Divine Imperfections

Five Minute Friday: Grateful

 

Grateful.

 

Grateful takes work.

Grateful is good, but grateful is hard.

 

 

Jaded. That’s easy. 

Frustrated. All the time.

 

Disapointed, yes. 

But grateful?

 

 

For imperfect people.

Crappy days.

Flowers that will soon be dead.

  

A life that is so unbelievably far from what I had hoped.

 

It’s better in a lot of ways, this life I’m leading.

Don't get me wrong.

 

But it doesn’t look at all like I thought it should.

 

My photos are blurry and grainy and poorly lit. 

Not the sort of white and shiny thing it would be easy to promote on Instagram.

  

But does that mean it’s bad?

Does that mean my life is inferior?

'Cause it wouldn't look right in a magazine?

It doesn't look pulled from the "front page" of Pinterest?

 

 

Raw. Unedited.

But something to be grateful for nonetheless.

That's life.

 

That's my life. 

 

Lots of questions these days.

 

Lots of what ifs. 

And why on earths.

 

Frustrations, little and major, come with nearly every turn these days.

 

But still.

  

 

I see a smiley face sticker on the coffee shop wall.

And take a second to actually savor my next sip of latte.

 

And I pause from those pesky voicemails I have to return, to catch my breath first.

To refocus. To re-see.

 

 

 

Things aren’t so bad. 

In fact, life is pretty great.

 

Not always pretty, clean, or enviable. 

But then again, what place does envy have amongst the living?

 

 

Shouldn’t we all be too busy, and too present, in our own blessed lives, to be anything but grateful for the breaths we alone get to breathe? 

Those are my jumbled thoughts from the wire, words that mark a joyful reunion with the Friday free writers.

I really am thanking God for this weekend, 

Five Minute Friday: Tree

Tree

 

Tree, family tree.

 

Like the tiny sapling that lived in front of my childhood home.

 

By high school its branches had reached the roof, and my window. Scaring me some nights as they brushed up against the glass.

 

 

Now when I go home, what was once no more than a twig with a few leaves, is a mighty elm that greets me before the door.

 

It tells me my travels are over.

 

That tree tells me I’m home again.

 

I’ve really grown to love that tree.

 

 

 

Now I think of the large shade tree outside the house I share with my husband.

 

I think of how many generations have lived in this home, and how much that tree must have seen.

 

 

Kids climbing its strong limbs as they stretch up towards the sky.

 

Birds making their own homes in it.

 

They greet me some mornings when I remember to wake up slowly, and sip my coffee, instead of running into the day like a suicide bomber.

 

 

Tree makes me think of the woodgrain pattern I intended to hand-emboss on all 150 of our wedding invitations.

 

How, for weeks, I thought I could do it all myself.

 

And tried.

 

 

I made one invitation, beautifully embossed, before a good friend stepped in.

 

“You just can’t do it by yourself,” she told me. And I wanted to cry with relief ‘cause I knew she was right.

 

 

So I gave up the woodgrain, and was pleasantly surprised how beautiful the simpler version of our invitation was.

 

I wish I’d known then that sweet friend wasn’t just talking about the invitations.

 

 

 

It’s hard to live in a world where we’re dependent on one another.

 

Like vines, like branches, all connected.

 

All tied together.

 

 

 

Some days we want anything but to be linked at the root with these people we call family.

 

We want freedom. Complete independence.

 

We want to be shut off, and separate, from the world.

 

 

But trees remind us of the truth underlying our dysfunctions, and our difficulties with vulnerability, and our pride, which get in the way of being happy at home.

 

Happy in relationship with our significant others, our parents, our brothers, our friends, our siblings, all these people sharing this same planet, this same sod.

 

 

 

They remind us that the only way to be strong, and to weather this world, to survive the cold winters and bring refreshing shade in the spring, to let others enjoy us, and others support us, is to be in this thing.

 

Together.

 

Like all those beautiful trees.

  - 30 - 

 

 

I think the reason I love the fall so much now, is because the autumn air encourages us to live in community. 

Sharing cocoa, sharing blankets, sharing long walks around the park. The very essence of fall is our need to be together.

 

Like I’m mesmerized by how many colors can exist on one single branch of a tree, I’m amazed how much better it feels to go through life with company. 

Thank God for fall, and the seasons that are easy to love.

 

If you're sick of hearing about Five Minute Friday already then I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry. I can't stop singing its praises.

 

Basically a bunch of great ladies (and a few guys) get together every week in cyber world and spend five minutes free writing about a new subject.

The beauty of it is the freedom that comes in shutting up the inner critic and just letting ideas loose.

Some weeks it's the only thing that restores my sanity. 

 

So, as I've said before, even if you're not yet ready to join the community (and let the world see your work; which you really should!) you should still give this exercise a try sometime. 

You never know what you'll get when you do. It could be disgusting, or it could be delicious. (Isn't that what Forrest taught us?)

 

And just like that we're back to trees. :)

Have a blessed weekend friends.

Five Minute Friday: Rhythm

 

I’ve never had great rhythm, which is very Baptist of me I know.

But it’s also pretty frustrating, since I would love to be able to dance.

 

 

My mother is a great dancer; she’s got natural rhythm and grace.

Me, notsomuch. I mostly flail, with music in the background.

 

 

I toss my arms and my legs about, with deliberate force but unreliable speed.

Simply put, I spazz.

And it is neither graceful nor cute. (At least after the age of five.)

 

 

In junior high band I was decent at tapping my shoe with the percussion line. But if the director threw in one too many eighth notes, things started getting sloppy.

I never did master the perfect rhythm it takes to meet a set mid-air for a glorious spike either. Hence me ending my volleyball career much earlier than I would have liked. 

And in spite of being included in the sixth-grade drill team (which was like a twisted consolation prize for those who didn’t make the cheerleading squad – there was so very little velvet for my pudgy butt to squeeze into) I never could, nor can I now, command a dance floor.

 

It only makes sense then, that when I get one too many things juggling in the air, or when I bite off a bit more than I can chew (like gum while walking), that I start to feel frazzled. 

And frazzled is of course code for FREAKED OUT. 

 

My instinct is to panic when I feel overwhelmed.

 

I'm like a giraffe learning to walk on a halfway frozen pond.

My legs give out under me, and I find myself on my butt.

 

Cold. Discouraged. Tired. Sore from so many falters.

 

I am not one to be graceful under pressure.

I’m lucky if I’m mostly able to keep on my feet.

 

 

And I wish I was one of those girls that could handle all things with grace, like Audrey Hepburn’s doe-eyed characters clamoring their way through dance moves and laughable predicaments.

 

I wish I could have perfect hair, and not miss a beat at work while still managing to keep an immaculate house and hot, home cooked meals on a candlelit dinner table each night.

 

 

But, I’m not Audrey Hepburn, or a character in a movie. Or a ‘50’s housewife. Or a classically-trained dancer (like my mom).

I'm the spazzy young girl in a sequined leotard, with the unsure smile. The one that only ever learned one real tap move.

And I’m that sixth-grader holding a clarinet, confidently tapping my toe along with the beat, until a change of pace comes along and throws me totally off track.

 

I’m that awkward girl in the back of the drill team, uncomfortably squished into spandex, hoping no one notices all my many missteps.

I'm a spazz. A mess. Lacking in gracefulness.

 

But not lacking in grace.

'Cause thank God there is enough of that to go around.

Unlike dance moves, and rhythm, it is not in short supply.

 

It is abundant, and encompassing.

And it covers all the bruises from my falls.

 

 

I was never good at looking ahead in the music, to see what shifts and changes were lying in wait on each coming page.

But even if I had mastered the art of reading sheet music, life’s steps aren’t so clearly laid out.

 

 

I don’t think there’s a no note by note, play by play, guide for how to get through this life, though many people have tried to tell me there is.

 

They offer expensive self-help books. Or point me to highlighted passages in their Bible’s. As if the words in Genesis should be treated like something printed from GoogleMaps.

Turn right here. In .03 miles take a left.

 

 

That’s a nice notion. And it’d sure be handy. But I don’t think we were meant to see every step coming down the road.

That doesn't sound much like faith to me.

 

In fact... 

I think faith is more like accepting an invitation to dance to a song you don’t know
than it's like taking cues from your car’s GPS.

 

 

I think it’s about trusting your partner to show you the way, one step at a time.

About trusting He won’t let you fall, or look like too much of a fool.

 

 

It is easier to face the tough parts of life trusting that God is there for you, and walking, swaying, with you through whatever you face.

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Or uncomplicated. Or that it comes naturally to all who believe.

 

Some people (like me!) struggle, taking steps of faith.

Some people (like me!) struggle trying to dance that rhythm of grace. 

Some people (like me!) spazz and freak and fall, a lot.

 

But that doesn't mean God isn't good. Or real. 

And it doesn't mean the dance isn't worth it.

 

Lately I’ve been fumbling even more than I’m used to. I’m missing notes, and missing steps. And it's tempting to give up altogether, as out of sync as I feel.

 

But I’m also learning. And growing. Painfully slowly. 

Through trying. And failing. And trying again.

 

 

I’m living, in and out of rhythm. Missing steps here and there.

But continuing in this dance all the same.

Thankful for a God who doesn’t disregard me 'cause I'm sometimes disgraceful, or insist I master all the moves before inviting me into the dance.

 

And thankful for people on this same journey, that know what it is to foul up royally.

People that extend grace themselves, as they learn the moves.

As we learn a new rhythm.

Five Minute Friday: Here

 I can’t believe a year (and more) has flown by since we took that first big step together.

 

I waited 27 years to find (and be found) by the man of my dreams.

And now we’re here – 15 months in. 

 

There’s still so much to figure out. About our future. Our plans. 

Where we go from here I don’t really know.

 

I do know I’m blessed to share my life with someone that cheers me on and cheers me up.

Who makes me laugh and wipes my tears.

Who lets me rest my head on his shoulder, where I feel safe, loved. 

And less lost. 

Less alone.

 

Not having all the answers can be frustrating.

It’s easy to get overwhelmed wondering what comes next.

What our next move should be.

 

But it’s a little easier to deal with, knowing I’ve got great company along for the journey.

Wherever we go from here, it’ll be good.

‘Cause we’ve got each other. 

 

Adventures are better together.

So let's get outta here Love.

I know the idea of Five Minute Friday is to write. Without worrying or editing.

But I struggled leaving those last few words in.

 

Is it okay to say I just want to get out of here for a while?

Is it okay for adults to sometimes wanna run away? 

 

I think the sunshine must be inciting my wanderlust.

'Cause right now all I want to do is take a roadtrip somewhere, to get lost in a good book on a  sunny beach.

 

I guess I'll settle for the book, for now.

Happy Saturday friends (and fellow FMF'ers).

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Music Memory: Then Sings My Soul

It was his grandpa's favorite first.

And then it became his.

And now, I get weak in the knees when I hear him sing it. It gets me, every time.

 

It was one of the first songs I ever heard him sing, in fact.

At the little home church responsible for our meeting.

 

I sobbed that first Sunday I heard him sing, because I knew my life would never be the same.

They were happy tears, tears of overwhelming gratitude.

But they were mixed with just a hint of fear, as so often accompanies gigantic life changes.

(Funny how that works.)

 

"Then sings my soul, my Savior, God, to Thee. How great Thou art."

 

 

He is a good God, I believe that at my core.

But I doubt it sometimes (often, if I'm honest).

When times are hard. When bills are due.

When my patience is thin. 

Or my burdens are heavy.

 

Still, when I see a hauntingly beautiful sunset, or smell honeysuckle for the first time each spring...

I can't imagine that coincidence brought those things about.

Just as I can't believe it was mere coincidence that brought us together - Mikael and I.

When I watch the love of my life pour his heart and soul out through a microphone and a hollowed piece of wood, I know that life is bigger than what I can see on a daily basis.

I know there is Divinity at work, because I see it at work in and through him.

 

In spite all my doubts, all my struggles, I trust that He is a good God.

Some moments the trust just comes easier than others.


Listening to my husband sing is one of the moments that faith comes easier. And I'm incredibly grateful for that.

Saturday Mikael and "the boys" (see above) performed a free concert in my hometown.

And while I was busy "preparing" for that show all day - getting the gang pumped up on coffee, running last minute errands, trying to learn the difference between phosphor bronze and 80/20 bronze strings ...

What I didn't do, in my manic state, was take a single second to mentally prepare myself for what was about to happen.

 

In fact, had my dear friend not been there to point out the magnitude of that concert, I might have missed it completely.

Thankfully, she was there, my oldest friend. To point out the obvious truth I was missing in my haste. 

 

Entering the gymnasium where we had played volleyball together...

Where we attended pep rallies, and shared secrets, and developed crushes on all the cute older boys...

 

It struck her, what a special moment that was...

Walking into a dimly lit room, where a bearded man stood confidently behind a mic.

 

She looked at me and said, "Can you believe it?"

 

And I couldn't. I really couldn't.

 

Her wise question is all it took for a flood of memories to sweep over me.

 

So many sleepless nights wondering why my latest crush hadn't called.

Trying in vain to win hearts, with humor. Or the answers to our history homework. Or tighter jeans. 

 

Wondering if anyone would ever like me, in spite of my blemished skin and hidden insecurities.

Worrying, that I'd never be able to trust someone enough to let him truly in.

 

Back then I was sure I'd die miserable and alone, surrounded by cats that would eat my remains. (Maybe that's why I still have a rough time around cats.)

All because the boy in seventh period hadn't noticed my (poor) attempts at flirting.

Or because my tenth-grade crush cared more about keggers than trying to woo my needy heart.

 

But Saturday... all those bittersweet memories played quickly, like a music montage, capped off by an unimaginable joy:

 

Watching a man who has and will see me at my worst, a man who knows my toughest struggles, my biggest fears, and loves me the same.

 

It reminded me how grateful I am, for a great, loving and patient God.

One bigger, and infinitely more wise than I could have imagined at 17.

 

One I know will continue to astonish me for the next 30 years of my life, and more.

One with the good sense not to give me everything I ask for, and instead to make life a little more challenging and a lot more interesting.

And so much better than the plans I sketched in my composition books.

 

This God has long been in the business of catching people off guard.

And taking them down paths they never dreamed they'd go.

 

And I, for one, am thankful He works in mysterious ways.

Leading us precisely where we need to go, in His own perfect (bewildering) time.

 

Oh Lord my God,
When I in awesome wonder
Consider all the worlds
Thy hands have made
I see the stars
I hear the rolling thunder
Thy power throughout
The universe displayed

Then sings my soul
My Savior, God, to Thee
How great Thou art
How great Thou art

Five Minute Friday: Remember... How Sweet It Is To Have Old Friends

REMEMBER...


Remember when we were seventeen, and making up dance moves in the library?

We had crushes on boys, and problems with the high school drama.

And people would call our name to see who turned around.

 

We were just kids, that thought we had grown up.

We were just starting out, we were unsure of ourselves…

 

We still are, only now we are adults, with the bills to prove it.

 

Sitting at a table with you guys is like a time machine.

Instantly I’m 28 and 18-years-old, all at once.

 

I’m a kid, a mess, wondering where to go from here…

And a woman, a wife, thankful where life has taken her so far.

 

We can’t run to Sonic after school anymore.

We can’t go shopping every Saturday afternoon.

 

But when we do get together, it’s as if time stood still.

It’s as if we’re still awkwardly walking those crowded linoleum-floored halls, as if a decade hasn’t passed.

 

And that’s the beauty of having old friends.

That's the beauty of having you guys.

People that have known me through so many ups and downs.

Seen me at my worst, and stood beside me ‘til things got better.

 

 

I can’t imagine life without you in it.

 

I wouldn’t have made it to twenty without the two of you.

You gave me hope that I’d get through.

And together we did.

 

 

Through proms. And hangovers. And leaving for college.

Through break-ups, and proposals, and so much more.

You guys were there.

 

And you still are, and I thank God for that.

 

I still remember cranking up Sir-Mix-A-Lot and rolling the windows down, suiting up in the locker room for volleyball games and painting shirts for pep rallies.

And someday I’ll remember this week, standing beside you as my husband played guitar. Amazed that we could be there, together, those same silly girls, the Jennifer’s, huddled up in a crowd.

 

A little older. A little wiser. But still very much the same.

 

I’m thankful that even in the idiocy of my youth, I surveyed the crowd at our high school and knew you two stood out.

You two mattered. And you two made a difference.

 

You’ve helped me get to where I am now, and I look forward to another twelve years, and more, meeting for coffee, or cheesecake, or crying, or chick flicks…

 

Whatever we need. Wherever we go.

You have been like home, like family.

The ones that have shaped my life for the better.

My Jenns.

- 30 -

Above you see my response to Five Minute Friday's free-writing prompt on the word, "Remember."

It went right along with some things I'd already been thinking about this week, like my oldest, best friends... how fast life goes... and cheesecake.

 

This was a strange week. A sad week in some ways. A wonderful week in others.

It reminded me how short life is, but also how full it can be.

 

There's plenty in life that sucks. Plenty.

Death and taxes and all that.

 

But then there are friends that become family.

And there's love. And cheesecake!

And coffee!!!

The older I get, the more I see the bad that exists in this world.

But I also become more thankful for the good that exists too.

 

And I'm especially grateful that the good outweighs the bad. By a lot.

 

As the great philosopher of our time, John Mayer, put it, "I know the heart of life is good."

 

I hope you have an incredibly wonderful weekend, one filled with loved ones and bear hugs and hearty laughter...

All the good things that make life sweet.

 

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Dreams Do Come True: On Being a Band Wife

I was really bummed I missed #MusicMemoryMonday yesterday.

Instead of whining about it, though, I've decided to live by what could be my life's mantra: "Better late than never."

Here are some belated thoughts on music, more specifically, about being married to a musician.

They're words I wrote several months ago, during a winter retreat, but ones I wasn't brave enough (ready) to post then.

 

After spending Saturday feeling like a nerd at my own husband's rock concert, I realized just how much I need a reminder myself, of the lesson I learned that weekend.

Whether you're "with the band" or not, maybe you'll find some comfort, encouragement.

- - -

This isn’t quite what I had in mind when I agreed to go to camp with my husband.

Him out exploring with the guys from the band, me laying in bed with tummy troubles, in a room that smells like wet carpet and years’ worth of lingering BO.

 

I thought just choosing to be brave by coming here, stepping out of my comfort zone, would be enough.

I thought it’d get easier after getting here.

I thought I’d realize all my worries were in vain, that I’d get so “wrapped up in the Spirit,” that all my “worldly” troubles would cease to exist.

 

I thought wrong.

 

I expected overt, immediate miracles to happen.

Instead, I am realizing that I can’t outrun my cold, or myself. 

 

I am learning slowly, very begrudgingly lately, that most of us don’t have a Paul conversion, a blinding moment followed by a 180 degree turn.

We don’t go from killing Christians to giving our very lives up for Christ.

 

We go from moments/years of self-loathing and struggle, to giving up, going before God, and then trying again. And again. And again.

 

We spend much of our lives wishing “walking the faith” worked a bit more like magic, wondering when things will suddenly be different… 

All the while quietly, stubbornly refusing to move much.

We want a better life. 

We just don’t want to work for it.

Or even bend for it.

 

I spent most of last night struggling to sleep, fighting coughing attacks brought on by a cold that’s moved from my head to my chest… trying all the while not to wake my poor, sleeping husband who was inches away from me on a double mattress that is half water bed, half trampoline.

 

And let me tell you something. 

This is not the “victorious life” I thought I was promised.

 

This is not the dream I had for myself, the one I thought would magically happen because it seemed good, which I thought meant it must be God’s will.

This is a nightmare, an embarrassing, awkward nightmare. 

But this is my life. Right here. This messy, seemingly God-forsaken moment.

 

And in my physical weakness, I'm forced to question my self-reliance. I'm forced to face the truth, that I can't do everything well all the time.

I'm forced to see myself as human, fallible, a mess even.

 

But I also get a chance to see where true strength comes from.

I see an opportunity, to develop some healthier thought habits.

I have a chance to take a deep breath, and to remember this as a spiritual retreat.

I have a chance to stop trying so hard, and simply be.

Strange experiences, like being sick at church camp, would be a lot easier, I’m sure, had I not created such unreasonable ludicrous expectations in my youth.

As a teen attending Christian camp, the musicians’ wives always seemed like the coolest people on campus.

 

They always had just-came-from-the-salon hair. They were edgy (at least for Southern Baptist circles). That meant they had nose rings, pink streaks, or fashionable scarves around their necks, even in summer.

They had perfect skin the second they woke up, and eyeliner that didn’t smear, even after the perfect amount of unattainably cute crying during really moving songs.

 

They were beautiful. Flawless really. 

They were outgoing, and cool.

 

They never looked like they were trying too hard. They didn’t look like they were trying at all, actually.

They just exuded awesomeness.

 

And they couldn't be more different than me.

 

As a musician’s wife of going on thirteen months now, I have yet to show up at a gig with fresh makeup, or a nose ring.

I have shown up with a sweaty brow from unloading heavy equipment from the back of our beat-up Jeep, and tired eyes from late-night practices, photo-editing, and arguing about another visit to Guitar Center.  

I don't exude awesomeness; I reek of trying too hard.

And deep down I'm not trying to be better, or to do my best.

 

I'm trying to keep up with the Disney-ified version of a Band Wife I bought into in my youth, instead of accepting my role as Mikael's wife, instead of learning the delicate art of being me.

 

This trip in particular has been especially memorable, in that I couldn’t be farther from the glamorous images I have pinned in my mind.

 

I sweated so profusely during last night’s “worship” set, that I felt like the evil witch in Wizard of Oz. 

It’s only 11:30 a.m. as I write this, and already my cheap eyeliner is inexplicably smudged.

 

Instead of spending the morning out shaking hands and exuding a level of coolness that teen girls can aspire to, I ate a cold sausage biscuit, alone, in a giant dining hall.

And that was followed by a not-so-spiritual “quiet time” here in the smelly room, struggling with tummy troubles, and wondering why I’m not at all like those glamorous wives I saw growing up.

 

I’m a grunt, a roadie, and a weak one at that.

I go nearly catatonic in large groups of people, and speak so softly in regular conversation that my husband can barely hear me.

 

Despite weeks of advanced notice I ended up packing so frantically for this trip that I forgot essentials like tennis shoes, and a hairbrush. 

"Clearly I’m not cut out for life on the road, much less looking pretty behind the 'merch' table," the evil voice whispers over my soul.

 

"I am ill-equipped at best. Awkward in my own skin," it taunts.

And yet, here I am.

 

I’m a woman, married to a musician, one I prayed for, one I love...

A man I vowed to stand beside, for better or worse, in sickness and health, and through all kinds of band stuff…

I can't let the insecurities I let stop me in my teens keep me from becoming the woman, the grown-up and the wife I want to be... 

But I also can't sit around waiting to be made into something different, while stubbornly refusing to budge.
  

 

I know now, more than ever, that I will never be the “Band Wife” I looked up to all those years at camp.

If she does exist, she is certainly not me, a gal with perpetually chipped nail polish and a heavy sweater under pressure.

 

But I am also learning that those weaknesses don't disqualify me from being a good band wife.

And they definitely don't mean I can't be my husband’s best wife.

Because what my husband really needs isn't a hairdo and a painted-on smile.

He needs for me to show up, the real me...

 

The one he promised his life to, for better, for worse, and for those "nothing to wear" times too.

 

It's time I stop dreaming about the life I wanted as a kid, and time to start taking steps towards the life I want now, as a woman, and as a wife.

 

It’s time now to roll up my sleeves and work towards the “abundant life” I was offered as a Christian, instead of waiting for it to fall from the sky.

It’s time to act on what matters to me, to worry less about what doesn’t, and to find my footing as my husband’s other half, knowing my dress size and hairdo do not define me.

It's time to show up, as my real self, trusting that's good enough.

 

Being a good wife isn’t about perfect salon hair.

It's not about pore-less porcelain skin.

It’s about living out the commitment that was made, in sickness and in health.

It’s about giving one’s best, for better or worse.

 

It’s about standing by his side, cheering from the sidelines, or manning (womanning?) the merch table as needed. 

 

But mostly it’s about being present. And supportive.

And proud to be a band wife, proud to be his wife.

 

And I am, so proud (and thankful) to be married to a man whose helping me to become my best self, flat hair and all.

 

For Better or Worse, and Even Really Awkward Marriage Conferences

Here we are, at the very start. Bright-eyed & with no idea what we were getting into. ;)

A few weeks ago Mikael and I spent about six hours at a marriage conference in Allen.

Though we each had our reservations about saying “yes,” we agreed to go at my parents’ recommendation.

 

I grew up thinking all marriages must be really easy – that’s how my parents made it look (those of you that know them can attest to this). But as a newlywed myself, my parents let me in on a secret - they actually put a lot of work into it.

One way they said they make their relationship work is by taking part in as many “learning opportunities” as they can.

So, my husband of a year and I heeded their advice and said a hesitant “yes” to the conference, a chance to learn as a couple (plus "yes" to the free hotel stay that went with it; that which was much easier to agree to).

 

Unfortunately we had a few weeks for our nerves to build up before actually attending the conference.

Would we be packed in a room with strangers (plus my parents, and a dozen couples from their church)?

Would we have to breakout into sessions without each other?

Would we be the youngest people there by several decades?

Would we leave feeling worse than when we got there?

Would they convince us we were actually wrong for each other? Toxic, like a Brittany Spears song/relationship?

By the time Friday came we were both on edge and frazzled.

It’s no wonder, really, that we had a pretty intense fight before leaving the house that day.

 

In fact, when we checked into the hotel we had once been so excited to stay at, the grandeur of the fine accommodations was lost on us.

We were still pretty sore with one another, and obnoxiously loud Abba playing in the elevator on the way up to our room didn’t help.


As much as I wanted the fancy suite, complete with Neutrogena travel toiletries, flatscreen and a full-sized Hershey bar, to magically end our squabble, or at least diminish our anxiety, alas… it did not.

Instead we continued exchanging cross words, and feeling miserable that we’d ever agreed to attend the conference in the first place.

 

And we felt this way all the way to the conference, which, very much like our predictions, did involve a large room filled with name-tagged couples, most of which looked a lot happier at that juncture than us.

 

There we were. Tear-stained newlyweds, barely talking, in a sanctuary filled with handholding couples straight out of a life insurance commercial.

We weren’t excited to be there.
We did not have high hopes.
We didn’t even like each other at that moment.

 

We wanted to be anywhere else but there. Most importantly we wanted time apart.

 

Still, we showed up. Reluctantly. Together.

And I’m so glad we did.

 

From the start the speaker spent most of the time talking about the differences between men and women.

 

And I know this sounds like “no duh” territory.

But for me at least, it really was beneficial.

 

Over and over the speaker used the phrase, “not wrong, just different.”

And it was through that lens that he shared humorous stories, sociological research and Scripture, all pointing to the idea that couples are brought together to strengthen and to complement one another.

 

And I liked that message a lot.

(I desperately needed to hear it.)

 

As an adult, as a wife, as a Christian, I’ve come to believe strongly that marriage was not made for people to live hunky-dory happily ever after, the way I thought it was as a kid (one that watched The Little Mermaid a few too many times).

Instead I choose to believe, and trust, that marriage was created to make life richer, fuller, and ultimately better, by allowing people to share it.

 

Their days. Their dreams. Their lives.

Messily. Majestically. Intertwined.

 

 

And what I took from the conference was just that - an expert, well-spoken survey of how our differences make us stronger…

Reinforcement that relationships were never meant to be easy. But also that they’re important.

 

All of life boils down to relationship.

With one another. With Creator God. With the people we share this planet with, especially the one we share a bed with.

 

 

And I don’t want to sound like I’m on a soapbox here.

In fact, Mikael and I agreed months ago that we’d try very hard not to share too much, and especially not to give advice about relationships, seeing as we’re still very much starting out ourselves.

 

We’re far from perfect. We’ve got tons to learn.

Plus it’s dangerous territory sticking your neck out like this.

 

We agreed our 40^th anniversary would be a good time to start explaining how we made things work, assuming we make it to 40 (if the hotdogs don’t do me in before then).

 

But…

 

I felt like this is one good exception to that rule…

Because what I’m sharing is advice carefully curated from other people’s research, careful study, and hard-earned wisdom, not my own…

And also because it’s important, what with relationships being what life is created around and all…

It seems good to share this information, even if it is abridged, and with a little personal history thrown in just for kicks (with approval from my hubby).

 

 

I hope just hearing this tiny bit will give you a bit more appreciation for your S.O. (Significant Other’s) unique traits.

I hope “not wrong, just different” will prove an argument diffuser the way it has around here.

Mostly I hope that you’ll be reminded how the best things in life require a bit more effort, but are way more than worth it in the end.

 

With or without the chocolate incentive… like that Hershey’s bar waiting for us after a long day of learning...

The best things aren't things at all. They are people committed to sharing life with you.

#TeamAguilar for the win.

Suddenly Everything's Right

Several months ago I invited myself along with a friend & former coworker to take pictures of a grass fire.

The firefighters had the blaze under control when we got there, which meant we were able to get up close to the flames.

And while fires are dangerous and detrimental, and I’d never encourage someone to start one… I have to admit they’re pretty cool to watch, much less through a zoom lens.

 

Unfortunately, in my haste to get on the scene and brush off my dusty reporter’s skills, I wore my favorite leopard flats to the scene.

They were super comfortable, and fairly stylish, and I had snagged them for the bargain price of $15 while on our honeymoon in Austin. I could wear them for practically any occassion, and got compliments on them frequently.  

But a few hours into my "assignment," several uninhabited acres off a country road weren’t the only things covered in soot.

The unbelievably comfortable, golden leopard flats were now a dingy gunmetal grey, and they wreaked of burnt tires and timber.

My shoes were ruined, really, destroyed.

I guess you could say, they got burned. (I'm awful.)

 

 

I left them on my parents’ porch that night, assuming they were now worthless, but hesitant to personally chunk such a sentimental pair of shoes.

But I saw them again a week ago, while riding in my sister's car.

I don’t know how they got there, or how they avoided the trash, but I decided to take them home, just to see what could be done.

 

In the heat of the moment (pun attended) I'd given up all hope on them being redeemable, but now more soberly-minded, and after hours and hours of unsuccessfully scouring around for similar and affordable shoes, I figured, what the heck.

I might as well see if my flats could be salvaged; I didn't have anything to lose.

 

So yesterday I threw my dingy, soot-covered shoes in a pillowcase (per random internet instructions) and set them to wash, delicately, in cold water.

My hopes were so low I waited hours after hearing the washer alert me it was done, to finally open the lid and see my shoes’ fate. (This is also why I didn't take "before: pictures. I was sure they were goners.)

 

I figure they’d either look the same, or utterly destroyed, with faux fur lining everywhere and the leopard spots completely vanished.

But then I pulled them from the now filthy pillow case.

 

I was astonished!

My old shoes, the ones I was so quick to give up on, were practically good as new.

   

After letting them air out on top of the dryer, and marveling each time I passed them, I finally slipped them on today.

They even feel the same, as they did before the soot. Cozy like house slippers, but not nearly as embarrassing to wear in public.

 

They smell fresh. And they look good.

Without any traces of the sad fate they once held. Here they are, back in my footwear collection. Back on my feet, in fact.

They are restored, to their former beauty.

And I am so thankful.

 

Cause the only thing better than new shoes, is a favorite pair that's good as new.

 

If I’d have seen this transformation on TV I’d have called it too good to be true.

But because I not only saw the before and after, but took part in it, I know in this case it is true.

 

The shoes I had deemed a loss, are now back to being my go to flats.

And all they needed was a quick wash.

 

It’s pretty remarkable isn’t it, how even something that seems beyond repair can be brought back to life?

All it took was a little TLC.

 

And I think that's what a lot of the "broken" things in this world need.

Just a little tender Love and care.

To restore them.

To make them like new.

And Then We Were Here: A Kitchen I'll Describe Profusely

Just like that, it's time to load the car back up. Time to spend another 27 hours driving, only this time we're heading home.

Already I'm hoping the puppy's panic farts are a little less severe, and that the pitstops are a little more successful than our visit to White Castle was on the way here.

But I'm also starting to dread the inevitable goodbye that we'll have to say to this charming coastal city, particularly this beautiful beachside neighborhood we've come to know so well.

The house we've been blessed to stay in is a beautiful, grey-paneled two-story summer home.

Downstairs Mikael and I have had a lovely room with a cozy double bed. It's right by the bathroom with the window that looks out on water/highway. The small river sparkles in the breaking sunlight. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure at least a few commuters saw my bare bottom in the evenings before I realized the curtain was up. Good times. It's not a vacation unless someone makes a... fool of herself.

I'm glad I could get the party started so to speak.

Our room was also near the TV/hangout area, which is filled with green leather and wood couches (not unlike the ones my parents finally replaced a few years ago, from Cargo).

There are also two bookcases crowded with loved paperbacks, puzzles, games, and pretty much every Fisher Price toy I remember having as a child (in the 80's; the classic zoo, barn and fold-up house...). There's also a small TV we've used for movie nights, and a coffee table currently housing a mostly finished puzzle of a cat.



It's mostly finished 'cause the real cat started getting jealous of the puzzle cat (which in her defense, did bear a striking resemblance). Also, the dog may or may not have eaten, then regurgitated several pieces.

The investigation is ongoing, but let's just say some of puzzle cat's fur is not looking so good. (The cookies on the other hand... yum!)

 

Upstairs there's a large kitchen, complete with a six-stooled bar that curves around the stovetop. It's a perfect spot for watching the chef, or the poor sap taking a turn doing dishes... or for hosting an impromptu family meeting while preparing leftovers (one of my favorite meals of the trip - what a weirdo I am).



I would like to confide in you how the important family meeting quickly diverged to a discussion of what else - poop! - but I don't know if I'm privy to share that kind of stuff with the entire internet. I think we may still be trying to resemble a classy, reserved family here.

I'll check my confidentiality agreement and get back to you on this.

 

I can share that the kitchen (which we promptly stocked with coffee, bacon, local eggnog, and homemade Oreo Truffles, so basically, all the necessities) unfolds onto an actual dining room, with six stately chairs and a small folding chair thrown in.

I can't begin to explain to you why little details like this seem so important to me, but they do. Perhaps if I hadn't lost every game I played in it (Yahtzee, Skipbo, Pass the Pigs, Golf) or if I'd had the discipline to wake up early enough to see the sun rise over the water it wouldn't be a small blue metal chair I'd be engraining in my memory right now.

Maybe then it'd be my awesome victories, or a breathtaking landscape of a city I may never see again that I'd be imprinting.

But instead, I will remember this little chair. And how cute the mini Farkle looks on this dining room table. How many boxes of Kleenex we've left all over the place here (two of our team have been sick most of the trip - I'm thankful they're both better troopers than I would have been), and how much I love the view here.



Just knowing the beach is so close warms my heart. (A good thing, as it turns out, on a Winter vacation in the North East.)

I'll also remember laughing so hard at family stories I thought I might pee my pants (which is definitely something everyone would have remembered).

And how excited my Mom got when she finally Yahtzee-d. (She looked and sounded like a stressed out cat, but I know her well enough to know that was pure excitement she was expressing.)

 

I'll remember Teddy falling asleep under my feet as I read most mornings, and Ellie strolling the table, sticking her little kitty face in every cup she could get to (including ones she can't really fit in; those are my favorite).



I'll remember watching the two of them play with the chess pieces, and Mom putting on a John Tesh CD (there's a lot of "classical music" upstairs) before Dad graciously changed it to something less sucky.

Which reminds me, we spent New Year's Eve - part of it - around this very dining table that I'm talking about incessantly.

We blew out candles on a Funfetti cake the cat keeps trying to eat. We laughed, and stayed warm, while making plans to go see an Anchor Drop (Delaware's version of what Time Square does).

And we began what has been an absolutely wonderful stay here. A dream vacation. A much-needed, very-grateful-for-it time of rest, rejuvenation.

 

I love that we got to visit New York. And that we explored the downtowns near this house. We saw family from out-of-state, and had opportunities to eat great food, photograph lovely places... everyone but Mikael and I squeezed in a day trip to D.C.

We dog sat, and started books, and drank coffee, and talked, and pumped him full of over-the-counter cold medicines. And did laundry.

And it was heavenly. To be in a quiet house just resting (and eating leftover cupcakes) with my husband, what a novelty! I loved it.

 

And I think that is what will stand out most in my mind, about this trip, this getaway, to a town we'd never heard of, in a state we'd never been to...

How much fun it was just to be in this house with my family. All of it. (*Save my hardworking brother. And G'ma. Who would have been super fun, but would not agree to ride in the cartop carrier - I kid. I kid.)

 

Today is actually Mikael and my first-year anniversary. (Thanks Allison for the early morning reminder/congrats!)

365 days ago today I was donning a dress I haven't worn since, trying unsuccesfully not to panic that our bouquets were too long. Eating a Sonic corndog while having my nails painted. And counting down the hours 'til I would say "I do" to the man I picked to spend my life with, the man who picked me to form a family with.

We had no idea then what we were signing up for - lots of change, lots of trials, unbelievable joys, almost always at super simple things, learning, growing, annoying one another, adoring one another, being challenged, being blessed, learning, again... - but I'm glad we meant what we said.

I'm so thankful that we've stuck it out, for better or worse, in sickness and health, in beachside two-story homes and in sleeping in cramped cars that reak of panic farts.

I'm so thankful for him, and the heart that he has.

And while some people must shutter at the idea we're celebrating this anniversary with my entire family* - dog and cat included - I'm really thankful we were able to come along on this journey, sort of cementing, if you will, the fact that we are forging our own path, but with the support of both our circles, the ones that raised us and love us still.

 

I've had a lot of time over the past year to get to know Mikael's family, to spend time with them and to love them, both for everything they mean to him, and for how quickly they adopted me into their clan.

This week I'm so thankful that Mikael has had the chance to do the same. To see where I come from, where I get my cheesy sense of humor and my ability to shriek at the slightest scare, my love of dice games and travel and hotdogs and...

He's had a chance to appreciate (hopefully ;) my family's unique brand of weirdness, and for both of us to see that we're not alone in this, this journey we started one year ago, today.

It's amazing how quickly time flies. And that's cliche and trite. But it's still absolutely true.

 

I have said this is a dream vacation, but the truth is there's no way. I could never have dreamed up something so lovely as this - time spent with the people I not only love, but genuinely like, whose company I enjoy.

I'm so thankful to have spent a week around this dining room table with them.



And thankful, in particular, to have spent a year with the beardiest one of them.

 

Thank you family, for raising me to appreciate ridiculous humor, painfully long roadtrips and to recognize good people when I see them.

And thank you Mikael, for putting up with me at my worst, for challenging me to be my best, and for laughing just the right amount when I do all kinds of stupid/silly things in between.

It's been an adventure thus far, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Now let's stuff our faces with donuts, take a stroll at the beach, and get pumped about folding ourselves into a Montero for the next 27-hour leg of this adventure!