When I first got to JBER, I was so… alone. 

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If you’ve ever been in the military or married to the military, you know… they are so efficient. So, with the fumbled and delayed command sponsorship and the hassles of figuring out how to coordinate with the military to move us across the country during both a hurricane and a series of wildfires – I got to JBER just as my husband…deployed to Afghanistan. 

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I remember standing on one of those stepladders while I put away our household goods on my own, thinking to myself, “If I fell and hit my head… no one would probably know for weeks. When would they find me?”

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So, I joined the JBER Spouse’s Club. I don’t know if this is still their little saying, but at the time, it was, “Bloom where you’re planted.” They had little fireweed flowers on their logo. I loved that; I love fireweed. It was a nice social event, but I left feeling drained. I’d show up, socialize with everyone else who was putting their best foot forward, but I didn’t really feel truly connected. So, when it came time to pay the next year’s dues to be in the club… I decided to just not. 

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I was really looking forward to my husband coming home from deployment. He was in a situation where phone calls were pretty sparse, and I couldn’t wait to just be with him again. It was such a beautiful experience to get to run to him during redeployment (his return). That day was marked hard on my calendar, and I just knew – that was  the day! That was the day my person was coming home. I’d be reunited with my teammate, who had seen me at my best and my worst, who had seen me covered in mud and blood and chose me anyway – he would come home, and everything would be okay. 

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But If you’ve ever experienced a military deployment…you know that’s not really how that works. We were so excited to see each other, and things were beautiful – for about 48 hours. Reconnection after being separated for that long is really hard…Still alone. 

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One of our first attempts to reconnect during this challenging season of marriage was really special and has become somewhat of a tradition. Every year, Ethan buys a ton of flowers and creates this beautiful oasis in our back yard. The flowers surround us while we sit around a fire pit – usually with something summery to drink or something warm and mulled. He does some incredibly beautiful work in our backyard, and it’s so special – because it’s just for the two of us. He’s the more aesthetically-minded one of us, and he puts so much thought and creative work into making all of them look beautiful together. But sometimes, he lets me pick out some of the flowers! And that first year, I picked out some hollyhocks. I liked that they were perennials – and I’m somewhat cheap – so I was thinking, “Look! Money we don’t have to spend next year!” 

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We planted the seeds, and they grew! But they didn’t bloom. We… are not always instruction readers. We found out that it takes hollyhocks a couple of years to put off blooms. We decided, since we likely wouldn’t see the blooms, to pull them and spread a wildflower seed in that area instead.

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We pulled those hollyhocks because we thought we might not be around to see them bloom.

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At this point, our marriage was at its lowest, work was going great, and I still felt alone. I prayed for “sisterhood,” and thought, “Pfffffft, yeah right.” I was too scared to ask with expectation. And I waited even longer to plant my spiritual hollyhocks.

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A couple of years later, I finally connected to a very unique, very special group of women called Ladies Table Night. I assumed that “Table Night” meant there’d be food. I was wrong. It meant that every person had a seat at the table, and that we’d share deeply, intimately, and that we’d show up for each other. That we’d be honest with each other, even when it hurt or it was uncomfortable.

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A few weeks after I started coming to the group, one person shared an incredibly vulnerable admission with the group. She could feel herself pulling away and disconnecting…because she was about to move away. And in this moment I realized…I would rather feel that hurt than feel as disconnected as I had been. 

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I can’t even begin to describe the way we’ve done life together since. I’ve made the most incredible friends. We’ve shown up for each other in our absolute worst and in our best moments. We’ve shown up in hospitals and in homes, around fire pits, on regular Thursday night get-togethers, and at 5:00 a.m. with donuts. We’ve shown up in big grand gestures and cross-country trips…and we’ve shown up in secret – with behind-the-scenes funding and planning. We’ve shown up to play, to work, to carry burdens, to intercede, to celebrate, to fight, to laugh… to grieve and carry the weight of loss with each other.

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I hadn’t even asked with expectation, and I was gifted with sisterhood on the most magnificent, deep, and beautiful level. I now know what it’s like to have people who can look at you when you’re just keeping it together and say, “You’re not okay. Spill.” I have people who tell me the truth – even if it will hurt my feelings. People who are honest and vulnerable and raw – and in that honesty and vulnerability, gave me the gift of letting me be honest and vulnerable, too. 

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So plant the hollyhocks. Tend to them. Let the roots grow deeply. Maybe you’ll see blooms. Maybe the blooms will be for someone else.

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We’re PCS’ing to Georgia this month. My roots are being ripped out, my heart is broken, and I have cried twice a week for several months. I am so often tempted to pull away and disconnect rather than feel this deep hurt and loss of leaving the women I’ve grown so close to. My sisters. 

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Someone once joked that they couldn’t let in any more military spouses… because it hurts to lose us. I hope it does hurt, and I hope they choose to plant those hollyhocks…knowing that they might not see those flowers when they bloom.

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And this time, when we move…I’ll ask again. I’ll ask for sisterhood. I’ll ask for even more this time – while knowing deeply that I’m not alone.