17 November 2010

And God was like, "Jess. Relax. I've got this."

Selective Service.  Men between the ages of 18 and 26 have to register with the Selective Service.  In case our country is forced to re-institute the draft during a time of war, the gov't needs to know how many able-bodied men are available.

Did you know that non-citizens have to register?

I sure didn't.  And neither did my Bolivian husband when he arrived to the US on a fiancée visa 11 months before his 26th birthday.  

We were meticulous.  We used a fine-toothed comb, over and over again as we went through the laborious and costly process of getting married and adjusting the status of my new husband to Permanent Resident.  The hubs is from South America << of the Bolivian persuasion  >> .  I'm from North  America << of the US persuasion  >>.  
Wedding Day Bliss
In order to mate and build a nest together up north, we had to fill out approximately one truckload of forms, have fingerprints taken, give hair and saliva samples, show proof of our love and marriage << -picture Al and Peggy- Love and Marriage, Love and Marriage, Go Together Like a Horse and Carriage... >>, jump through hoops, sing television sitcom theme songs, and perform a perfect 10 square dance together.  You might think I'm joking.

House. First time home-buyers no less.
So a few years pass.  We're still happily married.  We've got a house and a dog.  And the hubs loves politics.  So much so that he said before the last election, "I wish I could vote."  Voting is a both a right and a privilege.  I exercise mine << do you exercise yours? >>.  I decided to check.  Not on you and whether or not you vote.  I decided to check on what it would take for the hubs to become a US citizen.  

Come to find out, there would be another truckload of paperwork- along with a trunk full of money- required to start the process, but the process we did start, in order to have my "alien" husband become a US Citizen.

Once we forked over both the truckload and the trunk full, we offered more fingerprints, gave more hair and saliva samples, jumped through more hoops while catching Frisbee's in the air, and we eventually landed in Memphis  << grateful for the opportunity to drive approximately 14 hours in less than 24 >>.  

Interview time... dunh dunh dunhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  I thought I'd get to go back with the hubs for his interview, civics/history test,  and whatever else they planned to require of him for this 2nd of 3 steps in the citizenship process.  

I. Got. Denied.  And it went something like this:

Officer: Mr. Boke... Mr. Bock... 
Me: Honey, that's you.  Let's go.
Officer: David? << nods...   then to me >> Who are you?
Me: Oh, << back off mutha effa >> I'm his wife.

Officer: You can't go back with him.
Me: Oh... Really? Are you sure?
Officer: ... << Glares >> ...
Me: Thanks. I think I'll just wait over here with the nice Polish couple.

15 minutes later the hubs comes out in a huff, mumbling something about needing to go and register for the Selective Service.  

Huh-what?!?  You can't register after age 26.  We studied that question on the drive over.  And the SS office is in Illinois, which is a long way away from Memphis.  Gah!

We eventually hit the road home, opting to take this setback as a great opportunity to deal with more paperwork, hoops, hair and saliva, and probably more money.

Fast forwarding here so as not to bore you with all the details of the process, we were fairly hopeless that the hubs would get sworn in anytime soon.  And then we read this one little eensy weensy teenie tiny paragraph on the form we filled out for his permanent residence.

And there was a << very dim >> spark. We waited. And waited and waited and waited.  Deadlines were approaching, and we were getting antsy, nervous, and anxious. << when both of us are worked up like that, it ain't pretty folks >>

This past Sunday night we were in a mad dash to clean the house because folks were coming over for Bible study the next night.

I'm in the office, and the hubs is in the kitchen.  He comes into the room, and holding a postcard he says to me, "Honey, is this what I think it is?" << there was a trace of hope in his voice >>.  I looked at this postcard-- dated the Monday before... return address Illinois... something about Selective Service(!)... registration number(!)... since 2006(!)


That eensy weensy teenie tiny paragraph on the form we filled out for his permanent residence is what did the trick.  Whew!  What a relief!

Here's how the rest of the conversation went:
Hubs: How long do you think we've had it?
Me: Gosh, I have no idea.  It's dated the 8th, probably arrived on the 10th, today's the 14th... there's no telling.
Hubs: Can you believe they sent this on a POSTCARD?
Me: No... they alway send our official stuff in the exact same kind of envelope. I never would have thought they'd send a postcard.
Hubs: Ahhhh!
Me: Ahhh!
<< literal high fives all around while jumping up and down >>
Hubs: You know where it was?
Me: Where?
Hubs: On the kitchen table... right on top of your Generosity devotional.
Me: Really?


So fast forward to that window of time right before bed when we're talking, de-briefing the day.  I have this AHA moment.  God was totally using this to show me something, giving me answers to the questions we'd been wrestling with around the subject of the hubs and his citizenship.

AHA Part 1: God was in control the whole time.  From the very beginning of our relationship, God has been right smack-dab center of it.  God has been orchestrating the whole thing from before the hubs and I ever met.  We've danced this dance, me and God, for the past 7 years << that's about how long I've been both listening and actively participating >> where God leads, I follow, and when God says LEAP, I LEAP << faith and fear cannot co-exist >>. Among a multitude of other areas, God has the hubs and his citizenship process under control, too.

AHA Part 2: God needed us to slow down.  As a result of the paperwork snafoo and subsequent delay, the hubs' relatives who are coming for the holidays will probably be in town for his swearing in.


And God was like, "Jess.  Relax.  I've got this...... No really.  I've got this."

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