There is a strength that can be found in this path.  But, you must also find strength to remain on this path. 

I walk around my house, slowly becoming a home, trying to decide where to start next.  What box to unpack now.  And where to put it.  What needs to go to a new home. 

I want the boxes gone.  Done. 

We have moved four times in the last year-ish.  Before we even arrived back in Texas (much to our surprise), we had our assignment changed five times.  All this following a deployment.  Surprisingly, I handled it okay.  At times, I became irritated or frustrated.  Cranky.  But, mostly, I just swung with the changes.  I have seen so many boxes in the last year, packed a place so many times (and so quickly), that I am sick of seeing and smelling cardboard.  And it does have a smell.  It fills your home quickly.  Amidst this latest move, I started to say, If I ever see a box again, it will be too soon.  I never finished the sentence. 

In two years, we will pack up this home and head out again.  Move again. 

And that’s okay.  I have the strength to do it.  I might not be thrilled about unpacking today, or clearing the moving clutter off that counter AGAIN.  I might kick the packing paper after I stub my toe on a box for the umteenth time, but I move forward.  Because I muster the strength. 

The strength I see in my husband, who makes the biggest sacrifice.  Always prepared to make an even bigger sacrifice.  The strength I feel when I look at our neighbors here on post, all moving through the same life.  The strength I am reminded of when I pull the pictures and photos out of boxes and hang them on the wall.  Those things are our home; they move with us.  Everywhere.  The strength I hear when we are sitting in bed at night, and Taps plays out all over the Army Post on the loud speaker in the darkness.  I stop cold every time. 

There’s a strength I grasp when my girls are wrestling with more transition, scared of change.  I become the pillar that they need when everything around them is changing and being packed in paper and boxes.  When they cry out they don’t want to leave their house again.  The strength I force when talking deployments and moves…because they are real.  And always inevitable. 

There’s a strength I feel when I am reminded again that that I am a Third Generation Army Wife.  A sense of pride.  I can do this, because my mother and my mother’s mother walked this path. 

Yes, I can unpack one more box.  Put stuff somewhere.  Record more damage.  And more.  And then more.  I can move again when the time comes.  I can hug away the fear, kiss the tears.  I can stand tall and proud and firm for my Soldier.  I can hang more pictures, knowing they’ll come down all too soon.  I can get irritated over the chips and gouges and then get over it. 

Because of the Strength.  The Strength I feel.  And the Strength I make.

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