Time and perception, growth and change. We don’t see ourselves as someone or participating in particular patterns of action. Be it gradually or overnight, we find ourselves in new places as a new person? If we look at things differently, likely because we have changed and not the things themselves, we find that it is no longer what was, or perhaps never had been.
There are times when everything changes; the situation, you and me, perspective – all different. Can you keep up? I’m not sure I can. I thought I was changing. I was, but not in the way I expected. I thought everything around me was changing but it was really just the way I saw it.
Style, color, texture, the trappings of life rotate but the core remains the same. We are a kaleidoscope of culture and trends dancing around humanity. I’ve seen people. Different people, different locations, different cultures, but all people.
Are we looking at the person or the culture they’re wearing? We are all different and all the same.
Our personality, our soul, unique.
Our face? Our style? These are easily stolen, copied, faked. So why are we constantly staring at the shallow rather than into the deep? The individual.
My daughter just graduated high school. The year didn’t start that way. She was a junior, became a senior and is now leaving for college. I’m on a trip with her right now, clutching with desperate futility, the shirt tail of a girl running headlong into womanhood. Struggling to comprehend life without her, I acknowledge the investment I made in her rearing, wishing that it had been more.
This is it. Will our time ever be this continuous or focused again?
The mantle of responsibility transfers gradually from parent to child as adolescent becomes adult. I know she will succeed but I want to give her the perspective that only time and experience can provide. I want her to be able to say, “I’m glad I know now what he didn’t know then.” But, somethings have to be learned the hard way, and it sucks.
I know she’s a lot smarter and more prepared than I was at her age. She’s well traveled and armed with a variety of skills and life experiences. I’m very proud of her.
I spent the last week preparing for my her graduation party. We partied, raced the next day, packed, and left the day after that.
We stopped at my parents’ house Day 1 and shared conversation and a meal.
Day 2 we toured Liberty University. I met Misty at Liberty. Without Liberty there would be no Misty. No Misty = no Karis, and this trip wouldn’t exist either… I kept looking around and seeing the campus as it was, the perfect memories of dating my wife, and the youthful optimism I now see in my daughter.
We drove around my hometown Lynchburg, VA and I pointed out all that had changed in the last 20+ years since I’ve been gone. A few interesting bookstores were happily added to our agenda.
Day 3 we drove from VA to AR stopping to refuel, stretch, and eat along the way. It was a long painful day in the truck- that seat is not supportive. But we still had fun listening to podcasts and talked. My truck is a 2010, but since I try to use it for primarily truck things, I just finally hit 100,000 miles.
Now we’re in Arkansas, visiting Misty’s sister and family.
(These are the awesome people we bought our goats from)
Hanging out on the farm with their twin boys and younger brother was one of the main purposes of the trip. Today is their birthday party. Should be fun!
Drew founded Mental Grenade Jan 2020. He is a follower of Jesus Christ, a medically retired Marine, EOD Tech, husband, father, writer, mountain biker, photographer, facilitator, and fly-fisherman. He seeks to bridge the civilian – military divide and bring hope through honest communication about difficult issues.
These Veteran stories of struggle, adventure, and post traumatic growth need to be heard!
Join the cause to de-stigmatize mental health issues.
Please SUBSCRIBE, share our website with friends / co-workers, and support us by donation or at the STORE.
Mimi M. Routh
June 17, 2023 14:55Thank you, Drew! Beautiful daughter! Beautiful trip and slice of your good life! Yes, our minds change, and the landscape seems to change — but what changed? I moved in February 2022, a difficult, chaotic move from a place I loved. Into a tiny studio with a junky little kitchen and dirty Darth Vader stove. I sat here in mountains of boxes and no meds, no toothpaste, gate codes to learn and ridiculous housing rules. At first I liked the vet whose window I can see. I had a whole set of likes and dislikes that have mostly flipped in just over a year. The neighbor got so mean and nasty that I didn’t leave my home for 6 days. Cold terror. I have not been that frightened since Chernobyl hit and I was overseas, believing it was the end of the world. He loves his guns. Half of us here are veterans. They say they give veteran preference. That’s only for the wait list. Otherwise, no, not hardly. Oh, there’s a wall of pictures. I told myself that as filthy as this place was when I got here, as stupid as the office woman is, etc. etc. they won’t get my picture! Steps were taken to give me privacy no matter what the man behind that other window does. Oh, I’m not bullet-proof, but there’s mirror film, and I put poster paper up. He thinks he has me fooled that the blinking bicycle light is a camera! He has been talked to. He thinks being slim and clean makes him top drawer. Some of us are chubby and messy. We struggle — and God loves us, too. I pray to be shown. Oh, my angels nudge me into the lane I need so I don’t get swept onto the freeway and a city where the toilets are all closed because of the homeless problem! My angels are working hard. I input the list of vets here, house numbers, full names, branch of service. The man who compiled it is 97 years old. One morning I realized that of the 27 veterans, not only am I the only female. I am the only one who served as an officer. Our manager was also Air Force. The word “respect” came as I thought of the neighbor gossiping around the complex. He says the Russian woman is prostituting herself! I see her lovely and good, caring for her mom. He says that other neighbor is a murderer who served his time and goes for methadone every day. I say that man bangs around a lot because he can’t hear. I wonder what my neighbor could be saying about me. I take the manager my DD214 and a dishy picture of me slim in mess dress, only 22. She is grinning. I tell her I need respect. She frames this and hangs it low enough that everyone can read “CAPT” and active duty 4 years, 11 months, 18 days. . . . I calm down enough to attend Friends of the Library book discussion, my first time of all the places I’ve lived. A fine crowd assembled. Diverse, intelligent, friendly. I struggle with prosopagnosia, difficulty recognizing faces I should know. As we introduced ourselves, I enjoyed hearing names, seeing faces. My thoughts on waking this morning were about cultivating humility in that group, how each person around that table is one of God’s masterpieces. How can I really listen and follow, toss my Covid masks, smile, and make it a lot less about me? We are reading We Begin At The End by Chris Whitaker, about people in California, by a Brit who writes for his own sanity. I love the palm trees here. I finally went to the beautiful Target. It’s like Walmart only I wanted to buy most of what I saw.