War

My brother-in-law, Tim, deploys to Afghanistan in three days. It is his third deployment since President George W. Bush declared war on Iraq and subsequently Afghanistan. Our military is exhausted. Our military families are exhausted. Our military bases are depleted.

Souls are weary. Families are broken. Lives are falling through the cracks.

God how I long for the day when humans stop destroying each other.

3,000 men and women from his base are gone.

Gone.

It's a ghost town of wives and babies and kids and chaplains trying to keep it all together.

And it's getting harder to keep it all together.

I am tired of this war. And I am tired of watching so many strong women (men) fight the war back home in their husband's (wives) absence.

Tim will be gone for 14 months.

While Melissa and Tim have a peace right now that passes all logical understanding...

they have been on an emotional roller coaster.

They have been trying to get pregnant for well over a year.

You know.

Or maybe you don't.

Can any of us really understand the intensity these families are living under?

Trying so hard to get pregnant  before he leaves, because truthfully -it's always there- the worst case scenario tucked away somewhere in the back of your mind.

What if he never comes home?

Trying so hard to not be stressed about getting pregnant before he leaves because, you can't make a baby happen.

And, maybe you don't even want to? I mean, what would it be like to give birth without your husband being around? To grow a tiny, kicking, squirrely little baby alien in your belly and have no daddy to whisper to it?

Trying so hard to sleep through the night, because the nightmares of someone in uniform showing up at your door with "the news" keeps you awake for months on end.

Trying so hard to trust that your wife will be taken care of in the arms of her friends and family; that if she were pregnant your baby would grow to love you even though it had never heard your voice or felt your touch; trying so hard to live in hope and not fear; trying so hard to get everything in order before you leave.

Trying so hard to enjoy the moments you have and not think about the unknown that lies ahead.

They have been preparing for this moment for almost a year. A year ago we knew he would deploy. Each month crept closer and closer and the curse that we refused to name got nearer and nearer. But now it is here. And I feel my heart almost stopping.

War. Tim. My sister's husband. A man we love. A friend. A buddy. Camouflage. Helicopter rides through the desert. A machine gun. IED's. Radical extremists. Third time. Really, third time? It's like we're basically begging for these men and women to not come home... teasing fate or something. No one should have to be in war three times. No wife should have to endure that. No child. No family. No man or woman on the field. And yet, these men and women are three and four times deep into deployments.

Thoughts rush my mind and my heart swells and I pray a prayer that makes no sense... God protect Tim.

Knowing it must grieve God's heart when any person dies in battle and believing that God does not interfere with IED's and machine guns; I have to believe that death in war is not God's plan for any one's life.

War was not the plan.

Death was not the plan.

Not the original one.

But you still pray. You pray for miracles. And peace. And protection. And you beg God for mercy. And you trust. Not always knowing exactly what it is you are trusting. But you trust, because God's peace that doesn't make any sense starts oozing into you. Something becomes calm. Centered. You trust that no matter what happens...

there is always hope.

And maybe that is why we pray for protection. Maybe God does perform a few miracles in the desert. Or maybe war is just war, and while some miracles happen, often times- there aren't many miracles in war. Maybe God is just there, walking through the valley of the "shadow of death"  alongside His children. Still, we pray- fearfully begging for miracles of protection- but mostly we pray because when we get past those initial prayers of fear, we desperately need to find ourselves connected to the heart of Jesus.

Our healer.

The only One who can make sense in the chaos we have created.

We need Him. And we need to be deeply rooted in His message.

Our God is with us. Emmanuel.

Jesus drew near to the weak, weary, and broken. He seemed to be on a perpetual mission of finding the sick, and putting a balm on their soul.

We need peace that makes no sense. We need water when our souls are dried up. We need a firm foundation.

When everything you love leaves on the back of a C-130... and your foundation shakes like the tremors of an earthquake-

His rod and staff will comfort you. He will lead you beside still waters. He will restore your soul. He will fill your cup. And though the world may give way... you can safely dwell in His house.

Melissa is pregnant.

they found out a few weeks ago.

Tim will be gone for 14 months.

Four months after she delivers their sweet baby.

I've said it before and will say it again and again and again: thank you, thank you, thank you to all who serve and the families who persevere back home. Your sacrifice is inspiring and beautiful. In the midst of war, we draw near to Jesus, the deliverer. The giver peace. We pray for miracles- but more than that- we pray because the Lord is our refuge.

Do you have a loved one who is deployed? Please put their name and any specifics about their family in the comments section.  At the beginning of next week, I will compile the list and turn it into a blog, which anyone can then print off and use to faithfully pray for your loved one.

Do you know an organization that supports military families? Please leave a link in the comment section. I will compile those into a blog next week as well.

Finally...

If you have any family or friends at Schofield Barracks in Hawaii- please let them know I will be doing a FREE show on the base, May 10th at 9:00 a.m. in the chapel. Military families from any base on the island are welcome to attend and free childcare is included!

Stories: A Journey of Hope and Redemption

Free acoustic concert and worship with Jenny Simmons from Addison Road

honoring the military families on the island of Honolulu

May 10th, 2011 Schofield Barracks

9:00 a.m.

Sponsored by Women of the Chapel

Warning Signs

I adhere to the universal signal of flashing my lights so that oncoming drivers know there is a cop running radar ahead.

I do this because I believe in the universal theme of being warned.

(Though, yes dad, I suppose the posted signs are fair warning enough).

I can’t stand it when I have passed 29 miles of bumper to bumper- kids out on the median playing frisbee- truck drivers have called it a night and abandoned their rigs to smoke a cigarette with other drivers- woman’s having a baby on the side of the road- highway is shut down until Easter- kind of traffic and I know that I have no way of telling the poor unsuspecting drivers headed into this nightmare to STOP.

“STOP. TURN AROUND. EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO DIVERT THROUGH CANADA OR BACK TRACK A STATE OR TWO Or ABANDON YOUR CAR AND HIKE, TRUST ME… YOU DO NOT WANT TO GO THIS WAY!”

There really should be a universal signal to let people know there is upcoming traffic the same way there’s a signal for letting people know a cop is hiding in a bush past the next intersection with his radar gun. It’s just the proper, kind-loving thing to do.

I have tried creating a new signal.

I really have. I sit in the front seat and stare at the people with bulging, terrified eyes (which Ryan says will get me confused for a kidnapping victim if I’m not careful) and I wave my hands back and forth and mouth out the word S*T*O*P* and NOOOO.

(This is a practice I swore I would never do because, as I have explained numerous times to my mom, “MOM that’s embarrassing. Nobody knows what you are saying when you are mouthing to them from a different car. You just look like a crazy lady. Even if you are using hand signals at the neglect of your own steering wheel and giving them a thumbs up and vigorously shaking your head to tell them that you like their license plate or their dog is cute or making the pumping motion so they know their gas knob is opened or their kid is hanging out the back window. They honest to God don’t know what you’re saying).

But there I am in the front seat and I am terribly concerned about getting the message out that people need to turn around.

Ideally, in a perfect world, I would have my own public announcement system attached to the roof of my car along with bright pink flashing lights and an LED screen that gives people a fair warning that they’d rather hear finger nails scratching a chalkboard and then have to floss their teeth with big sheets of aluminum foil than continue on.

Ideally, in a perfect world, they would then nod their heads at me and raise one hand off the steering wheel in a friendly wave of human camaraderie, the way my Papaw would greet every single car that drove by him whether they paid any attention to him or not; and cars would turn around in droves. Because that’s what happens in a perfect world… someone gives you a warning.

Everyone wants a heads up right?

That’s why we have websites like Tripadvisor.com and other outlets that allow us to shoot straight with each other. And while I am quite sure there are a lot of people out there with pent up anger that turn to these online sites to spew rage, seek justice for their product gone bad, or dish out their passive aggressive opinions, in the beginning these online sites began as useful warning tools for the public.

Don’t go here, go there.

We have signs on the highway that tell us ‘20 minutes of traffic from this point on’. Signs at Six Flags that tell us how long we have to wait to get on the roller coaster. The GPS gives us the ETA. We have a count down for Christmas. We take numbers at the deli so we can constantly gauge what is coming next: number 29. Pastrami on rye. Number 28. Tuna. I only have to wait through 7 more orders. We even get a countdown at the DPS. Seven more miserable people in front of me before I go pay the state money to take a really bad picture that will haunt me for years. Still, something about knowing how many people are in front of me and watching the numbers disappear on the screen makes the whole thing bearable.

I think in general we can take the blows if you just shoot it to us straight.

Six months of chemo? Twelve? Ok. I can do it.

My company is putting me up at a shoddy hotel for two months? Ok. I can do it.

We have to live on a budget this year? Ok. I can do that.

27 minutes before I get to my exit five miles down the street? Ugghh. Annoying. But at least there is an end in sight. A goal. A set your eyes on the prize. At least there is a warning. And I am convinced, with warnings we can weather anything. (Because it makes us feel like we have some control.)

But it’s the unknown road that I seem to be on lately.

The road feels desolate. There are no road signs, no mile markers, no countdown clocks, warning signs, no websites where well meaning people can tell me what to expect. No girl with an announcement system, pink flashing lights, and an LED screen on her car that says, “Warning: Hell is straight ahead of you. Turn around.”

And maybe that’s good, because I’d take the road to Canada and forget the original plan all together. I’d go somewhere safe. Somewhere with lots of bright lights and police officers and countdown clocks and warning signs. I’d take the easy road and not look back.

People have said a lot of amazing things about Ryan and I this week. How we have encouraged them to keep going in the midst of their own trials. How we have been a part of renewing their faith because we are what it looks like to persevere under fire (literally). How we will be blessed for not quitting and how we are doing this amazing thing for God. And I just want to say, “thanks, but no thanks.”

I can’t be anyone’s poster child for what a warrior looks like.

There’s an old song by an artist named Twila Paris that has always stuck in my heart and the chorus says:

“People say that I’m amazing, strong beyond my years. But they don’t see inside of me, I’m hiding all my tears. They don’t know that I go running home when I fall down. They don’t know who picks me up when no one is around. I drop my sword and cry for just a while. Cause deep inside this armor, the warrior is a child.”

The warrior is a child.

That’s me.

Put me on a highway without warning signs and throw some curveballs… like a fire that takes away my favorite pajama pants, my daughter’s only embroidered baby gifts from her baby showers, and my new make-up, and you will see me fall apart.

My vision is limited.

My faith hangs on by threads.

My endurance for roads deplete of road signs is waning.

My mind tells me to go home. Go to a place where warning signs are a part of everyday life and the next step is always, mostly certain.

And then my God, that voice that speaks quietly to me, that is constant even when the Bible seems to make little sense, Christians seem to embarrass me, and I wonder if I’ve made it all up… even in the midst of my small, defeated faith, my God who is very real and very near to me shows up on the plane ride from Atlanta to Chicago… on Sunday, when I am very much missing being in a place where I can worship.

The sky is beautiful. The clouds are puffy like marshmallows and the sparkly blue-sky dances on as far as my eyes can see. I am lost in the beauty of this perfect day. And yet minutes later, as we descend through the clouds I realize that Chicago is wet and nasty. The sky is full of dark clouds and the city looks dreary from 20,000 feet.

And I hear His voice. “You want to tell them it’s a beautiful day today? It is, isn’t it?”

That was it. Nothing booming or profound, just a single thought that God clearly floated through my mind and into my heart. It might be rainy in Chicago today, but it is beautiful 33,000 feet above Chicago. The sun is out and shining… even if they can’t see it.

There’s your warning sign Jenny. You don’t know the scope of what is going on in a single moment. Your eyes cannot see it. Your mind cannot perceive it. No clock can tell you. No estimated time of arrival. No game plan. No warning. No weather channel can tell you that it is miserable on the ground but beautiful above the clouds.

Your vision is limited. But mine is not.

You have to trust me.

You have to trust that.

The road is not desolate. There will always be a warning sign… because I see what you cannot see. And I give the signs. The warning signs that tell you no matter what the road looks like on the ground, there’s something else going on beyond your vision. And detouring to Canada won’t change anything.

It’s cloudy in Chicago today baby.

But the skies are dancing and I am watching them. I see.

I can give you your warning signs… trust me.

Week One of the Tour

Monday: Annie and I are with my parents in Albuquerque. The guys are supposed to leave Dallas at 9:00 a.m. on the RV. We rented the RV from an amazing couple who saw that we were in need of a vehicle for this tour and offered to let us rent theirs for a ridiculously low price.

The RV won't start. The guys don't leave Dallas until 6 p.m. The RV might not like us. They drive to the border of Texas and New Mexico.

Tuesday: The guys cross the border and the RV starts acting up. By late morning the RV has broken down again.

Tuesday afternoon: The RV is up and running, only a short circuit. They are in Albuquerque by late afternoon and we practice with our tour drummer, Richard. Tuesday night after dinner the RV won't start for the second time that day. We wiggle a wire around, and it starts.

Wednesday: We play the first show in Albuquerque!

Thursday: Leave for Phoenix. Somewhere in the straight desert the RV starts topping off at 40 mph and the whole interior reeks of diesel fuel. Annie is coughing. We are all feeling gross and fumy. Makes you a little nauseous after a while. We make it to Flagstaff. We need to get this thing checked out. A guy comes out to fix our RV. I call a local church and explain that because we are all Christians they are morally obligated to please come pick us up from this truck stop and give us a place in their church to crash for a few hours :). Not quick thinking... I saw my mom do this on youth trips when we were broken down with 300 students. I stole the idea. They promise to get us as soon as we need them.

Thursday afternoon: We head to Cracker Barrel for lunch. The RV man will fix it in their parking lot. Gotta love Cracker Barrel parking lots. We finish lunch. RV is fixed. We think. But as our driver Brandon begins his test drive the entire RV stops running on the side of the road. It is dead, dead. 1:oo p.m. We play in Phoenix at 8. This won't be fixed in time for the show, we need to rent cars and drive to Phoenix. The bus can meet us tomorrow. The random church, Christ's Church of Flagstaff, comes to pick up the boys and bring them to the airport.

Thank you Thank you Thank you Kathy and Christ's Church!

Me and Annie crash at Cracker Barrel. She is getting bugs and diseases from the floor... I am sure of it. We are on this floor for over an hour. She never cries once. She is a trooper.

The guys get back with the rental cars. We pack just enough clothes to get us through the night. We leave everything else we own on the RV and travel to Phoenix. We get there at 6pm. The show starts at 8 pm. This was a crazy long day but a great time with our Phoenix fans. And, I got to meet Stacey, a faithful blog reader who showed up with a bag full of girl gifts... she is perhaps my soul mate!

Friday morning: The RV is still in Flagstaff. It will not be ready in time to pick us up in Phoenix and drive us to Las Vegas. So we keep the rental cars and start driving. We have a show at 8 pm and a five hour drive. The drive is beautiful. We take time to stop and let Annie stretch and see her first cactus. She loves it. We get to Las Vegas without any hiccups. A welcome relief after two entire days of exhausting break downs and car trips with a ten month old. Brandon calls to say that they have fixed the RV, he is headed to Vegas and we will have our stuff and our vehicle back in a few hours. Whew... the worst is behind us.

Never say that people. It's like a challenge for the negative forces of the world to come after you. Brandon calls...

"Ryan the RV is on fire. I've tried two fire extinguishers. I can't contain it. Oh *&$# (expletive) it's exploding. There are explosions. I have to go."

The initial picture. The final picture. I guess it takes the fire department a while when you are in the freaking desert.

Friday night: Ryan breaks the news as soon as he gets it at dinner. The RV is on fire. The details continue to pour in. This isn't a grease fire. Not a small fire. This is huge. A huge fire. We get the call that everything is destroyed.

Mind you, I packed the entire contents of our apartment (besides furniture and appliances) and moved into this RV. Every piece of clothes Annie owns. All her toys. Her DVDS. Enough diapers and formula for two months. Every piece of clothing Ryan and I owned. Our shoes. Undies. Toiletries. Most of the new make-up :(. All of the new clothes we just got for free from our photo shoot. Books. Bibles. Food. New appliances for the RV. Vacuum cleaner. Coffee pot. Humidifiers. Baby Monitors. And then everything in the trailer. Sound board. the 4,000 t-shirts we just ordered (basically the only way we make money on the road...) all of our merchandise, new hats, new bags, suitcases, guitars, amps... everything.

We have lost everything.

As it rushes through my head, I have what I think is as close to a clinical breakdown as I have ever had :) I am on my face crying in a dark nursery. I am going to go home now. really. Truly. Tonight will be my last show Lord. I will not live like this and put my daughter through this and my husband through this kind of living anymore. I cannot take another blow. Another rapid. I can't do this. I call my pastor. Jackie, tell me what to do. Please. I don't even know what to do anymore. I cannot stand up under the weight of this. She prays. She says get up and bring honor to God by fulfilling my obligation for tonight and then we will figure out our next step after that.

The unfolding of events over the next 24 hours is another blog or two in itself.

For now you should just know: I did not quit. And you can't quit either. You can make it. Whatever the blow is, you can make it. You are not alone. Voice your burdens, share your struggles and ask God's children, the Big C church as my friend Christy calls it, for prayer. For help. Allow them to walk with you. And know that someone has come for you. You are not by yourself.

I will thank a host of people who have stepped in to take care of us later this week. But for now, that is my little Annie Boo in an outfit that we were given by a mom who insisted we take her daughter's clothes. I woke up this morning and I was able to put an outfit on Annie. I was able to dress her. Watch her squeal and kick and laugh.

She was not in her bed in the RV where she played and slept and talked.

The bed that erupted into flames out of no where.

The bed that sits right on top of the engine where all the electrical wires that were shorting out resided.

She was not on that bed when the flames erupted of nowhere. She was not in that RV when the fire quickly spread. When the explosions pierced the quiet of the desert. When the sun set on a smouldering bus that held our livelihood.

She was not there.

I dressed her this morning. I fed her. I held her in my arms. And watched as she chased squirrels in the park this afternoon. I will tuck her in tonight.

My stuff is gone... but my baby is safe.

The miracle this week is that the RV practically forced us to get off of it before it caught fire.

I've never been more grateful for a miracle in my life.

If you want to help Ryan and I replace our things, please feel free to make an on-line donation to our personal Paypal account: [email protected].

If you want to help the band replace gear you can make a donation at AddisonRoad.com.