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Overview
Like many military couples, Corie and her husband, Matt, an Army chaplain, accumulated significant unshared moments during Matt’s deployments. When Matt returned, he and Corie began using the term “sacred spaces” for significant moments they had experienced independently. After multiple deployments, sacred spaces were taking up a lot of emotional room in their relationship.
When US Secretary of Defense Ashton Carter invited Corie, as the 2015 Armed Forces Insurance Military Spouse of the Year, to join his team on a one-week overseas holiday trip, she eagerly accepted, hoping to gain a better understanding of her husband’s deployment experience and lessen the impact sacred spaces had on her marriage.
As Corie sat in the belly of a C-17, where her husband had said goodbye to the remains of friends and fellow soldiers, as she touched with her own hands the memorial at FOB Fenty and reflected on her grief as a care team member following the battle of COP Keating, Corie realized this journey was about much more than the push-pull of duty away from loved ones.
This was a journey to the heart of her marriage, a place where she would have to leave behind her resentment in exchange for ground she and her husband had surrendered to hurt, misunderstanding, loss—and to Afghanistan.
Corie set out on this trip hoping to gain a better understanding of her husband and his deployment experience, but along the way, she discovered a whole new perspective of herself and her military marriage. By sharing her story, Corie hopes to help other military couples strengthen their marriages.
Living Now Book Awards - Gold Medal for Best Relationships/Marriage Book
ForeWord INDIEFAB Book of the Year Awards finalist
Midwest Book Awards finalist
Featured on the TODAY Show as Kathie Lee’s “favorite thing.”
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781934617335 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Elva Resa Publishing |
| Publication date: | 08/01/2016 |
| Pages: | 178 |
| Sales rank: | 1,075,635 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.90(w) x 8.90(h) x 0.50(d) |
About the Author
As the 2015 Armed Forces Insurance Military Spouse of the Year, Corie advocated for mental health issues and served as a media correspondent writing for online and print publications, consulting for command teams, and speaking nationally on topics such as PTSD, grief, marriage, and military culture.
Corie is also the creator and host of Lifegiver Military Spouse Podcast, offering a positive place for honest conversations about military marriage as well as interviews with inspirational guests. She serves as an ambassador for the Chris Kyle Frog Foundation. Corie and her husband, Matthew, an Army chaplain, cohost marriage retreats and offer a free online marriage program designed to improve intimacy and connection.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
HEEDING THE CALL
The packers were coming in a few days. I'd been cleaning out drawers and rooms for two weeks while my husband was at work and our two sons, ages eight and eleven, were at school. To say I was tired was an understatement. I was about to snap.
Our family was in the midst of a convergence of major events. Christmas was three weeks away. We were about to move to a home we had never seen. Adding to the upheaval, I had accepted the invitation to travel with the secretary of defense to visit military members and families in Turkey as well as deployed troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. Officially, I would be part of the press corps, documenting my journey for Military Spouse magazine. I looked forward to sharing what I would learn with as many military spouses as possible, to help them better understand their own service members. But unofficially, I would be on a journey to connect with my husband's deployment experiences.
My time and energy was focused on the move and preparations for my trip. I tried to calm my growing anxiety by running, eating sensibly, and taking supplements to communicate to my adrenal gland that I still wished to be friends.
I was frustrated that Matthew and the boys were not giving their best efforts to help me complete my pre-move checklist. My repeated requests for our sons to perform simple tasks to help went unheard. Instead, they spent their time wrestling, knocking things over, and giggling endlessly. I knew that some of this behavior was the result of their own nervousness about moving, once again leaving behind a place that was familiar and comfortable. Our time at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, had been short, only five months. Even so, the boys made good friends to whom they had grown attached.
I planned to be home when the movers came to pack our household goods, but I'd be gone when the shipment arrived at our new home in Virginia. My husband would handle the delivery and the kids' first week of transition on his own. I knew his stint as keeper of the home fires would be brief but intense. I had handled these same tasks many times before. But this time, the roles were reversed. I was leaving, and he was staying.
I didn't actually doubt Matt's ability to handle everything. I was stressed because I didn't have the control I was used to having over the details of our move. I wouldn't be there to ensure the furniture, rugs, and dishes were placed where I wanted them when the movers showed up at our new home. I wouldn't be able to give my full attention to our boys' emotions during their transition. I wanted to keep all the plates spinning my way.
I wanted my pre-move checklist complete before I left for Iraq and Afghanistan. I had already finished Christmas shopping and wrapped the presents, hoping that after I returned we could ease into the holidays. But I was already second-guessing what I bought and whether it was enough. The preparations for the trip were time-consuming and worrisome. Due to the tight operational security on a trip for the secretary of defense, I couldn't have access to the schedule or the specific locations I would be visiting. I didn't know what to wear or how to pack.
Although I had become accustomed to handling uncertainty as a military spouse, I was feeling the weight of a different set of unknowns. I was on the edge of what I thought could be a major life-changing opportunity, and I felt a weight of responsibility. I hoped I was prepared. I feared I was cracking under the pressure.
My husband stopped me as I was removing pictures from the living room wall to sort and pack. He said, "I think we need to sit and talk."
I took a deep breath and sat on the couch. I was irritated at the interruption. What I really needed was for everyone to move faster to match the pace I'd set for myself.
Looking at me as if he knew something I didn't, Matt said, "This is all part of the process. I know you feel bad for leaving, but I will be fine."
I was shocked. He was reading me all wrong. I didn't feel guilty about leaving on this trip. I was just anxious about getting everything ready for the packers.
At least, that's what I thought.
"These last-minute tasks that you are stressing about are not worth it," Matt continued. "You are leaving in two weeks, Corie. Think about it. You may know that you are going to be safe, but the only thing the kids know is that another parent is going to Afghanistan. We need to cut them a break. The priority at this moment doesn't need to be the house."
He was right. The last week had been tiring for all of us. I had expected the boys to help, but I could see I was demanding too much from them.
"If you are going to experience what it is like for a soldier," Matt continued with a knowing grin, "then take note: this is all part of the process."
He had said it again: part of the process. What did he mean by that? What process?
Up until this point, I had been focused on seizing this opportunity — even at what seemed to be an inopportune time — working out the logistics and strategy on short notice. I had planned for clothing, visas, a passport. At a military supply store, we bought boots, a jacket, and pants suitable for visiting Iraq and Afghanistan. My strategy for the trip was big picture, thinking about how this trip could impact other spouses. I hadn't had a chance to process my own pre-departure feelings.
As I looked into my husband's eyes that evening, emotion flooded me. I hadn't really thought about what this trip meant for Matt, for me, and for our boys.
Although my week-long absence couldn't compare to the magnitude of a full-length deployment, the days of preparation and stress were very similar for our children. I had conflicting emotions about leaving my family during a difficult time. I thought back to the days just before Matt left for his first deployment. It happened to be the week of our oldest son's birthday. Crappy timing, but we didn't have a choice.
Allowing myself to sit in the pocket of my thoughts, I realized I was feeling guilty for leaving Matt alone to receive our household goods. Anyone who has been through it knows how stressful it can be for one person alone to direct boxes and furniture to the appropriate places, to watch for damaged boxes and missing pieces, to be sure items are reassembled correctly.
Though my dad agreed to come up and help out with the move in, that didn't decrease my feeling that I was abandoning my husband at a critical time. I knew Matt would work himself to the bone trying to take care of all the boxes before my return. I knew I couldn't stop him, because he would do exactly what I would do if he were the one leaving.
I have usually been the parent who quickly senses when one of the boys is not doing well during a transition, and I wasn't going to be there. I'd miss the initial excitement and sadness as they entered their fifth new home. I wouldn't be there to accompany them on their first day at a new school, to see them say their shy hellos to their teachers.
At the same time, I felt the excitement of leaving on a new adventure. I believed my decision to go on this trip was the right one. I knew my skills were a good fit for the task at hand. I was excited about what I would learn and how I'd use what I discovered to help military spouses in their own marriages.
I wanted to go.
I wanted to stay.
I wanted to get on the plane, because I was called to do it, to show my children that fulfilling a calling means making difficult choices.
I wanted to run from the whole thing and choose family, just to prove to them they were the most important thing in my life.
I wondered if this was what Matt experienced before each deployment. I thought about the difficult push and pull he must have felt before he said goodbye to us for a year. My heart filled with a new understanding. I felt gratitude for his willingness to do a job he loved, even though it pulled him away from us. I more clearly understood how his love for us must have ripped out his heart when his departure was imminent.
I had always assumed it was difficult for him. But now I was beginning to understand why he seemed to pull away from us in the days before he deployed. He was readying himself for the pain of leaving while anticipating the fulfillment of a mission he was called to do. Only a calling that meant a great deal to him would take him with such excitement toward the mission and away from us. I felt a similar push and pull.
On one of our first dates when we were in college, Matt took me to a tiny Italian restaurant close to campus. He asked me what I saw myself doing in the future. I told him that growing up in our church, I had encountered a particular couple who worked together, traveling around and encouraging marriages. They inspired me by their ability to work together. Because of my own family history, I longed to invest in marriages. When he heard that, Matt sat back in his chair and looked at me. We grew up less than 150 miles from each other and, although we didn't meet until college, Matt had been inspired by the same couple! He also dreamed of helping couples strengthen their marriages. We knew it wasn't a coincidence. This was evidence of the bond forming between us.
In an ironic turn years later, the couple who had inspired both of us divorced. Their relationship crumbled after years of putting their ministry before their own marriage. This news only furthered our resolve to have a strong marriage. We wanted to be sure we didn't follow in those footsteps.
Matt and I spent the early years of our marriage in Lexington, Kentucky, taking turns working and putting each other through graduate school. I studied for my master's degree in counseling. Matt planned to go to seminary to study Greek and Hebrew to pursue a career in academia, but early in his studies he began to question that career choice. Teaching Greek and Hebrew no longer felt like the right fit. He loved studying the Bible and loved serving people, yet he didn't feel called to be a teacher or pastor.
One day, Matt came home from the gym excited and said he'd met a former Special Forces soldier who was studying to go back into the Army as a chaplain. For the first time, Matt knew what he wanted to do. He felt a call to become a military chaplain. When he told me about it, I did not share his enthusiasm. Joining the military represented a major change in our plans. Matt would need to finish seminary and complete a period of practical ministry experience to become a chaplain. He agreed to put his final decision on hold for a year or two.
With a new sense of purpose, Matt continued to pursue the degree he needed to become a chaplain. A year later, with my blessing, he signed up for the US Army Reserve. I hoped that becoming a chaplain in the reserves would answer the questions he had about his calling and ministry. I could tell he needed that answer like he needed air. I had to love him enough to let him go. And I did.
Matt's first step was to attend a fourteen-week basic officer's training course for chaplains at Fort Jackson. As we ate dinner together the evening before he left, I tried to imagine those weeks and months without him. We had never spent so long apart, and I was pregnant with our first child. When we talked on the phone while he was away, I heard the sound of fulfillment in his voice. After he came home, he never doubted his calling again.
I needed a little more time.
One Sunday, the pastor of our church preached a sermon that ended with an unusual statement to the congregation: "If you aren't called to stay, then go."
Matt and I had never heard a pastor tell people to leave a church. Those words cut through both of us like a knife. We were happy in this church, but we didn't feel called to stay. We had an opportunity to serve in a church in Atlanta near my family, where Matt could fulfill the pastoral ministry requirement he needed to become a chaplain. We took a leap of faith. With hardly a dime, we packed up the car and our toddler son and moved to Atlanta.
Over time, Matt became even more convinced that the Army was where God wanted him to serve. While Matt worked at the church, I worked in my first local private practice, completing requirements for my licensure. Everything around us should have made us more satisfied, but something still wasn't right. I knew my husband felt called to the military, but I was not yet convinced. I reluctantly went with him to a dinner for chaplain recruits. Matt was preparing to turn in his final paperwork to request a slot as a chaplain.
At dinner that night, I had an overwhelming feeling of peace in spite of my previous reservations. I felt like we belonged to something, or at least as if this was where I wanted us to belong. At the end of the evening, I pulled Matt aside and said, "Okay, let's do it. But if we do, we jump in with both feet and go active duty."
Of course, he wholeheartedly agreed. He had just been waiting for me to catch up.
Matt turned in his papers in June 2008. He was soon accepted for active duty and given a choice of two units. One was in Alaska and included a deployment immediately after our arrival. The other was in Colorado and gave us nine months to become settled before Matt left for his first deployment. We chose the Colorado assignment to allow a little more time to acclimate to a new home and military life before the deployment.
In August, we arrived at Fort Carson, so excited to be a military family serving military families. Matt was assigned to 3rd Squadron, 61st Cavalry Regiment, one of six battalions within the 4th Brigade Combat Team (4BCT) of 4th Infantry Division (4ID). We had no idea how choosing 3-61CAV would affect the trajectory of our lives.
All these years later, I was hearing my own call to "Go." I didn't have military orders, but I knew I needed to heed the call. For years, in my office as a licensed counselor and in my life as a fellow military spouse, I had supported and counseled military spouses on whom multiple deployments had taken a toll. I thought about that toll as I recalled the phone calls from Matt during his first deployment. I remembered how I strained to understand the details of his life over there. The distance between us grew every time he talked about something I couldn't feel, picture, or experience. After a while, I was less tuned in during those conversations, and I gave Matt less than my full attention. I accepted the gaps between us as part of the military experience. We were living separate lives, and we had separate memories.
Separate memories caused problems when he returned home. Even casual conversations had hidden pitfalls. We found ourselves comparing whose deployment experience was more difficult or significant. Our arguments were more about each wanting to be heard by the other. Finally, we resolved to simply respect our separate memories.
Surviving some moments during Matt's absence took every bit of courage, grit, and independence I could muster. There were moments during that first deployment in which I could not have survived emotionally without intervention from a friend or loved one. Matt had no way to understand my experience. He had placed his friends' remains in body bags, and there was definitely no way I could understand that. We desperately needed the other to understand. Yet we hit a wall when we tried.
We began to call these times "sacred spaces." This gave us terminology and neutral territory to say to each other, "I've been through something so big that I'm different because of it. I can't change that, but I need you to tread lightly when I talk about it. You can't fix it, and we definitely can't ignore it." We are all changed by experiences, particularly those we cannot resolve. We live differently because of them.
I learned to ask questions when he "zoned out," usually a signal that he was reliving or processing difficult memories. Whether he opened up or not, I tried to be protective of him through the rest of his day. Likewise, he learned to accept that my sacred spaces were just as significant to me, though my memories of challenges at home were far different from those he faced in Afghanistan. Spouses at home can also experience life-changing moments, sacred spaces, without threat of gunfire.
"Sacred" comes from the Latin word sacrare, meaning "set apart, revered, regarded with great respect and reverence." We acknowledged that one experience could never compete with another, and we resolved to respect those sacred spaces even when we could not fully understand them. We handled these spaces carefully because of the emotional gravitas surrounding them.
Sacred spaces surround moments that can be both positive and negative. I have talked with service members who vividly recall a battle they survived and someone else did not. I know of people who felt they would not make it through a battle, but they felt God's presence stronger than at any other moment of their lives.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Sacred Spaces"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Corie B. Weathers.
Excerpted by permission of Elva Resa Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Prologue,
Heeding the Call,
Ripping Off the Band-Aid,
Departure,
Family Bonds,
Visions in a C-17,
Full Circle,
Embracing the Suck,
Mountains of Grief,
Where the Pebble Fell,
Role Reversal,
Powerful Influence,
Transformed,
Moving Forward,
A Spiritual Reflection on the Power of Marriage,
Acknowledgments,