I have a new post for you which I will upload tomorrow (probably will be ready by the time you get up). It goes over my typical day, with the obligatory semi-snarky commentary. I was gonna up that one today, but a single event changed my mind, to wit:

After work, I went to eat with a couple of my medics, then we dropped off laundry and went to the gym. We walked back to the canisters, and said goodbye for the night, and after I showered, I went into my lonely, strange little square plastic cave, and closed the vinyl door behind me.

There are these sudden, sometimes unexpected moments out here in which I suddenly recall where I am, and, more pertinently, where am I not. I am not in Evans, GA, with my family. I don’t want you to think that I constantly wallow in this fact, or spend inordinate amounts of time feeling sorry for myself, because I honestly do not. But it would be impossible not to feel the pangs of separation at certain times. For me, I can’t always predict these moments, but they usually come when other distractions have subsided (i.e., when I have hunkered down for the night).

For three of the last four days, just as I was starting to feel a wee bit lonely, I was immediately called by Lorri. It was almost as if she sensed it (and maybe she did; in each case, she was feeling similar pangs of loneliness). One of these was on Saturday morning, but it was way too early to call back home (we are seven hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time here). As I cleaned out my quarters that AM, I kept glancing at the clock on my computer, trying to determine the earliest possible time that I could reasonably call home. I was in the midst of trying hard to mentally justify a 1 PM call (6 AM back home), when suddenly my computer started making that beautiful Skype tone which signals an incoming call, and it was Lorri on the line.

Same thing happened tonight. I will get more into Skype later, but suffice it to say that it is a free video and/or audio calling service, which enables people all across the world to communicate with one another. It is not perfect, especially with my sloooooow internet, but it is pretty good most of the time. When I clicked to accept the call, and the pixelated, laggy, choppy video came up and I saw Lorri there on the screen, one half of our bedroom in the background, my heart was home again, and hearing Lorri’s sweet voice reminded me of the solid truth that our families (as opposed to bricks, mortar, and drywall) are our real homes in this world. I also understood exactly why Joseph Smith said about his wife Emma that “I would go to hell for such a woman.”

We didn’t talk about much today: the kids, the dog, the guy power-washing our house, the ubiquitous Barbara Wall (our much-loved neighbor who walks seemingly 8 hours a day, almost always passing our house while Lorri and I are Skyping), the mail, the bills, more kids, more dog, Barbara Wall coming around again. But it is not what we talk about that matters. Just the act of being “together” for a moment, of continuing to share our lives in spite of the separation, this is strengthening and uplifting to me. Sometimes Lorri sees me on the webcam and suddenly stops talking and asks me why I am laughing at her, but I am not laughing. I am just smiling “wide as a ringin’ bell,” and wondering how in the heck I got so very very lucky.

Lorri, my sweet, sweet wife, thank you for calling me tonight. Thank you for taking care of Maddy, Drew, and Maya in my current absence and before. Thank you for loving me all of these many years (18 now, long enough for both of us to forget our recent, separated anniversary until the following day, and neither of us got upset about it). Thanks for wearing that funny little French-looking hat today—it was/is so very Lorri and no one else, and Lorri—with two “r”s, a french hat, an ever-diminishing Canadian accent, an indisputable sense of style and grace, and the same sweet, sweet vulnerability I fell in love with so many years ago—it is that Lorri who I needed tonight.

I, too, would go to hell for such a woman. In fact I’m already there. Ah, well, at least it’s a dry hell.

Goodnight, Lorri-Sue Rupard. I love you.

–Erik