We most often go about our days dwelling or denying something. We get caught up in moments that might not even matter in five days, five months, or five years. Surely, we are desperately trying to make it through the day. We might get so fixated on something that appears bigger than it is, that we do not see the obvious solution.

Small problems are like shadows.

They follow you around, and in certain situations, they can appear much bigger than they are. They can appear so big and dark, that you can’t see the real issue; you can’t see the light switch. They trick your mind into believing they are the only thing that matters. 

I remember this rainy cold day on the east coast. Everyone I knew told me those special words that undermine my feelings of anxiety or frustration, “He’ll only be gone six weeks; it’s not like he’s deployed”. I’ve been doing this a while now and have had many nights alone, many holidays alone, and many stormy nights with scared children looking to me for reassurance, alone.

It never gets easier, and it never gets normal.

I have reached deep down for my courage, and I am confident running my home on my own, I just don’t want to. I don’t want to be brave; I want to feel protected. I don’t want to save face; I want him to see me pouting, so he’ll feel a sense of urgency to get home, or at the very least he’ll think to send me some candy.

But it was time, and as we all know, the military’s timing is just as complicated as God’s timing. 

The phone rang and my husband confirmed he was given the okay to attend a school several states away. Everything in me wanted to be supportive and confident, but I felt strange. Two weeks earlier, we were given the opportunity to move into base housing, and his leave date was within three days of our move in date.

We waited so long for this call. So, what do we do? We could deny it and risk getting sent to the bottom of the listOr we could ghost the housing people. 

We finally accepted the home knowing full well we wouldn’t be able to move all our belongings in right away. Cheers to all the other mil-spouses who have learned to love the ancient art of sleeping on the floor. We brought what we could, and I continued to work full-time, take my kids to school, and try my best rinse my red solo cups after each use. We lived on take-out and oven ready meals the first week, and even my dogs got tired of the leftovers.

I started feeling good about settling in, but something was missing.

Something seemed to hold me back from that “feels good to be home” feeling every time I walked in the house. When I turned that key, all I could see were piles of unpacked boxes that were a sore reminder of all the work that still had to be done by none other than myself. 

By week two, I was desperately trying to identify a way to bring all the comforts of home with me. I had a mattress on the floor by then, but I wanted to enjoy eating dinner with my kids at a real kitchen table. There were boxes everywhere, and in my mind, all I could see was my poor little kitchen table still waiting for me at my former residence, lonely and unused.

Every night for dinner in our new home, my five-year-old daughter and I would sit on her child’s size sofa and eat on paper plates. I dreadfully stared into the dining room one day thinking about how and where I was going to start unpacking all those ridiculously stuffed boxes. I often tried to keep myself from looking in there as I walked through, as if somehow the boxes would go away.

But in my mind the tower of boxes was a mountain sized shadow in my home.

I spoke to my husband one night and tearfully explained to him that I wanted my kitchen table, because at least then we could do something that felt normal again. I remember hearing him sigh as he told me to relax and look around, and that I had everything I needed, but I started dwelling on the boxes and denying that I was stressed. I thought, if I could just get my kitchen table back, I would feel so much better. 

Then one weekend, he made the long trek home on unofficial leave, to help me move more things. This was a huge surprise, and when I met him at the door, I sunk my head into his chest as if time didn’t exist. In this world, I have met many people who come and go, and many who might leave an impression on me that fades, but this man, he is my person.

He is my ultimate person.

It would not be nearly enough to say that I am in love with this person; he is that switch in the dark, or the one that makes the shadows go away. His presence is like the sun that melts the snow, the umbrella in the rain, enough to make me feel a foolish relief of all the problems I thought existed but suddenly vanish when he appears. 

About an hour or so came and went of him being in this home again, I walked past the dining room and there it was. There stood my wooden and black counter height kitchen table completely assembled with all chairs tucked in. I gasped with delight, shock, and confusion.

How could he have picked this table up from our former home, and reassembled it so quickly? It just couldn’t be. There was no way. As I stood there frozen, he stood next to me and placed his hand on my back and looked down on my little, short self and stared at my face.

“Did you?… When did?… How did?”  Were the only words I could manage to sputter out of my mouth.

He politely explained to me that the table was there all along.

You see, were two large boxes on top of that table, and all he did was move them away. All he did was move those boxes, those mountains that had been overshadowing my home and mind each day. Despite all my experience, bravery, and self-pep talks, how could I not see this? How did I walk by every day and hold back my tears, running for my coffee, completely ignoring a piece of furniture that I insisted would make me feel at home again?

Why couldn’t I see it before? 

 *For more writing from Angel, check out her last post about moving… NOVA: Its Not for the Weak of Heart.