Suffering, Kindness, and Bowling Shoes

In the summer of 2008, a series of terrible incidents shook our small military community in North Dakota, and I prayed fervently for something to change. I wasn’t very specific in detail, but I hoped for the military to decide to send Chris, and by extension myself and our toddler son, anywhere other than where we were. For about a week, every day, all I prayed was, “Get us out of here.”

Then, one day, Chris called around lunchtime and told me he had the unexpected opportunity to deploy to Baghdad, leaving almost immediately. The opportunity was tied up with everything that was going wrong. Also because of what had happened, the open deployment position would give Chris career prospects he needed. Chris would get a reprieve from the events which swirled around him at that time and serve our country in a way he wanted to his whole life. It was an unhesitating yes from both of us.

I got off the phone, took a deep breath, and as I let it out, I looked up at the ceiling and prayed, “Well, God, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” Less than two weeks later, Chris would leave for training and then deployment.

In today’s Gospel reading, James and John ask Jesus for positions of glory and assert that they can drink from the same cup as Jesus. We, who know what will happen on the Cross, realize they can’t possibly comprehend the suffering the cup contains. We have the benefit of hindsight that the sons of Zebedee don’t have.

That first Sunday after Chris left for training, I was folding the altar cloth after Mass at our base chapel, when one of the Chris’s fellow airmen greeted me. “You know,” he said, “anyone could have taken that deployment. We’ll all try to take care of you and your son as best we can, but we all have a lot on our plates. It’s a shame that Chris left you to handle this alone.” I still had the altar cloth in my hands when he walked away. I hadn’t moved a muscle, I had barely blinked, but I had begun to taste the bitterness of my cup. Not everyone would have kindness to spare for me.

Back when I only knew our family’s cup and not what it would contain, I was like the sons of Zebedee. I anticipated the honor of Chris’s service more than the reality of our family’s sacrifice or the possibility of Chris’s death. I acted out the part of the calm and proud military spouse. I would show our military community I could drink this cup. And when some in our community, like the airman at the altar, showed me they would add to the pain of that cup, I only let people see my capable-military-spouse mask.

I did not comprehend the suffering our family’s cup would contain when Chris and I agreed that he should accept the deployment. I, like the sons of Zebedee, had no way to know what was coming. The details of the deployment altered. The stress our family experienced changed. I ended up very lonely and caring for our chronically-ill son in a North Dakota winter where we saw 100 inches of snow before Christmas. Chris mourned the death of his commander and spent Christmas wearing full-protective gear while insurgents fired on the base where he was stationed, which ended up not being in the relative safety of Baghdad.

In an environment of intense competition and high stress, this cup of suffering, voluntarily chosen, felt much harder to bear than an involuntary one. I had been told not to complain because this was my choice, and I agreed. I tried to shoulder the weight of it alone.

In this state of isolation, I ran into Angie at the base thrift store. She looked at me appraisingly, the way only a longtime military spouse can do, and said, “You’re joining the bowling club.”

I laughed hollowly. “I don’t know how to bowl and I don’t have anyone to watch David.”

Angie squinted, “You can join the bowling club and bring David with you, or I’ll have to show up at your house randomly from time to time to check on you. It’s your choice, but you should just buy bowling shoes now instead of renting them for the year. It’s cheaper.”

So, I bought bowling shoes and brought my toddler to the base bowling alley on Monday mornings. David ate french fries the other spouses gave him while we talked about nothing and everything. My bowling game never improved. It didn’t matter. The bowling alley saved my life that year.

Solo-parenting my young son, consistent below-freezing temperatures, and the weight of Chris’s deployment sucked all the energy out of me. Getting to Mass on Sundays was hard and my prayers at Mass, filled with the push-pull of duty and safety, left me hanging by a thread. But Monday mornings were a kindness.

The selection from Psalm 33 that we read at today’s Mass focuses on the Lord’s kindness. The last phrase of Psalm 33:5 reads, “of the kindness of the LORD the earth is full.” And while that’s always true – kindness always exists – we notice it most especially in those seasons when the cup rests heavily on us. The earth, even and especially in the midst of suffering, is full of kindness. It’s full of invitations to join bowling club. It’s full of flowers. It’s full of casserole dishes. It’s full of ladies giving your two-year-old french fries.

The pain of that year has never receded in my memory. I remember the suffering, the loneliness, and the people who had no generosity to offer me. And at the same time, kindness prevails. Those who helped me, like Angie, made my own sacrifice endurable. It is kindness that allows us to carry the cup.

I still have those bowling shoes. I rarely wear them, but I love seeing them mixed in with my other shoes. When I think about doing hard things, I think about lacing up those blue bowling shoes that were cheaper than renting a pair every week.

Readings for the Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year B) on the USCCB Website