I’ve just started Frances Mayes’ Under the Tuscan Sun, a summer gift from my mom who has fallen in love all over again after reading it for the second time.

I’ve never been to this area of Italy. The only Italy I’ve seen is Sicily. Steve and I took a military rotator flight over when we were living in Bahrain. With only five days to explore, we just stayed in Sicily and ate calamari and drank liters of red table wine. I have a snapshot-memory of Steve bodysurfing in the Mediterranean like a boy. Another of us rooting through tiles in a pottery shop. And then two dinners come to mind – one on a deck jutting out over the ocean and another in a courtyard walled in with an ochre wall that was perfect at dusk.

Mayes ushers me back to those memories. I love how a good book can do that.

She also makes me long for a farmhouse to restore, land to walk, old brick floors, stone walls, fruit trees, olives, and a vineyard. Imagine that being your life. Astounding.

I like reading about how she is fixing up this old home and its land, the restoration and resurrection of the property a metaphor for the transformation that takes place in the self when we put our hands in the dirt and stack stones and prune fig trees (figuratively or literally).

I love how taking on a project helps us feel alive, how it changes us in the process of getting the work done. Creating, beautifying, rebuilding are each such profound healers. So, in lieu of not having a dilapidated farmhouse in the wings, I think about the projects I do have, the God-given projects. I think about the things I need to sink my hands and heart into in order to stay alive.

The inertia of life can too quickly pull us toward numbness, paralysis, despair. I loathe that reality. So I try to push back in my own small ways. What has God given me to restore, beautify, redeem, remake, create?

I write a paragraph or two.  Nothing finished. Just something. The act of participating in my own life puts blood in my veins.

Priming the pump. Pruning the vines. Washing the windows. Digging the well. Perking the coffee. Breathing the basil.

May we all have the courage to participate in life in real and meaningful ways! May we all have the courage and vision to take the old, falling down farmhouses and turn them into mini-masterpieces.

Oh! Teach us to live well!

Teach us to live wisely and well!

And let the loveliness of our Lord, our God, rest on us,

confirming the work that we do.

Oh, yes.

Affirm the work that we do!

–Psalm 90

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Steve and I were able to get away – ALONE – for about 24 hours this past weekend. A true luxury. We didn’t have any plans or reservations, so we just drove up the coast a little ways and stopped in one of my very favorite beach communities. Carlsbad isn’t impossibly upscale like La Jolla or Del Mar, it’s not overrun and overpriced like Coronado, and it’s not this big scene like Pacific Beach. To me, it’s charming. Unique restaurants, eclectic shops, miles of beach. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

Steve and I decided to do something very healing for body and soul. We went to an oceanfront restaurant and shared a plate of King Crab legs. My kind of wellness program. I sat staring out at the dolphins surfacing in the ocean while he cracked and retrieved every last bit of crab. We talked about the future and how many things feel cloudy right now. We talked about the places in our life where we need to act and the places where we need to wait.

The next morning we went to a local joint for breakfast and Steve read to me while we ate chorizo and juevos rancheros. Steve was reading Donald Miller’s newest, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. I read it when it released, but I loved having it read to me over breakfast and being reminded of the importance of living a better story. A simple message with profound implications.

After breakfast we walked on the beach and talked about the future more, how we might add some life and risk to our story. I loved having time and space to really talk and process and consider with Steve. We talked about my writing career and what’s clarifying in that realm. We talked about the 50K race he’s running this fall (barefoot!). We talked about the Navy and how the remainder of Steve’s career might unfold.

We came home to Lane’s sinus infection. Isn’t that the way it works! Regardless of the mayhem that is our home currently, I’m still feeling very grateful for that little blip of time to disappear and walk on the beach and breathe a bit.

I’m entering into a summer lull of sorts, recovering from a busy first-half of the year and planning for the fall.  Thank you to those of you who invited me to your churches, organizations, and events over the last few months. It’s been amazing to talk with so many of you about life’s foreign places and the beauty that just might be waiting for us even in the most unfamiliar of landscapes. Thank you for seeking transformation and for desiring to live openly and authentically. We’ve had some valuable conversations, haven’t we.

I’m looking forward to what God may have for me in the fall. If you have a church or group near you who would like me to come talk about some of the themes in Found Art, please leave a comment or email me at leeana@gypsyink.com.

I’ll leave you with a short-list of what I’m looking forward to this summer:

1. My family coming to visit in July.
2. A beach vacation in August.
3. Working on a proposal for book #2.
4. Prosecco by the pool.
5. Speaking at my home church, Flood, on July 4.
6. Swim lessons with two 18-month-olds. Nuts.
7. Reading voraciously.
8. Celebrating the upcoming arrival of Tina and Amie’s babies.
9. Spending some QT with my mom while she’s on summer break from school.
10. Seeing E,P,L, the movie.

Of course, now you have to post your looking-forward-to list . . .

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I left off the “happy” from the title of this post because “Happy Memorial Day” just doesn’t seem exactly right. More like, “Poignant Memorial Day.” A more accurate sentiment.

Steve and I took the babies to Fort Roscrans this morning, the national cemetery on Point Loma that overlooks all of San Diego on one side and then out across the ocean on the other. We waited in a long line of cars and tolerated the protests from our back seat even though we knew we’d probably only stay a few minutes once we were there.

We finally pulled off onto the shoulder, into the makeshift parking lot that was forming on the side of the road, and we loaded the babies into the stroller and took off up the hill.

Instead of participating in the parade or enjoying all the military bands, we just walked straight to Marc’s grave. We didn’t really discuss our plans ahead of time. I guess we both sort of knew, an unspoken consent, why we had decided to make the trip.

Marc was the first Navy SEAL killed in combat in Iraq. Because Steve was assigned to his widow immediately after she had been notified of Marc’s death, we feel a sense of connection to them. I wrote about the entire story in chapter 22 “Mourning” of Found Art, but it was all fresh again today.

Marc was killed in 2006. Today, just shy of four years later, we stood in front of his grave while our two children ran in the flag-studded grass around us. Our babies wanted so badly to pick up the empty bottle of Jack Daniels someone had leaned against his headstone, or the five gold SEAL Tridents that were lined up on top, or the wreath of flowers with the flag in front, or the vase of flowers leaning against the left side. All evidence that family and teammates had visited.

We picked up the babies and held them so none of the tributes that had been left would be disturbed. We talked about “Mr. Marc” briefly and then loaded the babies back into the stroller and walked back to the car.

It was a simple moment—pulling out fruit sticks to bribe our kids to sit still—and yet it was filled with thousands of words neither of us could ever say.

Each headstone a representation of someone killed in their 20s or 30s. Each headstone a reminder of the gravity of war. Each headstone a tragic loss. Each headstone, Marc’s headstone, a reminder of the worst fear turned true. And they go on and on and on as far as you can see.

As usual, I am suffocated by it all, and yet going seems so necessary. Acknowledging the reality of my husband’s service, the reality of the war that still rages, feels necessary. Taking our kids feels necessary. How could we possibly let today pass by without honoring what we have been through?

Today, we remember those who have died fighting for our freedom. Though war is indeed a complicated endeavor, today we acknowledge the great courage of those in the fight. Today, we remember Marc and his widow Maya, and we allow a sense of sorrow to sit with us knowing that Marc’s young and promising life—just like far too many others—was tragically and prematurely ended. I feel both deeply proud and deeply grieved by today.

I am honored to know men like these, to be married to one of them. I am honored to know those who possess an undying desire to bring hope to our beautiful children, bring voice to those who have been long silenced, bring relief to our bankrupt world.

May we all find the courage to join in such a fight.

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This says it all:

Last night, after we put the babies down (after I had rocked Luke for some time because he had slipped in the bath tub and knocked the heck out of us head and lay there flat on his back, naked, screaming, looking up at me with terror in his eyes and that look that says, “why did you let this happen to me”), we put the blue suitcase on the bed and I took out all my clothes from my trip to Nor Cal last week where I spoke to a so-lovely group of women from Menlo Park Pres, and Steve began loading his clothes into the bag for his week-long trip. Revolving suitcase.

At about 6 this morning, I was back in Luke’s room, back in the rocking chair (I’m wondering if a splitting headache was what woke him up so early) rocking my getting-big-boy back to sleep when Steve snuck in and kissed me a silent kiss goodbye so that Luke wouldn’t stir.

“Bye, babe,” I mouthed to him silently and we both just kind of smiled, knowing that you always do whatever it takes to avoid waking a baby.

When Steve had been gone an hour or so, and the rest of us had a bit more sleep, I loaded the babies into the car and headed to Target for an Americano (there are few things that speak to my heart more completely than a Starbucks inside a Target), VeggieTales, and a frozen pizza for dinner tonight.

While in Target: Lane almost swallowed her faux-flower hair clip, Luke dropped ¼ of a banana which I promptly rolled over with the cart, Steve called on a layover, both babies wore me down until I took them out of their harnesses and let them loose in the main part of the cart, and I almost started taking shots of whatever they were selling on Aisle 9. Like a troop of wild animals, the wake behind us was resplendent with foodstuffs and ruined displays.

As I was checking out, the Target employee says with great concern, “Uh, ma’am, she’s about to fall out of the cart.” Lane has one of her legs pitched up and over the side and she’s trying to figure out how to shift her weight so she can dismount the cart. Of course, I’m not supposed to have a child (let alone both of my children) standing in the main part of the cart. Very dangerous.

So I grab Lane before there’s an incident, and with both of my children “complaining,” I slide my credit card with my free hand.

The Target employee ends our time together with, “Are they always such a handful?”

I keep Lane in one arm and with the other lamely steer the cart out into the parking lot with Luke at the helm. We hit a bump and my car keys hit the ground while I’m in the crosswalk. I wedge my foot behind the wheel of the cart (so it doesn’t roll away) and bend down and grab the keys as Lane throws her head back thinking it’s all a game. A man in a sedan waits for me to do this whole song and dance.

It was an unglamorous morning.

I often feel like the rest of the world is clipping along in synchronized goodness, and we (me and my handful children) are the clumsy barnacles on the broad side of humanity, dropping keys and spilling coffee and launching out of shopping carts.

Today, some sliver of grace has presented itself out of nowhere, and I can actually just smile and say, “Oh, well.”

For that reason, and that reason alone, today is a total success.

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Thought you might enjoy reading a guest column I did for www.wivesoffaith.org, a fantastic website that provides support and inspiration to military wives and families.

The Slipper Slope of Coping

I talked with a Navy wife the other day. She has five children, and her husband is preparing for his fourth deployment. I asked her how she was handling it all, and she coolly (read: defensively) told me she was doing “just fine.”

She added that she gets so frustrated when military wives struggle with their situation. “We knew what we were getting into when we signed up for this marriage. We have no right to complain.”

I stared back at her, somewhat pained, knowing she was not doing “just fine” and fairly sure she had made the mistake many of us make, which is to simply dismiss any kind of honest confession for complaining.

Some of us have gotten good, maybe even too good, at coping. We steel ourselves into this pillar of strength, and we challenge anything to penetrate our armor. Meanwhile, we may or may not be feeling that same way on the inside, underneath our self-protective layers.

The problem with practicing this kind of incongruence—the outside and the inside at odds with each other—is that we get used to living split off from our true selves. We become accustomed to denying what’s actually going on inside us, and this creates a person who cannot be honest about her pain, cannot let others see her weakness, and cannot tolerate any kind of authentic struggle in others.

This woman sends the subtle (or not so subtle) message to her friends and to her children that the real winners are those who suck it up and deal with it and never let anyone see them sweat.

How incredibly isolating this behavior becomes for everyone. Yes, others may see us as amazingly stalwart, but they will never see us approachable. This keeps everyone dancing around each other at a safe distance, never really able to offer help and support. How sad! All of us in need, and yet none of us able to access our own emotions or each other’s.

So how do we decipher between complaining and true confession? Complaining is all about staying stuck, rehearsing the injustices with no desire to see things differently, change behavior, or receive support. Complaining is about wallowing and whining, unconcerned with growth, maturity, or transformation.

Confessing is something different altogether. Honest confession is an externalizing of an inward conversation for the purpose of gaining insight, releasing a burden, or admitting reality.Confession leads to movement and helps us get out of the grind of merely coping. It opens doors to growth and change because it is an act of congruence. By externalizing—sharing—our true state of affairs, we are better able to identify what we need and how we might be able to engage in some simple acts of self-care.

So, let me practice what I’m preaching.

If you were to ask me how I’m doing with 17-month old twins, a Navy SEAL husband who is in and out on travel, and the delicate situation of all of us living with my mother in her house, I would tell you the following:

“I’m tired. I’m trying to be honest about how exhausted I feel and, instead of pushing myself all the time (read: punishing myself for not doing my life better), I’m slowing down when I can.”

What does that slowing down look like? Glad you asked.

“I’ve started yoga twice a week. I’m taking naps when my kids nap. I’m reading more and watching TV less. All of these things are good for the soul. In addition, I’m trying to figure out some fun things my family can do together when my husband is home because we need more fun in our lives right now.” Then I might add, “So, tell me what you do to take care of yourself in the midst of this stressful life? And what do you do for fun as a family? I could use some suggestions.”

And then you might offer me some great ideas of how you and your family are getting through the ever-changing days of military life.

Beautiful, huh.

Isn’t that so much better than, “just fine”?

(BTW, I really would love to know how you take care of yourself and how you create fun for your family. So post a comment and share the wealth!)

Leeana Tankersley

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