I asked my husband once why he wanted to be in the military. His words have resounded through the years, the moves, the trials.
“I do it so that Greg doesn’t have to. So that Jeff and Mark and others don’t have to. Because it is a good thing to do.”
 
I’m writing this right now to remind myself. I need to carry that truth in this moment, because I am weary. Moving is my kryptonite, and a continental move is proving to be a whole new kind of carnival. I’m exhausted, lonely, and ready to be done.

We are going on 2+ months of ‘simple living.’ We only have the items we carried with us in our packs like tinkers (clothes, toiletries, chocolate that has since been consumed) and anything we have purchased post-arrival.

Do you see the trouble yet?
Attempting to run a household without anything in it (cleaning, making meals, entertaining children) is like trying to start a fire by rubbing together two old sticks. It might happen if you’re lucky, but most of us are just going to get a blister. And freeze.

But let me share the most ridiculous piece of joy in this mess. And I know this is a bizarre turn in this blog, but love and generosity can do so much to help a crazy displaced lady.
Edward bought me a vacuum.

A vacuum?
A vacuum.

A billion years ago, when we hardly were making enough money to pay the bills every month, my husband bought me a Roomba for an anniversary gift. For those who don’t know, it’s a vacuuming robot that goes around and cleans my house while I sip on a drink with an umbrella in it. It was fabulous, and more extravagant than I would have done for myself.
It was the best anniversary gift in the world.

We are now approaching our ten year anniversary in August.
I, half-joking as I perused Prime Day deals, said I wanted the Dyson V8 as my 10 year gift.
“Yeah? Let me see.”
He looked at the listing.
“Ok. Order it.”
Wait. What?
Hadn't he seen the price tag, even with the discount?
He had.

It came in three days (which still seems insanely fast after ordering things in Germany) and I have been dancing around with my vacuum ever since. It is light and easy and oh, so glorious. The chore potential for my children is positively heart-warming.
 
I know it seems lame that a vacuum cheers me, but is the nature of my life right now. It makes my tasks lighter. Plus I can vacuum AND hold my giant baby at the same time. It is brilliant.

So this Tuesday, I may still be feeding my 7 month old in my lap, and my kids are sleeping on air mattresses, but gosh, my house is well-vacuumed.

Small joys, right?

I go through a good number of books in a year, and a significant number of them audio. I wouldn’t be able to buy groceries while supporting this habit if I hadn’t stumbled upon the e-lending option at the public library. As I also recently discovered two avid reader friends were ignorant of this service, I want to dedicate a post to the process. It is both easy and wonderful.

Now you can make wish lists, put ebooks and audiobooks on hold, and read/listen to your heart’s content. You can even request items to be purchased that aren’t available. I typically have my phone on hand, so listening to a book while I clean or drive is cake.

I use Overdrive for my family too. My husband usually reads boring (translation: non-fiction) books, but he is currently on a fiction kick with the Master and Commander series. Edward was both buying and tearing through them until I mentioned how I could get them for free. He doesn’t even have to do anything. I just check them out and, as I use Amazon, I choose which device in which to send the loan.

No e-reader? One can still get the Kindle app on any smart phone and read right there. I’ve burned through books that way. I prefer a bigger screen, but as I’ve said before—I carry my phone with me. So it’s an easy way to read at the doctor’s office instead of throwing my time to the birds by scrolling through Facebook.

Gosh, I love the public library.
 And as my step-dad says, “If it's free, it’s for me.”

“What was it like living in Germany for 4 years?”
“Are you glad to be back?”
 
I have no simple answer for these questions. Traveling with my husband was glorious. Having my girls learn to speak a second language was fascinating. I loved the slower pace of the European culture, the Sunday family time, the gorgeous churches, the festivals for the varied seasons. Life was enjoyable, lived.

But there is a piece of Germany that has left me a motley of emotions, and I am still brewing and sorting through them. Because grief and growth are complicated. They are treasures, but tender ones. Ones that are difficult to even whisper. But I will try.

In Germany, I felt small. I was criticized regularly for not knowing the language. I often did not understand the cultural context for basic things (grocery shopping, parking, schools, eating out, how one dresses, body language, conversation) and so I felt uncomfortable and unsure. Others were irritated at me. I was a bother, a terrible inconvenience. I was seen as unintelligent because I couldn’t speak well and my grammar was painful. I embarrassed myself and looked the fool in front of the mechanic, at the mall, at the park, at church, at school meetings. I felt the part of the alien over and over.

Now do not get me wrong, I had some people be truly lovely to me. Several parents took pains to help me, I had a German language teacher go above and beyond in attempting to teach me (I did do some study), and many, especially the younger generations, did not make me feel their efforts in speaking English. They did it simply to show kindness.

But the reason why I bring up my discomfort is because I had never before been the outsider. I grew up middle class, Christian. I am a white woman who has known privilege and been relatively protected. In Germany though, I suddenly knew the experience of being ‘other.’ And it was harder than I would have ever imagined. It was sobering.
 
And it has filled me with regret over my previous attitude toward aliens.

The Hispanic kids who banded together, rattling Spanish to each other as we all attended public schools. They were different from me, right? Why would I seek them out to be friends? Or the countless times I judged the immigrants who moved to the States, not knowing English. Because if you move here you should learn it, right? It’s our national language. Other languages are unimportant anyway.
 
Yes, I blush at my insensitivity.

I had 4 years to learn a language. I didn’t have to work outside of the home, and for much of the time both of my kids were in school. But the judging eyes didn’t see my battle with depression, didn’t know my husband was gone more than he was home, didn’t see the pain of a miscarriage, didn’t see how little I had to give emotionally.
Why then, should I assume anyone else could manage an easy shift into a new culture? Why then should I expect others to not have the same soft weaknesses in their lives? To not need tenderness?
 
Why was I blind to the need for mercy? To the reality that I, most assuredly, am part of this wreck of broken humanity?

The funny thing is, the times when someone would actually show me kindness would be when I would weep the most. I needed gentleness so desperately, to not have every encounter met with criticism.
Mercy had a beautiful way of healing those hard parts of my heart, and it showed me the way I want to be, and the love I want to give.

I’m not talking about huge things. I’m talking about quiet, small acts of kindness. Saying hello, a touch of reassurance, a smile, an understanding glance, being the voice that speaks for the small. I’m just one, little person—but an attitude of respect for the ‘other’ does affect.
I felt both its lack and presence acutely.
 
I’m certain I have hundreds of other ways in which I fail to love. But I am thankful for the reminder of how blind I am, and how crucial it is to walk through life seeing others—for their sake, and for mine.

For those interested in birthing overseas…
 
Carrying a baby in Germany was roughly the same ordeal as it was in the States. I was exhausted, got dizzy when I bent over, and still needed to roll in order to evacuate my bed. Prenatal care was similar, but there were a few interesting pieces that varied:

5. Delivery
Each mama is given a laboring room. Mine was spacious and boasted of a hot tub sized laboring pool, a bed with a noose-like contraption above it for gripping, a private bathroom, a ball, mats, chairs.

I was assigned a midwife to help me and shook hands with the doctor briefly when she popped in to introduce herself. The midwife checked in regularly, but I think sweet Ingeborg read my need-for-privacy cues and made herself scarce. Translation: I rage against the person who messes with me while said baby-who-is-too-giant is catapulting through my body.
 
Shortly after arrival, assuming the baby isn’t shooting out, they administer a stress test. And then again once you are nearing the end. I may have voiced a calm and level-headed comment of feedback regarding said test shortly before pushing out Daniel.
 
Germans are not big on epidurals, but when things grew intense, the midwife offered me laughing gas. I’d heard about this and had been looking forward to laughing my way gleefully through contractions. But the gas only infuriated me. Remember, a Giant was coming, and between contractions was the only time to recover and think. The gas did nothing for the pain, but instead made me feel loopy during that brief breath of respite. I did not throw the tank against the wall, even if I may have felt the inclination.
 
I am told that Germans immediately give the babe to the mom after birth, goo and all, and let them both hang out for an hour, chest to chest. Daniel had some breathing issues so I didn’t get to see him for a bit, but I love when other moms tell me about this. It seems like such a special bonding time after the insanity of birth.

Lastly, I was instructed to sign up for group pelvic floor gymnastic classes…
I opted to look up my own exercises on Google.

As it turns out, I am still alive.
My laptop kicked the bucket and I’ve been unable to write for some time, but yes, life has been barreling forward without pause.

To start, I gave birth. Yay! The entire episode deserves a post unto itself, because birthing in Germany was…an experience. I’ll try to get to that soon, but for now I will just say that my little Daniel came. And he is wonderful.

Gosh, I’ve been enjoying him tremendously. This fact is a major relief. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was scared of having a boy. They are just different creatures, at least the ones I’ve been around.
Sound effects, wildness, vehicular toys, any item doubling as a weapon? I don’t get it. But it turns out I don’t have to understand a boy to love him.
And I am straight drunk on love for this little man.

Did I mention he came with hair?
Oh my joy.

I have another admission. The thought of a third had seemed daunting to me. I was scared I wouldn’t have enough to give—that I’d be haggard, harried, worn. I’m an introvert and need serious alone time in order to function. And I want to be happy and whole, giving to my family from a good place. It took a solid spoonful of courage to trust when I felt called to another kid. I’m not saying things are perfect, or that I don’t have my moments, but love is really helping. Again, drunk on love. This boy is such a consolation to me.

And 3 weeks ago, it actually happened. We said goodbye to Germany, hopped into a plane, then another, and then another. A billion hours later we landed in California and went straight to the beach. Ha. Just kidding. We crawled into hotel beds, some of us crying, and slept until the baby roused us at 2am, singing and ready to start a new day.

Motivated to not live in a single room any longer than necessary, we managed to buy a car, get cell phone numbers, and move into a duplex all in just a handful of days. We are essentially camping in an empty place for another month until our stuff arrives, but it is so fabulous to have doors again. Sleep is far more feasible when we have separate rooms. And that is a win and a half.

Basically things are good. Ups and downs like everyone. Teething, paper plates, sleeping bags, a single knife and pan for all food prep. But also wonderful new neighbors, amazing weather, free water when I dine, seeing the ocean, American milkshakes.

It isn’t easy to leave Germany. I don’t know if I can ever adjust to facing the choice of 300 tubes of toothpaste at Target. Or swallowing how expensive good chocolate is.
But I am back, eager to see friends and family. And it will be a delight to not use Google Translate on every single informational sheet sent home by a teacher.
And truly, California ain't such a terrible place.

Today is the National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. 

Please know that if you have lost a baby, or have grieved the loss of another's child, you are not alone.
It is a suffering far too common, despite the silence that surrounds us.

I lost my John last year, and the pain was something to which I can hardly give words.
Other children, while not from my womb, have also been lost and grieved. Agnes, Joseph. And more.

To those who have walked this path, I offer you my sorrow, my compassion.
I wish every person could be spared this pain.
 
I will never forget the gift, however brief, these children were and will remain to be.

Things here have been good. I've been steadily expanding (now to 3rd trimester!) and the babe appears healthy and strong. I've been nostalgic and more, knowing we leave Germany in the Spring. Everything about Europe seems even more magical in that light. It has certainly been a fabulous adventure.

Edward has been busy and more, and the girls began school anew in September, but we still managed to squeeze in quite a bit of travel before that. 
 
​I hope to still go back and share some of those trips with you. For now though, I will start with Malta.

Edward has been fascinated with Malta for years, enamored with both its history (its place in WWII as well as the Knights of Malta) and strong Catholicism. He told me he wanted to retire there, and as neither of us had ever even stepped foot onto the little island, I was less than enthused…

​Now? Ha.
Now, we have been three times since coming here in 2014.
I doubt it would take much enticing to get me to pack my bags and enroll in language classes.

​Previously, we have stayed in Valletta, the old castle city, but this time we opted for a beach vacation down in Marsaskala. Our little rental apartment turned out to be perfect. We were easily a 6-7-minute walk to the water, in the shadow of a Catholic church, and close to restaurants and produce stands.
​Every day we strolled down to the ocean, and every day I felt peace ease back into my bones.

Clare's birthday fell during the trip and we decided to celebrate with a boat day. The lady would live on a boat if given her way. Needless to say, she was ecstatic.
We packed up food, rented a vessel, and took to the seas. We toured about the coast, snorkeling and swimming through the various areas that intrigued us. This was easily my favorite day. The water was clear, the fish were abundant, and somehow none of us burned under the generous rays.
​Sun, sea, smiles. Gorgeous. 

Another day, Edward drove us (British style on the left side of the road, with stick shift for the left hand!) to the Blue Lagoon. We swam and played in the clear, deep water. It was glorious. Edward even jumped in from the cliffs while Clare peeked over the side nervously. We picnicked and lounged, content to the core.

And now, returning to Germany, I’ve been washed in thanksgiving.
​I had needed time with my family, I had needed relaxation in the ocean, but even more, I had needed spiritual hunger again. I’d been drying up it seems. 

Years ago, on my first trip to Malta, I had a tongue-silencing spiritual encounter that has since rooted me to the island. Someday, perhaps I will write about it.

This time, while being gentle and subtle, I again felt the Spirit stirring in me, reminding me of what I love and desire: Christ, the Eucharist, the Church.
​It made me feel like me again, my mind no longer just an unending list of tasks and unspoken anxieties.
It has been beautiful, and I am grateful. And happy.

​Malta has my heart, for it has a way of steering my soul back to where it needs to be.  Where is has joy.

If blogging had been a subject in school, I would have never graduated.
 
I haven’t written much (blogging or otherwise) since my miscarriage because I have been focusing more on breathing and finding joy again. I am astonished that so many drink the cup of child loss and carry on with such strength—and often in silence. I have hardly functioned even while speaking about it.

After months of prayer and therapy and work, I had found that I'd grasped again a semblance of sanity. (Please feel free to contact me if you are interested in ways I found healing, especially if you’re in a similar position.) I approached Easter so thankful I was more myself. And the very week that would have been my due date for baby John, I discovered I was again pregnant.

I was overjoyed, but I will not deny it: the early weeks were agonizing—and not simply because first trimester is miserable. Every morning I wished the days forward. I checked my calendar in spare moments, aching and afraid. I clutched for hope, trying to trust that all would be okay, but I also was no longer naïve; I have seen how precariously fragile life is.
​Even my daughters looked doubtful when we told them the news. It was as if in their silence, the words hung unspoken between us: We’ve done this before. We know what will come.

​Passing 13 weeks was relieving and helped turn a page for our entire family.
And then came my favorite part: finding out the sex. I absolutely love finally knowing something about the alien growing inside me. We were shocked (all of us had assumed it to be another girl), and celebrated the surprise with a family party.

And that is where I have been. Maybe, just maybe, I will be able to write again soon. I have several projects I would love to get back to. But honestly? Every morning I rise, making grandiose plans for myself… and then 9am hits. So until then, do know I’m forever thankful for your support, even when I must nap instead of stringing together sentences.

​I’ve been exhausted recently. Edward started a new job, and between his long hours and travel I have been solo parenting for the better part of a month. I noticed it especially this week—the edginess, the short-temper. I needed a break.
 
But that is the problem with a demanding career. When Edward gets home, he is exhausted too. He needs sleep, relaxation, and often just gets sick because the stress is unending. There’s not a lot of space for reprieve for either of us.

Today, he flew back into Germany from the States. He missed his next connection and had to train the rest of his way home. He then went straight to the office for an entire work day. I knew he must be wiped. To top it off, he had a mandatory dinner work function in the evening.  I likely wouldn't see him until I was crawling into bed.

Late afternoon, I took the girls to swimming lessons. We are about a twenty-minute walk and I like not driving. Except as were leaving, I saw the rain.
​It was Sound of Music rain. The kind that is heavy, unrelenting. 

​Edward showed up, collected us, delivered us home, and turned around again. He was late to his dinner and didn’t get home until after 9pm.
 
But I was incredibly touched. I’ve been running on survival mode and I know he has been too. Yet still, Edward thought of me. It made me remember that even when one is exhausted and run down, one can still show love. In fact, it is an even more remarkable generosity when one has so little.

And gosh, I needed to be reminded of that.

I may have watched this roughly 40 times in the last 3 days. 
My girls are overjoyed with each viewing.
It is pretty delightful.