Small Things Add Up
What to do when we don't know what to do
Two weeks ago but probably not even that, Lane and I are walking through the house as we clean. We’re tidying up, putting away the final remnants of Christmas. For the first time in his career, he took leave to just be home. We intended to rest but decided to re-paint our kitchen cabinets instead.
The news is on in the background while we move, so much is happening, too much is happening, we can’t keep up with it. A new headline every day, a new country enters the chat every day. Cuba. Iran. Venezuela. What’s next?
“Lane,” I say, “What is happening right now?”
“I don’t know,” he replies, “but I don’t feel good about it.”
What we don’t say is that any of these scenarios could impact the U.S. military in a blink. What we don’t say, but what we both know, is that in his line of work, we’re not just watching news headlines, we’re watching potential deployment scenarios for units. Not much to say besides that, there’s too much we don’t know.
We don’t know, we don’t know, we don’t know.
On a Sunday morning not long ago, we have NFL football on the tv. It’s the first weekend of playoffs, the games are thrilling. One of the players has thick white tape running the length of his arm. Ellie notices, asks about what’s on the receiver’s arm and why he has it. This gets the girls paying attention to the players in detail, and Mae notices that the quarterback has a little book with flaps and words on his forearm. He keeps referencing it. “What’s that for?” she asks.
Lane says, “They’re for play calling. I actually used to wear one of those when I was a FSO.” It shocks me to my core that there are still things about his prior service days that I don’t know, stories about his life that are still new to me; I was there, after all. I can’t begin to picture what would be in his play-call book of sorts so I exclaim, “What in the world would you have in them?”
“Imagery of our objective,” he replies and then there’s a good play on the tv and we all move on.
An athlete uses it to know where to throw a football, a soldier uses it on missions instead.
One part of this life that I didn’t know to expect, yet happens all the time: The collision of mundane and military, ordinary and war, and then we all move on.
I didn’t know what I didn’t know.
That same Sunday, before the football games collided with war stories, I decided to sit down with my journal. I used to be a word-of-the-year girl, I used to be a let’s-dream-big girl, I used to chart it out and dream it out and try to become the best version of myself I could possibly be.
And then one year, Lane deployed on January 9th for the whole of the year, upending any plans I could come up with.
And then one year the world was on fire and he got called into work on New Year’s Eve. I said goodbye not knowing the next time I would see him again.
And then.
And then.
And then.
I used to be a plan-out-your-year and claim-a-word kind of girl until I wasn’t.
I settled into more of a que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, live in the moment kind of girl.
And then the year turned to 2026 and I felt a passion about this upcoming year that I hadn’t felt in a while. I felt that pull to dream it out again, to brainstorm the kind of person I want to be, did I dare want to name a word to speak over my year?
I did, I realized. I wanted to dream again.
Sunday morning, January 11, I sit down with my journal, my planner. I think about who I was last year, what worked, what didn’t. I write out what I want to change, who I want to be, rhythms of life that I want to follow. I dream big, I plan, I chart out goals and how to achieve them.
Sunday afternoon, January 11, my dad died.
My Powersheets planner is still sitting next to our couch in the same exact spot it was when I got the unexpected, devastating call. I haven’t opened it since.
Will I again?
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
I didn’t know how much we would have to hold at once, what it would be like to talk about warfighters in one conversation and then sign a field trip permission form the next. I didn’t know what it would be like to turn on news coverage and then turn it off quick before I worry the girls. I didn’t know what it would be like to lose my dad and then have to send my husband off for a two-week training exercise, the Army keeps rolling along.
I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know.
In the midst of a lot of don’t knows right now, here is what I do know:
When I was in the thick of grief, not even 24 hours after the great undoing of my life, a care basket showed up on my front porch, dropped off by a friend. The gentleness of not knocking, the extravagance of what was inside, the thoughtfulness to care for my physical body with chocolate and blankets and eye masks was abundant care.
When I saw an acquaintance at a school event, she walked up to me with tears in her eyes. This woman doesn’t speak my language but her husband works with mine. She grabbed my two hands in hers, pressed a Starbucks gift card into it, and closed my palms around it, her hands around mine. We stood there for a moment, tears dripping down both of our cheeks while 5thgraders ran wild and free.
My daughters have been rubbing my back the way I do theirs, they have been extra attentive to not leave their shoes around, they have been writing me notes.
My husband held me in the worst moment of my life as I wailed and he never let go.
Neighbors dropped off meals and Lane’s leadership was kind to him and a Cava gift card is balm to a weary soul.
Even when I was in a fog of shock, I know that there were still sunrises and sunsets because friends texted me pictures of them to show me they were still happening. There was still goodness- do you see it?
Small things, every single one of them.
Life rafts, every single one of them, keeping me afloat.
When there’s uncertainty in what lies ahead- with our husband’s work, with what’s going on in our world, with where we will live and when
When we turn on the news and there is violence in the streets
When we feel overwhelmed and unsure and worried
When the worst happens, but we have to keep going.
I have found that going small is the way to make it through.
There’s a lot we can’t do right now.
There’s a lot we can.
We can hold on tight to each other, no words necessary
We can send the text, make the phone call
We can make a meal and double it and send it to the neighbor
We can send a verse, a song, a prayer because don’t you know- those are life-rafts that keep us from sinking.
It’s small.
But small things add up.
What a place to start.
xo,
Sarah
P.S. If you’re new around here, I am so, so glad to have you. I write a monthly letter full of things I need to be reminded of, and believing I’m not the only one thinking/feeling/living through something, I write stories about it. They’re stories told through the lens of the military experience, looking at our connection with God and our connections with each other.
So much love to you as you find your own ways to go small. Take care of each other, take care of each other, take care of each other.
If you know of someone who might be encouraged by these thoughts too, feel free to share away!