up two inches taller (or with the new-found maturity to suddenly take out the trash without being told a dozen times). But to the returning soldier, or one who is home for R&R (as in my case), change becomes the salient reminder of all they have missed. It is the thorn in the soldier’s side that painfully points out that life somehow continued on without them. Kiddos lost teeth, Santa Clause visited, mom learned to change a flat tire (without resorting to tears and showing a little leg on the side of the road)… all while the soldier was off fighting over seas. There is always that moment when the soldier walks in the front door—amidst the banners, balloons, and baked good—and glances around the room. He is searching for something familiar. He is looking for what he left behind, but what he sees is change. Suddenly, it becomes infinitely clear that he can’t go back to the beginning of the deployment to start again where he left off. The only option is to dig in, pray for grace and understanding, and work on making a new ending to your story.
For three days my husband walked around with the anti-change blinders on, pretending not to notice how his family had morphed into bigger, smarter, and in some cases… more hormonal versions of themselves. He nonchalantly went about life like it had always been normal for his now-twelve-year-old daughter to have a pair of earbuds permanently attached to her head. But the moment—the real soul awakening moment—happened last Saturday on a trip back from my own personal Hell… Lowes. Jim wanted a garden—just like he had every year—and he was determined to make the biggest, best, and most amazing plot of earth the world had ever known. He envisioned the kids working together (yes, he is obviously delusional) to bring in the bountiful harvest, neighbors stopping by for a chat AND to collect their portion of the 100 lbs of squash, and me (probably wearing a stained apron, a thong, and a pair of stiletto heels) dutifully canning tomatoes for the winter.
Now let’s be honest, I can barely keep the few potted plants alive on the front porch. I usually only notice those when I am walking in at the end of the day -- when they are all limp, flaccid, and near death—and ‘generously’ give them all the remaining water and gatoraid from my son’s soccer bottles (all of about 10 drops). In fact, I am living breathing proof that the green-thumb-gene skips a generation. My mother can plant a tire and grow a car. I, on the other hand, can plant a tire and grow a headache. Gardening is just not my thing. It never has been, but every year I make the dutiful pilgrimage to Lowes for tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash like the true Southern woman I have learned to become. Jim sweats in the heat while he plants the garden, and I sit in the shade and look pretty. Everyone is happy. Everyone wins.
Of course, this year it would be a little different—Jim is going back to Iraq on May 5th—and the person sweating out in the heat is going to be me! There I was standing in Lowes, looking at a cart full of tomatoes, seeds, potting soil, and… an inconceivable peach TREE thinking to myself, ‘fantastic, I now get to add itinerant farmer to my résumé.’ I tried to act enthusiastic and supportive. I applauded his search for the perfect fruit-bearing peach tree, but when he was about to add a nectarine tree to the cart, something snapped. I needed to put my foot down. I barely had time to shower-- there was no way I had time to care for the abundant orchard of his dreams. I did what every pushed-over-the-edge-Army-Wife does, I smiled seductively, suggested we make some mojitos, and used all my feminine voodoo to make him forget about the nectarine tree. And it worked… for about five minutes. Until we were driving home—a peach tree on my lap AND extending out the back window—when he turned to me and dropped the bomb.
My heart sunk as his words bounced around my head, “Amy who are you? Are we even compatible anymore?”
It was that moment that I really saw Jim for the first time. In fact, sometimes it’s easier to see the forest through the trees when you are actually holding one on your lap in a little Honda Civic. Yes, we are different people. The war has changed us both. It somehow managed to touch our family with pain and sorrow, but it has also brought a new perspective on life. Some things just aren’t important anymore—and some things probably never will be again. But the lessons the war have taught us have been profound. When we were young, we went to school, and studied and prepared for the tests that life threw at us. Now that we are grown, life presents us with a test, and with it comes a lesson—and it’s what we do with these bitter teachings that truly define us. It’s how we manage to walk through the fire that reveals our true strength. As I sat there, holding that ridiculous peach tree on my lap, I suddenly knew the answer. We may be different people, and we may not see eye to eye on many things, but that is because we both have been busy growing, adapting, and surviving. Karma has been busy teaching us both lessons. We may not be growing together as the tight unit that we once were, but I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that we were both still growing in the same direction. We both still want to do amazing things with our lives—help people, love on our kids, advance our education, and grow. Jim and I are still tethered together— two souls entwined that have witnessed true beauty and sadness; the greatest obstacles and yet the most amazing miracles. Suddenly the forest was as clear as day, I knew—without a shadow of a doubt—that I would love Jim until the day my heart quit beating.
So tomorrow, I plan to make a trip to Hell again. I plan to walk into Lowes and pick up the biggest, greenest, and most productive nectarine tree that I can fit into the Honda. I will dig a hole (hopefully without snagging any power lines), and drop that baby into my backyard. I know Jim will understand its meaning—compromise, resilience, and growth. I hope he comes homes in six months, and sees that tree still standing strong and realizes it’s a symbol for us— for every army family separated by war—that even in adversity we can still produce fruit. Change is inevitable, but as along as the foundation holds strong, then there is always hope that you can weather any storm— even the never-ending war on terror.
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