The Washing Machine

At the end of November, we were able to attend a “military marriage retreat”. The fact that it was held at the beach certainly sweetened the deal, which was necessary because the last retreat we did about a year ago was so awful it left me in tears wondering what was even the point of being married at all.
So. Emotionally, I needed the beach. As bribery to attend.
Not ashamed to admit it. Not ashamed to admit it worked either.
(As an added bonus, we took a couple extra days to celebrate Bug’s birthday at the beach too! Here she is chasing some stingrays!)
They call them”Strong Bonds” in the Army  It’s a couple days of sitting in a conference hall somewhere discussing marriage issues and usually led by a unit chaplain. This doesn’t make it religious, I want to be clear. It’s just chaplains are good at talking about the more emotional stuff, without sounding like they are also giving orders. I think. At least, that’s the impression I get.
This weekend the sessions revolved around a book called “The 5 love Languages” by Gary Chapman. I was sort of disappointed initially because, I mean,  I’ve read the book.So what was left to learn? I even had a 5 Love Languages print out hanging on my fridge for years! Applying this concept of “you might be speaking love, but if your partner speaks a different language they can’t hear your message” was earth shattering when I came across it, but now felt kinda like old news. Sorry, Gary.
(FYI If you haven’t read the book give it to yourself for Christmas, totally worth it! Also, click here for the printout I saved on Pinterest!)
In spite of the initial disappointment, I really liked the chaplain. I like that his wife seemed borderline annoyed at him half the time. I liked that he had a thick southern accent that was unintelligible off and on. But most of all, I liked how real they were. Married for 26 years with four grown children, they put on exactly zero pretense of being perfectly happy, being squared away, or knowing it all. In fact, the first morning as the attendees walked through our breakfast buffet line, balancing multiple plates and juggling multiple requests, the chaplain hollered at all of us in line with littles a dire warning “The empty nest! It’s the hardest years! Trust me on this one!”
His wife rolled her eyes.
I loved it.
They day went on, we talked about identifying our love languages (Hi, I’m “quality time”and my husband is “acts of service.” This means while I’m wishing he would cuddle on the couch and give me his undivided attention, he’s too busy getting the oil changed in my car without being asked. It’s more of a problem than it sounds.) and sort of the ways we might be missing those bids for love and affection by misreading our partners attempts to show love in their language instead of ours.  Not understanding how others give and receive love can even bring couples to the brink of divorce.
The Chaplain said:
“In this day and age y’all…. it’s tempting at times to just walk away, isn’t it? Just say it’s broken, everyone says it’s ok to do that now if you’re not happy right? 
But here’s the thing… what do you do if your washing machine is running and it starts to bump? You know, sometimes it even gets really noisy and it’s all off balance and banging around the laundry room making a big ruckus.
Do you throw out the entire machine?!?
Or do you take all the clothes out and throw them away and buy new ones?!?!
No!! You rebalance the darn machine and start it up again!”
We have this washer/dryer set that was given to us as a hand-me-down from my mother when we moved to Ft. Benning……back in 2006.  It was easily between 10-15 years old at that point in time. That same set has since then gone with us to Colorado, and survived through years of small children, reusable washable diapers with two babies, various puke-a-thons each fall as the stomach flu makes the rounds. It made the moves with us to New Jersey for Grad School and then New York to West Point.
Being what I think is a fairly decent mother, while living in New York circa 2014 my teenage boys were expected to do their own laundry. They had actually been doing so for a couple years at that point. My oldest had put in a load of his laundry when lo and behold about 20 minutes later the washroom had water all over the floor, a funky smell in the air, and the washer upon my assessment had finally given up the ghost. We grabbed some towels to clean up the mess, and I notified my husband “The washer that is like a million years old has finally quit on us!”
Not to be so easily convinced, he came to see for himself. Her surveyed the mess, then quietly walked back to his office.
A few minutes later he came out with an announcement: He was going to fix the washing machine.
It’s not worth it, I protested. It’s a waste of time! The darn thing is so old, it couldn’t last forever! Time to throw it out!
I did the responsible and helpful thing….and started shopping for new washers online.
My husband, as he’s been known to do, went quietly and unassumingly to work.
He tinkered and googled and thought and tinkered some more. He took the Entire. Darn. Thing. Apart. The mess got bigger, my confidence in the futility of this effort grew right along with it.
I selected a brand and fancy new color. I placed the new washer and dryer in my shopping cart. I selected a delivery day.
“Here’s the problem!” he exclaimed proudly.
I couldn’t even tell you what the problem was now. All I know is, he dug around, identified it, corrected it, and reassembled the freaking washing machine.
“Good as new. Who knows, It might last another 20 years.” he said, satisfied.
I was dumbfounded. And slightly disappointed, to be honest. I wanted a fancy new washer with bells and whistles and energy efficiency!  I figured maybe he had bought us a few more months, but the next time that sucker broke down I swore I was gonna order up a new one darn it all!
The washer and dryer now live with us in Georgia. Not so much as hiccup in the intervening years. True story.
This is the man I married.
A man who shows love through Action. Not through flowery and fancy words, not through flashy gifts. Not through sitting next to me and holding my hand while staring in to my eyes for hours (although that’s still an option, if you’re reading this, babe!)
He’s a guy who sees a problem, and looks for the solution. He’s a man who isn’t afraid to dig around and investigate what’s wrong, perhaps even feel frustrated in trying to understand, maybe sometimes he doesn’t even know what he’s doing at first. But I don’t often see him take the easy route. And I never see him give up.
I’ve. Never. Seen. Him. Give. Up.
He hasn’t been perfect. I haven’t been perfect. Our list of mistakes is probably a mile long in 13 years. There has been mess and heartache and breakdown and situations with seemingly no solution.
But God knows…..I adore this man with my whole heart. And God knows I needed a man who just doesn’t quit.
I married a man willing to roll up his sleeves and get to work. Even if it might be easier not to at times. Even if it is the love language I can’t always hear. Even if there are many more years of hard work and challenges ahead.
Even if it might be easier, cleaner, simpler…to just buy a new washing machine.
There is still no one I would rather face the ups, downs, and challenges life brings than with this guy. I’d say I’m pretty darn lucky he feels the same way.


As a kid, I tended to excel.

I had some natural talents and fairly good smarts. I could read fast and retain information easily. I did well in school with mostly minimal effort, and quickly it became clear to me that anything less than Excellence was Failure. If I could have gotten a 99 or even 100, then an 89 was failing. My grades became a reflection of my Goodness, and there was very little if any gray area between my view of pass or flunk.

Between the chaotic toxic divorce of my parents and the sexual and emotional abuse I had suffered at the hands of a friend’s (much) older brother, there was not a lot I felt I could control in my world as a young teenager, not much reassurance that I was worthy or loveable. Except in those straight A’s. I could control them, I could prove I was good enough. The odd part was no one actually cared…. except me. My A’s weren’t rewarded externally in any way, my B’s weren’t berated and went equally unnoticed. But on the inside, my delicate sense of self-worth balanced on the precipice of a 4.0 GPA.

Then one day in AP something-or-other (cause I took AP everything but Math), I had a stroke.

One second a normal teenager taking notes, the next wondering if I was going to die without anyone realizing anything was wrong. My hand had turned to jello, and as incoherent scribbles dragged across the page I tapped my friend sitting in front of me only to realize I couldn’t speak to tell them something was wrong. I sat, pen in hand, trapped in my brain which was quickly coming to the realization that this was probably a Very Bad Thing. Class ended, and I walked to the front office. “I need my mom” I said. That’s all that would come out. “I need my mom.”

The official diagnosis in the ER was “transient ischemic attack”. Basically a little stroke that passed instead of sticking around to really do permanent damage. My body had betrayed me temporarily, but decided it wasn’t ready to go quite yet.

A few days later I was back in school. A few days after that a follow up appointment with a Neurologist informed me that I would no longer be permitted to continue taking Accutane (#poisonofthe90s) for my acne or the necessarily co-prescribed birth control pills as either one of them could trigger another event…..or more serious stroke.

I’m 17 here, remember. So my response was appropriately measured and mature:

“You can’t take away my birth control, I’ll get pregnant!” I said, admittedly indignant with a hint of panic in my raised voice. Stroke or no stroke, it surely couldn’t be worse than getting pregnant??

The Neurologist shrugged. “You shouldn’t be having sex anyways” and walked out of the room.

Three months later, two little lines on a pregnancy test altered the course of reality permanently. It’s one of very few tests you can get positive results, and still feel like a failure. I remember tucking it in my backpack, walking past my Dad and stepmom telling them I had to go out. I drove down the road to my boyfriend’s house, walked past his parents…..I can only imagine what my face was betraying but they didn’t stop us from going upstairs to talk.

We sobbed together. The weight of this “failure” seemed to be crushing the very life out of us. All my college applications had been mailed. A wide open future now narrowed forever to a hallway ending with only two doors: Adoption or Marriage. The third option of abortion was not an option for me, personally, although both my parents suggested it it to some extent upon receiving the news they were going to be grandparents. “My” life was going to be “over” if I continued the pregnancy they said. You can’t stay here if you decide to keep it, they said. In my mind….my life was already over. Whatever that life was going to be had, quite simply, ended. It was time to embrace the new life that hadn’t decided to be here, as scary and difficult and unknown as it might be, that little blossoming life deserved the best shot it could get.

This “Failure”, which at the time seemed so completely devastating, became the greatest joy, deepest love, and brought the truest meaning to my life. That moment in time, embracing that personal “failing”…..was a leap of faith in to an unseeable future that only  time, tears, hard work, love and dedication could unveil as the single best decision I have ever made. Where at first I saw only closed doors, I realized eventually there were actually only new doors to discover and maybe a few open windows where we could once again glimpse the sky of endless possibilities. As long as we continued to choose Love, we would be alright.

I wish I could say because of this I got better at “failing”.

I wish I could say I stand here 18 years later knowing that what today feels like Failure…..could be tomorrow’s greatest achievement.

I wish I could say I learned to embrace the ups and downs of the life we chose 5 years ago with more grace and understanding as a result of this early lesson.

But I am only human.

Instead, my “failure” once again crushed the very life out of me. My failure to understand attachment disorder, my failure to modify my parenting in a successful way, my failure to embrace the chaos without feeling threatened, my failure to seek (better, more qualified) help, my failure to make the fairy-tale-Love-conquers-all a reality. I have no doubt my efforts certainly had all the markings of an A+….and yet I couldn’t manage a passing grade.

But Today….I am remembering the tenacity of a 17 year old who embraced the fact that her “life” was over and stepped in to uncharted territory with Love. I am remembering the 24 year old who knew her marriage was ending, and chose to step forward in to that failure with Love. I am remembering the Army Wife who said exquisitely painful Goodbyes and then moved in to the unknown of lengthy deployments with small children, smiling bravely as we counted down the days. Holding fear at bay through every phone call, every doorbell, every tear-filled bedtime with Love.

I am remembering the woman who sat at her laptop and saw the face of a small, motherless girl with a twisted leg, a world away, withering in a Ukrainian orphanage and said “I Will Not Look Away.” With nothing but Love.

A broken heart is just a broken heart. A failure is just a failure at the time. Life will deal us many.

What we do afterwards is Everything.

I am hopeful that 2018 will open it’s fair share of windows on the failures of 2017, so we can air them out and choose once again look on to the world with endless possibilities for healing, health, growth, learning, and most of all those sacred opportunities for continuing to walk the path towards the true meaning of Love.


I woke up suddenly at 3am and was not able to go back to sleep.

I’d like to blame the cat (any one of them), the kids (any one of them) or even plain old insomnia (Count Chocula cereal I ate at 10pm can do that). Those answers seem more adultish, more sensible somehow. Certainly sounds better than the rather pitiful “I had a bad dream”.

But I did. I had a bad dream. It kept my heart racing and my mind pacing for an extraordinary amount of time afterwards, and as those final hours of blessed darkness ticked by towards daylight I realized my subconscious still has a lot of work to do in processing the events of the last few years.

Dreams about Falling carry a particular meaning. According to (because of course that’s a thing!) they aren’t even uncommon

“For the most part whenever we dream of falling, we have lost control in some aspect in our daily life that needs to be corrected.”

It’s a dream a lot of people can relate to I am sure, in a time where not only the small details of personal lives may be spinning out of control individually, but the course of the world seems equally and disturbingly more off It’s kilter than usual. Mass shootings, natural disaster after natural disaster, a president who wants to play chicken with a nuclear-warhead-wielding-equally-beligerent-man-child. It’s enough to make us all feel the precipice of reality is not far from crumbling directly out from underneath us. Falling dreams I daresay are likely a dime a dozen right about now.

But what on earth was Prince Harry doing in mine?

I found myself driving my car, and in the passenger seat none other than the very British, very Royal, Prince Harry. Turns out, we are great friends! I’m not sure where we were headed, but Meghan Markle was in the backseat and we were all in really good spirits, talking and laughing even though it was dark and sort of foggy. I realized suddenly that we were lost, and needed to turn around immediately. The road had become very narrow.

I threw the car in park, and we discussed how we might be able to turn around if we were really careful.

Back up, small turn, little bit forward, back up small turn, little bit forward. You know how it goes trying to maneuver a car in a small space.

Except in the darkness I didn’t see that the edge of the road was actually the ledge of a sheer cliff face. And a small miscalculation sent the front wheels right over.

The car started to fall and everyone was screaming, when I realized that the wheels were no longer even in contact with the ground. We weren’t rolling down a hillside, we had fallen right off an Unseeable Cliff. We fell, and fell. And fell. Knowing that contact with the ground would be an instant death, but the consuming darkness left me with no idea of when that contact might be. Minutes went by. After a few, we stopped screaming and marveled that we were still in fact…..falling.

I remember thinking “Geez, it’s been FIVE MINUTES already, when will this END?!? How deep does this canyon GO?” The falling, the not knowing, the anticipation of only one certain tragic outcome, was unbearable.

And then I woke up.

Life hasn’t become anything resembling what I had expected. When circumstances led me to being neck-deep in a depression so thick the darkness of it completely consumed me in 2016, my mind betrayed me in to thinking there was no way out….but down. There was a brief period of time where the sharp drop off a cliff face seemed a welcome, comforting prospect. Depression is an evil beast like that.

Shocked out of the paralyzing and self-consuming pain by the suicide of a dear friend’s husband who lived just around the corner, and the nearly simultaneous unexpected death of my life-long-friend’s precious two year old boy who had everything to live for but was robbed of the chance by cancer, the world seemed shaken to it’s foundations and forced me to action. Emerging from that darkness, making heartbreaking but necessary choices to change the road our family was traveling, 2017 has become to me the Reboot of Life. There is no longer one certain tragic outcome. There is so much I am now looking forward to, there are so many good, full, beautiful days. There is so much I have surrendered in the knowledge that I’ve done my part, I’ve Loved and Lost. But that isn’t the end. There is so much I want to do and experience with my children, who also suffered greatly the last few years through nearly unbearable trials. Our family now is unrecognizable from it’s earlier form, but it is not destroyed. It is not doomed. It might be injured but it is limping, determined, towards a restructured future.

Then a friend was killed by a drunk driver last week. A  sweet, loving mother with 6 children, two of them micropreemies still in the NICU. Preemies she was driving home from visiting, holding, no doubt  she had been whispering sweet promises and encouragement to their little hearts and minds just minutes before. And in an instant, for no reason at all, she was gone.

We think we are driving the car of our Life, but where it Starts and where it Stops…….are what we have absolutely zero control over. None. All of us falling towards an end that is most assuredly there in front of us somewhere, but which we have no ability to see, predict, or avoid.

This is what kept me awake for so long after the “bad dream” had ended. (Although any dream with Prince Harry in it can’t really be all that bad, even if you’re falling inexplicably forever towards certain doom, right??)

Which parts do I have control over?

Everything in between the Start and the hard Stop.

If cancer or a drunk driver or a mass shooting or a natural disaster can push your very existence over the edge of the cliff tomorrow, what am I doing Today that matters?


“Falling dreams should never be over looked especially if they are recurring. This dream could be unconsciously hinting at our insecurities and our beliefs in life . Though all falling dreams are not always bad symbols, but indications for us to open to change that is taking place. Sometimes we need to hit rock bottom before we start a new stage. Dreams of this nature alert us to becoming more cognizant of our actions and behaviors in our life.

Time to really Wake Up.


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