The Day the Soldier Became a Veteran

November 17, 2020 Michelle Cuthrell

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about this day for weeks and months of my life.

On the roughest days of the 16-month deployment.

Right after the mid-deployment miscarriage.

On the days this sacred, special military life felt more brutal than beautiful.

If I can just be honest, in the thick of hard, 20 years can feel so viciously long.

But then you wake up one day beside the same servant-hearted soldier who lovingly lured you into this “one big free vacation with a side of adult prom” and, as you watch him don dress blues for the very last time, mourn as you wonder where on earth this lifetime of unforgettable military memories went.

Because in an instant, in one ceremony, this life braided with difficulty and delight alike comes to an end, and you find yourself simultaneously overcome with both overwhelming joy and profound grief as you recognize that this military life beside that selfless military man was perhaps the greatest honor and privilege of your life.

And retirement from this beautiful world suddenly becomes just as tough as the 20 years it took to get to the ceremony.

Farewelling the Fatigues

November 2, 2020 Michelle Cuthrell

He’s been wearing the Army active duty uniform since he enlisted in the military in 1996.

Except for the four years he spent in college going Green to Gold, Super-Spouse has been clad in the camo and combat boots that a once-18-year-old girl swooned over before promptly tricking that sexy soldier into dating her. (Listen, had 18-year-old Michelle known then what 38-year-old Michelle knows now, I wouldn’t have just deceived that Catch of a Lifetime into dating me; I would have flat-out, no-regrets kidnapped him.)

That active duty uniform saw this strong and courageous soldier through 11 deployments, eight mailing addresses, three military specialties (because he was an infantryman and a Medical Service Corps office before he decided what he wanted to be when he grew up and applied for the military’s physician assistant program) and a lifetime of memories serving beside some of the best and bravest men and women we have ever had the privilege of knowing.

And this morning, after 20 years of active duty service, the most servant-hearted and selfless man I know retired those fatigues that have marked every page of our family’s story, and he signed out of the military on terminal leave.

Superman's 11th Surgery

October 27, 2020 Michelle Cuthrell

Not every superhero in our house gets our ear when he thinks he’s dying

Superhero 1, who can force himself through a 10-mile, uphill run with cramps and pain and blood dripping down the knees, makes the dying claim exactly every time in his life he’s ever thrown up. (The Peppercorn Incident of 2016 will also go down in history as the day a member of the spice cabinet killed not the 10-year-old mouth where it lodged but the ears of every member of the household who had to listen to banshee shrieking for the following five hours.)

But when Superman, who has endured 10 surgeries and more hospitalizations and regular medical procedures than all the members of our house combined, says he’s in physical pain, we know he’s not messing around.

On Thursday afternoon, that tough-as-nails boy doubled over in pain to the point of being unable to walk, and by dinnertime, he told us he thought he needed to go to the hospital.

When he emptied the contents of his stomach all over the E.R. parking lot, my shoes and his brand new mask in what can only be described as a fireworks display of exploding vomit, I knew it was more than a few aches and pains. (Superman: 1, puke-catching mask: 0.)

We spent Thursday night in our local emergency room, where doctors diagnosed an obstruction that needed pediatric specialty care. After an ambulance ride to the same children’s hospital where both Superman and Superhero 4 have had surgeries over the last four years, some of our favorite specialists let us know that, if they couldn’t resolve the issue in 24 to 48 hours, they’d have to perform surgery.

One Covid Quarter in the Books [the chrome kind]

October 21, 2020 Michelle Cuthrell

Back in January, I had big dreams.

Like many other naïve fools who thought 2020 was going to be *their* year, I had romantically envisioned what our year retiring from the military might look like.

I’d written in my calendar (for August, back in January — because this Type A planner really loves learning again and again that she is not actually the one in control) weekly romantic lunch dates with my husband, and I’d set aside the first six weeks of school to play around with the idea of writing a new book.

With a kindergartner through a freshman all in school, I was imagining morning runs with friends I hadn’t seen since the highlight of my daily schedule was Mommy and Me music class, and I’d already organized my bookshelf in order of the books I was going to read with this newfound margin in my life. (Bring it on, one-year Bible plan, and every book I’ve ordered and never read over the last year. We were actually going to get past the Old Testament this year!)

Although I was originally struggling, lamenting and generally breaking down in near-tears three days per week at the thought of children old enough to be kindergarteners and high schoolers, I had since pumped myself up by reminding myself that I would now have time to return to blogging and meaningful advocacy and writing and regularly dating my forever boyfriend … during lunch dates where little people weren’t discussing their boy parts and eating spaghetti off my plate. In the midst of small humans turning into big ones, these were beautiful things.

But apparently my first year of life I was supposed to have all four kids in school with a retired husband living on this continent was not actually for writing or running or any kind of restful existence after 16 married years of frequently-deploying military life.

It was for EDUCATING.

(No problem, Jesus. It’s not like I completely failed as the building sub that first year of post-graduate life at North Pole Elementary. I would *love* to learn a second time why teachers are so special … and why I am not special enough to BE one. Check.)

Because we have just completed our first Covid quarter, and the only thing this girl has time to write and read around here are emails to co-ops and teachers trying to figure out what on God’s green earth my kid is supposed to be doing.

The Summer That Covid Created

September 7, 2020 Michelle Cuthrell

Like everyone on planet Earth, we had big plans for this summer.

We were going to board a cruise ship, sail the seas and celebrate a military retirement 20 years in the making.

We were going to fly to Alaska to celebrate the 15-year anniversary of the 16-month deployment that rocked our worlds and reshaped our military lives.

Our freshman was going to venture into the land of high school cross country and marching band, our middle schooler was going to compete live in the National Tae Kwon Do tournament he’s been looking forward to since the last one.

And our youngest children were going to frolic and play with sweet friends we’ve always met once a week at splash pads and pools on hot summer days.

But our not-so-little friend Covid changed that all.

And it turns out, God, in all His grace, used it to gift us something so much better.

Simplicity.

Stillness

Perspective.

Greatly needed personal growth.

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