Freedom

Yes, this is a cheesy Memorial Day post. I am a very sentimental and emotional gal, so anytime people begin talking of patriotism, America, the soldiers who fought for our freedom, and sacrifice, you'll probably find my eyes getting teary. I had an experience recently, though, that put it all into context. 

Friday evening, we stopped in a picturesque small town in Texas (the one famous for ice cream) and had dinner. Afterwards, we went for a walk around the town square, where a gaggle of fancily-dressed 8th graders and their parents were taking awkward pictures precluding their graduation that evening. As we commented on our own junior high years, we started to notice small plaques and memorial stones around the courthouse. There was a particular monument that caught my eye when I read the inscription. 

... and to those who gave the supreme sacrifice for our freedom...

The words "supreme sacrifice" made me stop. In a moment, I got it. It made sense. Not only am I priveleged to be an American citizen, where soldiers have literally sacrificed everything they had so I could live the way I do, but I also have a Savior that did the same. 

He gave the supreme sacrifice. Not only in His death, but His life brought me freedom as well. I literally am free from the burdens of my past because he chose to sacrifice himself. Death brought freedom. 

Someone else's sacrifice gave me freedom. 

Freedom to make choices like what I wear or what my role in society is. Freedom to worship as I did yesterday morning, in a church in downtown Houston surrounded by veterans and grandmas and southern accents. Freedom to be myself. 

Also freedom from the past. Experiences that have hurt me, choices I have made, the scars from these remain but I am left with nothing but a story. My freedom in Christ has given me a new life. A new, fresh start every morning.

The pastor ended his sermon yesterday with a question I am still pondering: "What do you do with that freedom?" My first thought was gratitude. I want to be better at being grateful for what I have. I also want to honor my freedom by being a good steward of it, not taking it lightly. There is so much I have I don't even realize. Sometimes I wonder if soldiers coming back from Afghanistan or Iraq are sad when they look at America and see what they've fought so dearly for, sometimes coming back without their best friends. Since they're the one making the sacrifice, are they proud of how we honor it? Or do we not realize how much it cost?

I'm just beginning on this journey to realize what my freedom means. I have a feeling it will be a long one, and I'll never truly figure it out, but I'm looking forward to trying. 

Happy Memorial Day, y'all.

On Being "Wife"

If you remember the movie Mona Lisa Smile, you'll remember that it was about Julia Roberts' character, who was in charge of several bright and ambitious students who were on track to change the world (in her eyes, at least). The only catch was that it was the 1950s, and as Topher Grace's character bluntly put it, his new wife having a lawyer job in the city will hardly give her time to get home to make dinner for him by 5. 

I remember watching the film with my mother on a rare mother-daughter date while I was attending college. We went to Jason's Deli afterwards and she proceeded to tell me what it was like to grow up and go to college in that same culture, where your destination after college was to get married. How articles like this one from Good Housekeeping defined the way that wives viewed their role. (In truth, the article is under much debate as to its authenticity, but nevertheless provides a glimpse of what was probably true). 

So here I am, an (almost!) 30-year old woman, recently married, in 2014. Society has changed a lot since the 1950s, and yet my first week as a wife turned out to be a flop, personally. Let me rewind. During our dating and engagement, my thoughts often went from "I can't wait to be a wife and do this for him..." to "after we're married, will he expect me to do that?!" As I should have, I was constantly seeing if our lifestyles were compatible; would I enjoy living with him? Can I see myself making a home with him? Do I want him to be the father of my children? and so on. It seemed like everything was tracking.

Somehow, once we got back from the honeymoon, I shifted into this "wife" mode, which included more of the 1950s version of the article than I could handle. It was a blend of all that I had heard and seen in my life, from my own mother, friends who were recently married, and perceived societal norms.  But it wasn't working. In short, I eventually had a breakdown where we resolved the tension of me wanting to be a good "wife" and my husband simply wanting me to be ME. Myself. Yes, be myself. That's all he wanted. He could care less if I ironed his shirts correctly or had the perfect meal ready when he got home. He just wanted me to be myself!

I'm still navigating my "wife" philosophy, but I can tell you it includes mostly my personality, wit, charm, and servant heart. In short, it's me! If I were to follow a list of rules, either from Good Housekeeping or from the society around me, it wouldn't be authentic. My husband and I have a relationship. We figure things out between us. What works for us may not work for others. And each couple has to figure out what's healthy for them. Anytime you have someone dictating rules of relationships, it becomes an irony of sorts. Isn't the point of a relationship to look at the other person and figure it out between you?

I love how our marriage is a relationship and not a formula. I love how I have the freedom to be who I am and be loved for who I am, not for what I do or how I perform. And I love that love flourishes in relationship, not in rules or guidelines. We each make our own way, so give grace to those around you, but most importantly, give it to yourself, too. 

Who is this person next to me?!

After we returned from our honeymoon, we were opening cards and gifts, and I opened one from a friend who had gotten married last year. It had some congratulatory lines, and then, "...marriage is for sure an adjustment!"

Womp womp, I thought. Well that's cheery! It's an adjustment! I was thinking more along the lines of "enjoy your happy lives together" and "it's so nice to be in love!"

She couldn't have been more right.

In the past two months, I've learned A LOT. A lot about myself, a lot about this other person that I promised a lot of things to. One thing that has been most surprising is how much this other person is all up in my BUSINESS, if you know what I mean. All of a sudden, if I'm having a bad day, they want to know why. They want to fix it. They're also there. Unlike my previous living situations, I can't just shut my bedroom door and spend time alone, sulking, eating brownie batter and watching Frozen. Not only is it hard to recognize myself that I'm having a bad day, there's someone else who wants to join in and love me through it!

But I'm having a bad day. I'm cranky. I'm not being nice to you. In fact, I'm not providing anything for you. I'm loving you incredibly poorly right now. 

I'm adjusting to the idea that there's someone who wants to love me for who I am. While that sounds amazing, it's really scary. What if they find out I'm weird? Annoying? Sometimes lack self-control? Like to eat brownie batter and watch Frozen? And then I realize that's how God loves me, for who I am. In fact, he made me the way I am, so there's no surprises with Him.

Funny how marriage has opened my eyes to the Father's love even more. What an adjustment, hard and beautiful, all at the same time. I know what my friend means now. :)

Don't Be a Hero!

{I'm back. Sorry for the hiatus. After a whirlwind of getting a new job, getting engaged, and now married, I am finally entering the world of normalcy where I have time to think and actually type out my thoughts. Bring a cup of coffee, or in my case, chai, and enjoy.}

So yesterday didn't go quite as I had planned. I'm stuck in the middle of a weekend I had reserved for recovering from sinus surgery, finding myself with all kind of free time, which I am gladly enjoying with my husband. The surgery was cancelled because concern over adequate room in my throat to pass the ventilation tube. All in all, it's a good thing, as they discovered I'm having a recurrence of subglottal stenosis (narrowing of my trachea), which they can fix on the next surgery. I'm very thankful they were cautious and did the right thing; just a little frustrated there's another bump in the process to healing.

When you have a chronic illness, it takes perseverance. You have to develop your own way of accepting the ups and downs, aches, pains, inconveniences, what-if-someone-thinks-I'm-weird, doctors visits that don't go well, and the ones that do. However we choose to deal with the chronic illness mentally, there's still an aspect of accepting what is the "normal" standard for your health. You learn that a little ache here, a little shortness of breath there is maybe just how life is going to be. It's your new normal. So when I began experiencing more shortness of breath in late February, right before my wedding, I figured it was just the "normal" that went along with my frequent sinus infections. It just became a part of my life. I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. My sinuses are shot. I will be short of breath to some degree for the rest of my life.

So as I was laying in recovery yesterday, working to listen to the anesthesiologist - (by the way, why do they do that? Don't they know you can't see and/or remember anything?) - as he discussed why my throat was so closed up he couldn't get the tubes in it, he said something I'll never forget. Somehow between the technical descriptions and pictures, I heard the phrase "Don't be a hero."

Don't be a hero.

Why would he say that? At some point yesterday afternoon, crawling through my post-anesthesia brain, I remembered that the shortness of breath I experienced in February was probably subglottal stenosis. Today, I mused that maybe I should've mentioned that, pushed my ENT to look down my throat, maybe I should've fought more. Maybe I just did't believe I'm worth fighting for.

When you suffer much, you get used to it. It's sometimes a sad truth, and after this weekend, I never want to get used to suffering again. I may have been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, but I don't have to take it. I deserve to be healthy. I deserve to have a higher quality of life than being so short of breath it takes me a whole 5 seconds to fill my lungs in between sentences. There was a point, when I was first diagnosed at the age of 18, that I allowed my family, friends, and doctors to fight for me. That can't happen anymore. I need to fight for myself. I need to stop being a hero and living with the symptoms.

To quote a popular ad campaign, because I'm worth it. And so are you.