Military Archives - karin madden

April 6, 2016 by Karin 2 Comments

When You Need To Hear – Do Not Be Afraid

I started this last November. You know sometimes it takes us a while to put the pieces together. And sometimes the pieces don’t make any sense. For a very long time. Sometimes the pieces keep breaking and some of them get lost. Then new pieces show up and the puzzle has lost some of its meaning. And sometimes the puzzle makes you want to throw it across the room. But, sometimes, if we wait long enough, the puzzle starts to make a little bit of sense.

One piece at a time.

Please stick with the puzzle.

Here’s where the jigsaw began many months ago…

I keep looking across the room at them.

Most of the time they don’t see me looking.

Tomorrow is my birthday. The thought that I am sliding into middle age doesn’t sit long. Mostly I think of her. Forty-five years ago tonight she was on the verge of meeting her first and only girl child. The baby of the family. She was younger than I am now, but not by much. I think of the time I lay beneath her beating heart – waiting to enter this wild world. Eyes fully open.

She’s been gone from here for six months, but I see her face every day. Sometimes in the faces of my children. Sometimes behind my closed eyes. And sometimes, more often with each passing year, in the mirror.

I watch the headlines flashing across the screen and I’m almost grateful she isn’t here to see it.

The terror of it all.

She saw enough of it.

I see the faces of the refugees. Tear-stained mothers. Wide-eyed children with vacuous gazes. All swallowed by masses.

Mingled into the masses slithers the terror. The cowards hiding and sliding through the crowds. The very beasts we’ve been fighting for so very long now. The terror that has taken my babies’ daddy from them time and time again – until the absence becomes normal.

The terror didn’t just begin, you know. It began a very long time ago. The truth is the terror began when the enemy fell to earth and his hatred fueled a thousand generations of vulnerable souls. Our battle is with powers and principalities after all.

But let’s make no mistake. These powers entice and utilize the willing souls of terrorists who swarm in very real human flesh.

Then I think of her again. Terror is nothing new. I suppose my parents must have thought the end was near when they were just teenagers. Bombs rained and bullets flew through the formative years of their youth. The age I learned to drive down southern country roads, they learned to navigate a war-torn country. All lost to smoke and fire.

She told me the story over and over again. A story heard a thousand times becomes a sort of lullaby. The thrumming of a heartbeat quietly ticking – not knowing when the jolt will come.

The jolt keeps coming. Again and again. Wringing hands and clenched fists. Explosions. Chaos. Tears upon tears…

Spewing anger leaking through media madness we call “social.” I read the scrolling upon scrolling. More venom than baby pictures these days. I showed up in this social place for those baby pictures. Now the baby pictures of innocent faces are clouded by anger and hatred and fear. Isn’t this why He tells us again and again,

Do not be afraid.

Yea, but that’s easier said than done.

I wish I could tell you my opinion. But the truth is I have too many, and not one solution. Not yet.

I keep thinking of them. The war that surrounded them when they were the age of these faces watching me from across the room.

We have all these glorious, well-meaning, sometimes educated, sometimes fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants thoughts. We throw them into the wild, wild world. Mostly hoping something will right this madness. Hoping something will change. Praying Someone is listening.

And for the love of God and all things good, we are tired. And sick of it all.

But that sounds too much like complaining. Or quitting. And, friends, we just can. not. quit. The stories don’t get any prettier and our babies grow up. And sometimes we forget what the point of all this is.

I’ve wrestled with even spilling thoughts in this place. It’s personal here. Something I want to leave with my kids. And this year has left me numb and tired and wondering what do I actually want to leave with my kids?

Through the spinning and reeling and frustration of the seasons we face – and I thought things would get easier as we age – I wonder what on this gloriously beautiful and chaotically ugly earth do I want to leave here? Because, you know, we can’t leave here without leaving a mark. We all leave a mark.

The moving and upheaval and changes have about done me in this time. It’s what military wives do. It seems we can take the madness on ourselves, but we can’t stomach it for our babies. It all becomes too much sometimes. And we think we might just have reached the limit.

Like a desperate sparrow clamoring for reassurance from fresh air and skies – because I hate to admit the Heavenly answers just don’t come fast enough sometimes – I flew into a wild-eyed soliloquy. The target – my unsuspecting warrior. Sometimes they just don’t know when the sparrow has encountered the hurricane.

I’m done! I just can’t take it anymore! I’m so sick of it all going wrong.

Well, and sometimes the answers from Heaven are just waiting for you to get real.

You know… we just need to go to 30,000 feet.

Pause. Wait a minute. There’s a profound truth here. Let me just. breathe. for. one. minute. He continued,

We’re being sucked into the details. The messed up and mostly distracting details of this world.

We just need to get to 30,000 feet and look down for a few minutes.

Oh God, why can’t we just get it? We need to see from YOUR eyes. The big picture. The view from a distance that reminds us we are all crawling around here like ants on a computer screen. We just don’t know. We don’t know how this story will unfold. BUT. How many times do You have to tell us…

Do not be afraid.

My warrior called me. Another trip away from the souls he loves most. Because the earthly battles will not wane – not any time soon.

Do you know what He tells us again and again? Do you know?

Do not be afraid.

I grinned from behind sleepy eyes,

Yea, it’s like He knows, huh?

It’s not easy, my friend. I know. It’s excruciating sometimes. Like madness might finally take hold, and the mask just has to cover it all. Because, you know, appearances and all.

But, it is real. He is real. The countless ways are almost too much for the simple words etched here. He keeps showing up. He keeps answering. He keeps promising. And He does not lie. He has no need for our approval or belief. He IS anyway.

His plan IS.

His story IS.

His love IS.

No matter what or who we are.

Sometimes the sparrow has to spin through the hurricane again and again until it sees the Light is still there. No matter the darkness it encounters. The Light breaks through the storm and reminds us,

Do not be afraid.

Matthew 10:27-33

“Whatever I tell you in the dark, speak in the light; and what you hear in the ear, preach on the housetops. And do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. But rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.
“Therefore whoever confesses Me before men, him I will also confess before My Father who is in heaven. But whoever denies Me before men, him I will also deny before My Father who is in heaven.

March 27, 2015 by Karin 4 Comments

To Touch Something Closer To Heaven

The rotors whirled above my head. Funny, if you look at them for a moment – they appear to be barely moving.

This slow motion spinning; each blade defined as it slices through the thin air. The sun glints off the steely metal. The beating heart of these blades – a steady thump-thump-thump. My warrior laughs,

5000 moving parts – all trying to fly away from each other.

We are that sometimes. Flying and moving and spinning – flying away from each other, but held by an invisible force. Then a blink, and again they slice the sky with clear-cut precision. A million whirls a second.

And I look down into her eyes, blue as the azure sky; she blinks and this innocent gaze slices right to my mother heart. The whirling, when we stop for a moment to focus, seems to slow to a steady thrumming in the air. It’s when we lose our locked gaze that suddenly the moments spin to a dizzying speed.

During the brief, the commander warned us,

Walk in at 90 degrees. Keep your head straight and your arms down. And walk in at 90 degrees.

Just a few steps to the front and the blades could slice. Too far to the back and the heat will incinerate. And I wonder how many times we skim past the slicing blades before we listen. How close to the inferno will we step before we heed the warning. Walk in at a 90 degree angle. Straight in. There is safety straight ahead.

And I climbed into my seat.

In the belly of gray steel I anticipated the moment this bird would hover above the earth by only a small measure. The familiar fear of heights strangely lost its hold as we slowly lifted into the air. This sudden levitation – exhilarating. And a relief. A moment to do nothing but sit, and float, and gaze.

The forward motion like surfing on the wind. I peered over at the city – stiff and glitzy in the distance. The rat-tat-tat of chopping atmosphere leaving the false promises of glittering domes behind. Beneath us, I watched desert turn to rock and a fire-red rose from the distance. This valley of fire mesmerizing from the safe hover above.

I closed my eyes and imagined the men with legs hanging from the side. Poised with battle armor and pounding hearts. My eyes followed the winding scratches of road below and I wondered what it must look like to them. To see roads covered in debris and desperation and despair – all the while praying to God they might see the gentle hills of home again.

The lost city passed below us. Just remnants of flooded homes and washed memories. This city drowned to make way for the body of water. The parched land and receding water revealing what once was. And I just read they think they may have found Jesus’ childhood home. Buried deep beneath a convent – in the middle of a war-torn world.

Just the foundation remained below our hovering eyes. All the rest had washed to days gone by. And I smiled. Because there can always be something new if the foundation remains. The stones pointing to the sky like arms raised in solidarity. They had weathered a storm and remained to whisper the tale of days drifted to memory.

The dip and turn took my breath. Leaned toward the earth I marveled at how we can float in this space and hang just above the earth. We can hover for a moment feeling like we may fall from the sky, but keep our shoes 500 feet from the ground. Safe. And I wonder if we really shouldn’t get our feet a little bit dirtier.

The glistening water the color of jade wrapped along the angled shore. I peered straight down to the bottom of the rippling water and heard that familiar whisper,

All this. By My hand. It leaves no room for doubt – does it?

And I don’t. Doubt, that is. Just sometimes we must transcend the situations. We have to hover above to really see. Only then can we inhale, rest, and know. The beauty in the design points to the beauty in the purpose. Sometimes we have to go through the valleys of fire to get there.

Then the looming city appeared again in the distance. This sort of oasis of false promises. This adult Disney World. Where what happens here stays here. But, see, nothing really does. It doesn’t stay. It spreads and I suppose we have to decide what we want to spread. And if we don’t – it will be spread for us. Whether we like it or not.

The thump-thump-thump of the blades a steady reminder that all these 5000 moving parts trying to fly away from each other – all these wandering souls – are really trying to touch something closer to heaven.

I stopped writing here, just for a few days. Then I heard the news. This very machine that gently brushed me past mountain peaks, dangled me above a lost city, and through a valley of fire – a hawk just like this whirling workhorse – went down.

And my heart sank. Eleven lost they say. The numbers run across the screen and our heavy hearts pray for families we don’t know by name or face, but whose lives are different chapters of the same story. This small fraction of a nation who knows more than what sacrifice looks like. This fraction who knows the thrumming of aching hearts as rotors, or jet engines roar in our ears – and fade out of sight. These who know the lingering smell of jet fuel and grease-stained hands. The ones who know the faces of questioning children when we scramble for coherent answers – but don’t really know ourselves.

And I remember the weightlessness and peace in floating above this earth – this feeling a warrior wife only tastes for a sweet moment.

All these 5000 moving parts trying to fly away from each other. And these eleven souls – trying to touch something closer to heaven – flung straight into the arms of God. May their families find comfort in those same arms that hold us all.

Psalm 144:3-8

Lord, what is man, that You take knowledge of him? Or the son of man, that You are mindful of him? Man is like a breath; His days are like a passing shadow. Bow down Your heavens, O Lord, and come down; Touch the mountains, and they shall smoke. Flash forth lightning and scatter them; Shoot out Your arrows and destroy them. Stretch out Your hand from above; Rescue me and deliver me out of great waters,
From the hand of foreigners, Whose mouth speaks lying words, And whose right hand is a right hand of falsehood.

September 29, 2014 by Karin 2 Comments

Wings In The Storms Of Worry And Fear

It has been a while.

I’d like to say I’ve been waiting on God, and the reason I haven’t uttered a word in this place is because I have been waiting on just the right words.

A wise friend of mine recently posted these words,

Waiting is not passive. It’s active. We wait with head erect, neck outstretched – expecting God’s answer at any moment, from any direction.

However, the truth just dawned on me. I have been waiting, but more than that, I have been muted by the pain I see all around us. I mean, what in the world does some mom have to say that can change the way we see this suffering world? I could barely see clearly to the end of a hell hot summer in Vegas.

How in this world tearing at the seams can we find anything at all to say that hasn’t already been screamed or spewed or vomited all over the internet?

People are angry. People are afraid. People are fed up. And everyone around us seems to have every answer, and no answer at all.

It seems as my faith grows, so does my pain in seeing the suffering. So, I find myself just wanting to be quiet.

What can we say to the grieving wife of a warrior lost too soon? I remember last month, the day I heard the jet went down. I remember waking in the night before any word had surfaced of his fate. I woke in a cold sweat and went with heart racing fear into deep prayer,

Please, God, please let him survive. He has a wife. And two daughters. Please show us he ejected safely from that Eagle. Please…

Though I didn’t know him, I know his best friends. Though I don’t know her, I know too many widows who have suffered the same tragedy. Though I have thankfully never heard that knock at the front door, I have feared it from the moment I set eyes on my own warrior. The reality falls around us and our hearts break one piece more with every tragedy that crosses our lives.

Just days later, another report. Another warrior, and this time his brother with him. Black ribbons stream across my Facebook and I wonder why again this life so young. Why, again, grieving widows and orphaned children?

And again, another week gone by, a step closer to our door. The call from my warrior,

Have you read the email? I’m in shock…

A warrior brother to my own pilot. Every time we go to this place of shock, disbelief, and mourning; it rattles our core just a bit more.

I took my kids to the photo hanging on our wall. This young bride glowing next to her beaming Captain. My face went to the mischievous grin of a sword bearer – knowing the whack to the rear of the princess bride was approaching.

Just one of many traditions in the military. The magnificent arch of swords welcomes the newly married couple. Just as they are about to emerge into this new life together, the swords close in front of them. This – the cue to kiss this unsuspecting warrior wife – is followed by the raising of the swords. Just as the two enter into this daunting world of deployments, and wars, and battles, and separations; the lovely wife gets a smack. Right on her ass. How apropos for a welcome into the reality of military wife life.

I looked into the glimmer on the face of our friend and whispered,

Why you, too?

My warrior walked in the door that night, swarmed by the squeezing arms of young children. I prepared them for Daddy’s sadness. But these warriors, you see, they’ve been there many times. They lose many comrades. And the thing about this – these comrades are more than friends. They are brothers. Even the ones we don’t know.

The family tree is strong having weathered a similar journey together – divided only by lines on a map. Our hearts bleed for each other as though we are given this one chamber of our hearts to share. We bleed into each other, and carry the families of the fallen. The bond can hardly be described to anyone else. But we can look into each others’ eyes and know.

When he saw me, dish towel and dinner in hand, his stride approached me with the precision targeting they learn like the beating of their own hearts. And his heart bled on my shoulder.

You see, every time, every story, every man lost – the faces waiting on the other side pry open the barrier between earth and heaven to remind us of the wounds our shared heart chamber has suffered. Every face, every call sign, every brother-in-arms gone too soon lights up our memories like exploding bombs. And it never gets easier. In fact, it gets harder.

Because here is the secret we all know…

The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him. ~ GK Chesterton

Our warriors go to the gates of hell because they love. And when they go to battle for us, they bond with their brothers in ways we can never completely understand. These friendships forged in the fire of battle burn holes to the core and leave singed scars until they come face to face again.

With every step in my faith – and those strides have grown by the grace of God – my heart aches more for the suffering.

Perhaps it’s this.

The pain invades our souls more with every subsequent blow, because we know. We know sometimes the only way to wake the sleeping soul is to rattle it awake. Our spirits won’t grow stronger in the slumber. Our souls can’t learn in the comfort of downy covers. Our souls won’t come alive without the truth that this life is fleeting.

Our faith will not grow without seeing that we just can’t see with our eyes anymore. Perhaps the only way to really see, is by closing our eyes to this dimly lit world and allowing Him to finally show us the truth. The blinding light beyond what we can see here. The truth in the reality is beyond our comprehension.

We can listen in the stillness of heartache, in the storms of worry and fear. We can close our eyes to what we think we know, and open our hearts to the truth our weary souls are dying to hear.

Then, our spirits will soar… on wings like eagles.

Isaiah 40:30-31

Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

April 14, 2014 by Karin 15 Comments

When It’s Time To Live – My Messy Beautiful Truth

Here I am. Fingers poised.

I did it again. I signed up for a project, not really knowing what I was signing up for. I do that sometimes. I think if God wants us to follow Him faithfully and step out into the unknown, sometimes we actually have to. Step out into the unknown, that is.

Then I found out more about it. I have to write the real, messy beautiful truth about who I am. Argh. Not that I want to really keep it all to myself, it just seems so painfully introspective. Almost narcissistic. And, man oh man; I don’t want to be narcissistic. There are too many millions out there who don’t have the luxury of sitting at a computer playing mind-mellowing tunes while they pick apart their own anxieties and deep-seated isms. But, it’s what I signed up for. And I like to follow through. I like to do what I say I’m going to do. I think that’s a big deal. There. That’s one part of me.

I like follow through because it’s the same as telling the truth. And I like to tell the truth. But, I don’t like mean. Not that kind of truth-telling. Not the,

Hey, I really don’t dig that shirt… or hat… or purse…

Not that kind of truth-telling. It’s really not necessary. Unless someone asks. Really asks. You know, the girlfriend who wants it straight,

How do the jeans really look?

I’ve had friends like that. And I need them. I miss them.

See, in the military, you get to start over and over again. Like anything else, it carries the great and the gruesome with it. You clean your house and your heart, and you pack up and leave.

There’s an excitement and a refreshing order that comes with going to the new normal. You get to start from scratch. But, scratch can hurt. The scratch can bring cuts and wounds and tears. The hardest part, it brings tears from your kids. Those are the worst ones. You just can’t un-live some places for them. The heart places. They have to go there, just like you do. The best you can do is grab their hands and hold on. We only become warriors by going to war – by going to battle against the dark places. Outside of us – but, first, inside of us.

I’m married to a warrior – the kind who flies fighters and goes to war. I’m a mom of six kids. That makes me a warrior in some ways. Six more souls to go to battle for. It also shows me God had to give me more practice in patience than most. Each one of my littles is a hill on which I die. Another place to die to myself. And I really want to die to myself, though it took me over four decades to figure out what that means.

So, who am I? That’s the assignment. I’ll just go right to the fears. We all have those. It’s not such a tough place to start.

I’m afraid of heights. Really afraid. Like knee buckling, heart racing, dizzying fear. I’m not so much afraid of falling; more that I’ll forget I’m up high and jump. Pretty strange, I know. What scares me more is I’ll miss some really cool moments with my kids because of this fear. I already have. Roller coasters and lighthouses. I missed that time on the lighthouse. I have pictures, but they’re just not the same. What’s worse, my baby girl is more petrified than I am. And, I’m sure it’s my fault. Guilt. That’s a whole other subject, isn’t it?

I’m afraid something will happen to my kids. I know we all are, but I don’t want to be like Nemo’s dad. I want them to live. Really live. I don’t know what to do about this fear. So, I pray. But, sometimes I worry I don’t pray enough – or the right way. Like God’s giving me some prayer exam and I am one question away from failing. I want to get it right – like it all depends on me.

Which brings me to the next fear. It all depends on me (and I worry about narcissism?), and I’m going to completely mess up my kids. I had a great childhood. Good parents, good brothers, good friends. And I never had to move. Ever. Same house, same town – until I left for college. And I hardly ever went back. And that’s it, I think. I hardly ever went back. There’s the root of my fear. My kids will take off and live and never come back.

My parents still live in the same house and I hardly ever go back. We live too far away, and it’s not easy to road trip 3000 miles with six kids. The worst part – my mom has Alzheimer’s, or something like it. We aren’t sure because she’s not the biggest fan of doctors. Every phone call, I try to memorize the brief conversation. She’s my mom. It’s been called the long goodbye, but it’s more than that. Imagine your life as a time line. You cruise along collecting memories and suddenly the one who gave you life, the one who held your new baby body, the one who taught you everything about being a girl and a woman – is living a sliding scale. The memories slide to the right leaving everything to the left – your whole past – behind. The memories become yours – alone. And I hate it. That old saying,

We’ll always have the memories.

Yea, but sometimes we won’t.

Fear of man. It’s one of the worst. Being afraid of what people think. It’s almost paralyzing sometimes. We can say (and when I say “we,” I mean “I”) we don’t care what people think. But, we do. The problem with this fear? It keeps us caged. Stifled. Half alive. And the worst part, we miss the best parts of the turning pages of these passing years. We read only half of every page, which leads us through only half of the book. We miss some of the best parts, but we’ll never know it – until the end when all the pages are open under the sun. I’m not saying finding favor with man is wrong. Wise old King Solomon told us it’s a good and honorable thing to have. It shouldn’t be the goal; but it shouldn’t be the hindrance.

Love is a big deal. Love and mercy are mission number one. But, don’t you know, there’s always going to be someone who wants to shoot you down. And, that’s why we’re warriors. Because we are willing to let people shoot at us. Because we know what’s at stake – our very lives. Our real lives. The ones we are supposed to live – wild and free. Just like that rebel Jesus.

It’s funny, the more you talk about your fears, the smaller they get; and the braver you become. And, man, I want to be brave. I want to be brave for my kids every time they face the dark places. I want them to be brave in the face of angry and critical eyes. I want them to be brave when the angry and critical eyes are the ones facing them in the mirror. Because we can be brutal with ourselves. I want to show them what brave looks like. I want to show them forgiveness is the bravest thing you can do – especially to yourself. I want them to see what it means to carry a cross and to sacrifice. And I want to love their daddy well. I want to be brave for my warrior every time he steps out to battle. And sometimes love is the battlefield (thank you, Pat Benatar…). I want to show them that this is not all there is; but this is all worth fighting for. And, then I think of her.

She’s been gone two years now. The kind of friend who would tell you in her sweetest southern drawl that those jeans were just all wrong. She would smile and hum,

Girrrrl… huh-uh. Those are all wrong, girl.

Man, I miss her. Two years is a lot of life to keep to yourself. So, here’s the thing. My girl, she could stress with the best of them. We could talk in the dark of a booth in a remote restaurant, and just as she poised herself for true confessions, her ears would perk and her eyes would shift,

Do you think anyone heard me?

She pretty much cared what people thought. For a long time. Until she got sick.

Cancer will kill more than healthy cells. It will kill any inkling of fear of what your purpose here is. It will kill any thoughts about what anyone else thinks. It will make you brave and strong and grateful for this very moment, even while you are scared and weak and the moments pass by. It will make you grow up and wake up. It will make you see things you forgot to look at. It will make your eyes new again with more tears than you can count. She was brave and I want to be just like her.

I could go on. But, well, there comes a point we have to stop. We have to get a grip and stop being afraid. I don’t know how to change it all. I don’t know how to erase the fears, but I know a God with a mighty powerful pen. I am fairly certain He can write over anything we ask. In fact, I know He will.

So, I am just going to start here – with pen and ink. I’m going to ask Him to re-write my view of heights through His eyes. The places that seem too high for me are just footstools. He has higher and holier places to take us. Maybe I can just step on one of these footstools, then take the next step, and the next…

My kids. Yes – motherhood. This place He shows me how wrong I can be – while being right where I am supposed to be. I guess I’ll just have to remind them I never doubted them when I let go of their hands… or they let go of mine. And I would fight the world for them; but, that’s not what they – or the world – need. The best I can do is throw these fears onto a page to tell them, and you, we are really all in this together. Some same, some different, but we are all sweating bullets over the pages we haven’t even gotten to yet. And those faded chapters? They show us how far we’ve come.

I want to live this epic tale. I don’t want to miss any more of the story meant for me. And whatever I miss, I’ll ask Him to please have a white-washed beach for me in heaven – somewhere breath-taking, with a hammock and a cold drink – where I can finish reading the parts I missed until now.

Romans 8:15

For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”

(This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, Click Here. And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, Click Here.)

January 9, 2014 by Karin 14 Comments

When We Don’t Know Much About The Proof Of Love

I hear their little voices ringing in the background. My head is starting to hurt. I hear the beep of the microwave reminding me the coffee from this morning has been reheated… again. And here I sit looking for revelation in a keyboard. I forgot again. Stop and pray and ask…

I’m listening to The Proof of Your Love and I remember now… 15 years ago.

Let my life be the proof of Your love.

I remember the vows this war bride took in a dimly lit church on a cold winter Saturday night in January. It was only months after I met him. Only months after our engagement. Only months after the first deployment. Separated from this man I loved and planned to marry – and I didn’t even know yet. I didn’t know how much things would change.

I called the Scottish priest on the phone. It was Saturday afternoon. Just the night before, our squadron commander pulled me aside, knowing we were planning a wedding,

They are leaving days from now. I just want you to know… in case you feel like you need to make plans.

The story is familiar to many military brides. The marriage… followed by the wedding.

I remember when we fell head over heels in just weeks… days, really. He pulled me close and told me of the risks of loving a warrior. You can lose more than your heart, you know. He wanted me to be sure – to give me one more chance to bail. You could have sooner cut my heart from my chest. I was in… for the long haul. Of course we don’t know what the long haul is when we hitch up our trailers.

The priest in his thick Scottish voice laughed,

Don’t marry him!

I laughed, relieved to find humor in the moment. He continued,

When is he leaving?

I answered, not quite believing the road we were on,

Only a few days now. Tuesday, I think. Will you marry us?

His tone took a note of warm sincerity,

Of course I will, my dear. Come to mass tonight. Six o’clock. Stay after everyone leaves. I’ll clear the church quickly and we’ll marry you then.

My head was spinning, but my heart beat steadily. The fast sure resolve in this beating chest reassured me. We don’t much need our heads in moments like this. They just get in the way. The heart – all things flow from this pumping organ.

We drove in the darkness toward the old brick church in the middle of our small southern town. Both sets of eyes facing forward as he reached for my hand. There is something about taking the grandeur out of a wedding; wearing a black skirt with a tan sweater, holding hands in the dark of night while you drive toward your wedding vows, that reminds you why you are jumping into this unknown. The proof of your love.

The service murmured in the back of our thoughts while we smiled knowingly at each other. He squeezed my hand tighter as he tilted his head toward the stained glass to our right. Marriage. The kaleidoscope of carefully placed mosaics glowed above us. Marriage. That’s what it said under the intricate hands that grasped each other – just like ours.

The service ended; our hearts raced. This fiery Scottish priest beamed and patted backs as he hurriedly ushered the masses to the door. He glanced over to us and smiled. The reassuring smile of man whose heart is driven by God,

I’d like for you to meet someone. I asked them to stay behind. We need witnesses, you know.

I didn’t know. I’d never done this bride thing before,

Oh, yes, of course.

We turned and smiled at the couple standing by the pews. They wore jeans and jackets and grinned at us wide-eyed.

The wife smiled sheepishly,

I would have worn something nicer than jeans if I had known we were going to a wedding tonight.

I laughed,

I haven’t known much longer than you.

We walked toward the altar and I looked up at the crucifix. The dim candlelight flickered time to a standstill. One of those moments that time becomes meaningless. The cross above us – the only other Witness to this union.

The moment hung in the air with the vows we pledged and the prayers we prayed. Our hearts beat a steady drum. Shaking hands placed the Claddagh of our wedding bands – friendship, love, and loyalty.

And the candles flickered. The proof of our love.

I looked up. His body nailed to that cross. I didn’t know much about the Man who hung above us. I knew enough to bring me into this House wrapped in glistening stained glass. I didn’t know much about Him then, even as the proof of His love hung before my newly married eyes.

I didn’t know much about hitching a wagon to a warrior’s life or the real meaning behind these sworn vows.

I didn’t know much about hearts melting together and living oceans apart over and over again.

I didn’t know much about love forming life and the patter of feet all over a home.

I didn’t know much about the stubbornness of self and pride and all the things that bring us to collide.

I didn’t know much about being willing to die for the new life that comes from this union under a cross – or being married to a man willing to die for a country.

I didn’t know love is good, love is hard, love is sacrifice.

I didn’t know much of anything, really.

I didn’t know the proof of love had been written Ages ago.

Faith is funny that way. It breathes life when you don’t even know you are breathing.

It enters that moment you are willing to bend a knee on an altar – even when you don’t quite know Whom you are bending a knee to.

It fills you up when you just begin to bow.

It enters your soul when you ask,

Who are You?

It was 15 years ago today. This war bride story of mine.

And all the while, the Son of Man has looked down and poured out the proof of His love.

And it doesn’t matter if we get it.

He. gets. us.

And we bend our knees and we bow…

and we whisper…

Thank You.

1 Corinthians 13:4-7, 13

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres…

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

When You Need To Hear – Do Not Be Afraid

To Touch Something Closer To Heaven

Wings In The Storms Of Worry And Fear

When It’s Time To Live – My Messy Beautiful Truth

When We Don’t Know Much About The Proof Of Love

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