by April L. Cao

I am feeling rebellious. And as a Christian woman I do not know how to be rebellious without offending God or purposely sinning. I cannot stop praying–that would be counterproductive in my current situation. I cannot ignore His blessings and faithfulness even in the midst of sorrow and angst. There is no point at shaking my fist at the One who has steered us safely through our military life. So what’s a girl to do?

My husband has been gone for almost seven months. He is currently deployed to Iraq, his days left in Basra are dwindling to single digits. We have been optimistic yet guarded in our anticipation of his homecoming because of the daily changes to flight schedules. One day he’s coming home early, the next he’s coming home a week later (I intend to send the Air Force a bill for the extra highlights I will need to cover the gray in my hair). I have been on the edge of my seat tingling with those very first feelings of relief and excitement when word comes that the dates have, again, changed. And so we wait. And during this time of waiting I feel a bit ornery and somewhat huffy.

In my precarious state there is little to do but wait. God is in the driver’s seat. I am, at the least, an uncooperative passenger who has become carsick with the twisting, winding roads. I want to declare myself righteous indignation of all things deployment related with big billboards and picket lines. I feel like standing on the street corner with a bull horn proclaiming the end of my patience. I want to chant the military spouse mantra that comes with the weariness of deployments and separation-”BRING MY HUSBAND HOME!!” over and over until someone actually does just that to make me be quiet for pity’s sake. I want to go on strike for love!

But I don’t know who will listen because no one of authority seems to care that it’s hard to procrastinate cleaning my house when I cannot have an accurate day to plan said procrastination. I have left everything until the last minute thinking our reunion too far off although I know our days apart are now few. I even stopped shaving my legs in solemn protest five weeks ago. That ambiguous “they” had better be happy I’m not holding a peaceful demonstration in short-shorts….

You may be wondering what it means to go on strike for love. I have already shared the leg shaving thing-please feel free to use this yourself when deployment becomes unbearable and tedious. I mean, why take the time? Have I mentioned that I haven’t mopped my floors in weeks? I’m not ashamed. Nuh-Uh. Because every time I think of doing it I say to myself, “Self, I might have to do this over again in a few days anyway, so why just not wait? That way it will be nice and fresh when he comes home!” And so I have waited. And waited. Did I mention the birth certificate lying in a very unsafe spot in my bedroom only ten feet from its proper resting place? It would take all of ten seconds to open the drawer, pull out the box, place the birth certificate inside and VOILA! done! Nope. Not going to happen until I know my husband is on a plane home. Take that!!
We won’t even get into the dust accumulating on the ceiling fans, the unchanged air filter that is wheezing in its effort to siphon clean air into the house or the dining room which has turned into my official “holding station” for all things I am too lazy to put away (i.e. take upstairs).

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that my strike is not against everything that requires work. I have declared war on the little things that, for now, take away from our bigger picture. The dust bunnies, prickly legs and piles of junk mail. I am pouring myself into those things and people that have gotten me through these past seven months. My family, my beautiful, precious children. I am casting aside my domestic worries for a few good laughs with friends. For a long lunch date or a quiet hour at the book store. I should have gotten more peanut butter and jelly (and bread) but instead bought frozen Smuckers so I could sleep in an extra ten minutes in the morning. The laundry is piled too high but instead of spending the day folding and sorting, I took the kids bowling and watched my four-year-old daughter hurl the ball straight down the middle of the lane, hardly needing those bumpers that adults are (unfairly) not allowed to use. It does my heart good to see my son hoot and holler, pick up his sister and spin her around because she knocked down nine pins. I am on strike for love.

One day very soon I will get the call that he is returning to me. My strike will end and I will wage a fierce campaign against dust and clutter. I will mop the floors until they shine, the dining room will return to a place where we come together as a family to eat and share our day. His pajamas that have sat unused in a drawer will be washed and folded, waiting on his side of the bed. The windows will be washed so that he can enjoy the colorful fall leaves that are in stark contrast to the monotone desert he has stared at for so long. And, yes, I will shave my legs…

About the Author:
April Lakata Cao is a native of Northern Virginia and currently resides in Virginia Beach, Va., where she has just completed her eighth move in eleven years of marriage. April and her husband, a graduate of the United States Naval Academy, have two beautiful children ages four and seven. Visit her blog, Amazing Grace, at  www.intoourheart.blogspot.com.