One week ago I sat here pouring out the angst and heartache of having to break my children's hearts at Christmas. We were saying no to a dog and I typed the grave injustice of it all...

Today this dog snores on our landlord's loveseat, nose pointed in the air, her name Cocoa.

I should apologize first to my friends and father, whom I bombarded with tearful texts and questions and frustrations. Our life is normal, but it's also not. And the bumper-stickered car next door - "A dog is for life, not just for Christmas" - haunts me still. I'm not accustomed to making decisions "for life." I can hardly make decisions "for Monday." 

But after 48 hours worth of research and emotionally turbulent negotiations, we said yes to a dog anyway.

Ella hasn't stopped creating still-life portraits of her since. Our house is overflowing with Cocoa drawings. Four days in and we wake up early, to make sure she goes outside. Matt keeps her from climbing into bed with us at night. And we have four babies now lined up on the sofa (sticky hands on her head and her ears and her back left paw) watching cartoons after school. Asher is more puppy than she is and Matt says, "Now I feel like an adult."

How did this all happen? Life and work and house and dog in Ireland? I do not know, and yet I know it seemed to take forever. I know it was over 10 years of waiting and praying and mumbling Soon, Yes, Thank You over and over. I know we're not here without the very literal support - emotional and spiritual and financial scaffoldings, holding us ever higher and stronger - of hundreds of people. I know I wake up to a lurcher/terrier cross the colour of Bambie and ask, "Do you think we've all gone mad?"

My mother says, No. You've fulfilled a promise. And I don't say it then, only realizing it now: No, not us. But Him.

Oh, the story isn't over. Not by a long shot.

My anxiety is at an all time high with this crazy girl-pup. I didn't even think about the fact that we just emerged from babyhood only to find ourselves back to scheduling meals and toilet breaks. There are two dog beds in my house that are as-yet unused. I'm totally terrified of leaving her alone for any length of time. And Asher follows her around the house asking, "How I ride on her?" The amount of dog-related-including-picture texts I've sent is absolutely over the top. We've all become crazy over raisins, since apparently they're poisonous to dogs, and the wee pup next door has gone crazy with this new canine in her midst. They take turns barking and whining and the aforementioned fulfilled promise seems null and void in the midst of us actually choosing to ADD ANOTHER LIVING BEING to our everyday chaos. I'm already having visions and night sweats over placing her on a plane and taking her back to Kansas with us in a few years.

We are barking mad, I think.

But look at this face. I mean, really. Like this story was going to end (or begin) any other way.



Oh, by the way, just a couple of days left to check out my story over at The Iron Writer. Challenge ends tomorrow, so vote for your favourite today (at the bottom of the post)! I'm currently tied for first place!

***

What crazy, night-sweats-inducing decision have you made recently? I'm contemplating cutting off all my hair if only to make the dog decision pale in comparison.

The peace experiment

I have a little helper sitting next to me. It's the big kids' homework time, so he and I are doing our "work" upstairs on his bed, pressed up against his window, a gray sky our backdrop. He's tracing lines on the LeapPad, working on his writing, practicing how to hold a pen. The pincer grasp has been tough for him to master, so with each "good job" or "you're doing great!" he flashes me a crooked smile. He's four, and though primary school is less than a year away, I can't imagine him walking through giant glass doors, a tie around his neck and a crest on his chest.

After the mid-term break had finished and the morning angst of school days had come back to haunt our kitchen table, Matt and I wondered if there wasn't a better way to do this whole thing. The parenting, schooling, working, living, serving, loving type of thing. It's not like our lives are insanely busy. Our extracurriculars are at a minimum and the only thing that keeps our car moving in opposite directions is Matt's unorthodox work schedule and the school drop-off/pick-up puzzle. So when he said he thought we needed to "practice a month of peace," I laughed at him. What should we drop, then, I asked. We're already about as bare bones as you can make it, and still each morning we run around like headless chickens in search of coffee. How do we institute peace here when this is as calm as life will ever be?

The answer, we think, is not in doing less stuff. We still have to feed children and show up for meetings and do laundry every day. He's still in Dublin one day, Clare the day after, and I still hustle three children to three different schools twice a day. These things have to happen; we are already doing less stuff. But how we approach these necessities, and the broad stroke with which we allow our kids to work within them, needs some tweaking. Not twerking. Tweaking.

And, wouldn't you know, we're 50 days out from the New Year. Advent is fast approaching. And life - as it tends to do in the holiday crush - is about to get much more wild.

So our tweak is this: peace. Our intention is to infuse peace in our daily, little acts of chaos.

Not just for us, but for the children, too. We want them to treat each other with gentleness, responding to conflict in peace, and they will learn this from us as we model it. I'm assuming. Hopefully.



We need peace during homework and at the dinner table and in the back seat of the car on the way to church. We need peace at bedtime and bathtime and quiet time here on Asher's bed. And we need peace in this city and in this country and in the queue at the shop. And we wait for the Prince of Peace, the way we do every year, except that we usually forget about Him till the last minute. On Christmas day He arrives with guests and gifts and we think, "Oh, there You are. I totally forgot You were here." And for the Christ-follower to forget that Jesus brings peace? That is not the way I want to go about life.

I don't know how this is all going to work, but we're thinking of some ways to institute peace. We are starting to be mindful of the loudness we live with and how to quiet the noise. We are asking for words and Scripture and prayers that speak of peace. We want it to fill the rooms in this house and overflow into the streets, infuse every interaction and conversation we have with those around us. That's our hope anyway. And along the way, I'll share some bits of it with you. You and I can sort some of it out here, define peace and peacefulness and peacemaking... and figure out if it's even possible in a family filled with strong personalities and at least one mildly destructive streak.

This is our peace experiment, for these next 50 days, plunging head-first into the most wonderful and chaotic time of year. And today we begin with Ash and I on his bed. Him and his LeapPad and me right here, writing to you, giving brother and sister some peace while they do their homework.

Oh, and you should know: this isn't a blog project, another 31-days-type challenge. Matt and I want to do this for us and for our kids and for the family and home we want to nurture. Sharing here along the way will help keep me accountable, though there will be other stuff happening on these pages, too. And when it all goes to pot in like three days, I'm sure you'll find me back here lamenting my lack of follow through and my usual lazy mom ways.

Or we can just forget I ever said anything. Deal?

***

How peaceful is your home, family, relationships? What white noise is clouding your blue sky?

We are gathered under His light :: at home in Ireland

Yesterday we took that wee trip to Lough Key, rain lashing down on us half the time; the other half scattered with sun. We listened to a Harry Potter book on tape, there and back, laughing at Stephen Fry's voice inflections, cheering for Ireland in the Quidditch World Cup.

The wee lad napped twice and the girl bought a pumpkin and the eldest decided hiking was a fun adventure after all. We also had a near-death experience on an old metal elevator, leaving me breathless and weak-kneed for the better part of an hour. We ate greasy food at an Irish fast-food joint and we raided a tidy little organic cafe in search of the loo. We ordered tea for two and mined stories from the kids: if they remembered our last visit, how Asher was only 8 months old, how Matt held the other two in the crook of a tree. Dusk comes fast this time of year and by the time we reached home at 6pm, the pitch blackness was overshadowed by a warm kitchen welcoming us back. Home. Back home.

And now as I write, a child is in the bath and one cleans his room and another one makes art projects she learned from a friend. It rains sideways, again, and the writing nook frames the oranges and reds and greens waving beyond our windows. The afternoon is mostly calm, gearing up for the Halloween rush and I'm just now able to sit back and watch... listen... as our life finds its rhythm.

Several weeks ago we read Jesus Calling to the kids. Life is an adventure with God, she hears Him say, and while anxiety and frustration and impatience lie in wait, we need only look for Him, listen for Him, to know that He is in it and with us all the while. There are no coincidences, only His orchestrations, or - as Andy Crouch calls it - full catastrophes, this beautiful dissonance of human existence.

For the children, and for us, it often goes unsaid and forgotten, misplaced in the chaos, hidden under school lunches and behind toy boxes. But in this month and the days of writing these words of home and life and power showers and tears in the McDonalds drive-thru, I see Him in it.

Familiar mums hold my place. A child curls up against the radiator. Matt off to work, dedicated to restoration. We revisit the places of our past, make memories for the future and open our doors for people to sit and eat and rest awhile. We place a pendant over the kitchen table and gather under it's light for dinner.

Today is the last day of our writing class and a man reads a poem they all know well. At the end of each stanza they recite the lines together, heads nodding in unison, laughing,

A pint of plain is your only man.

Can't you see Him in everything? 

 

Thank you for joining me in these 31 days at home in Ireland. 

Maybe you should come visit... I'll put the kettle on for you. Just in case.
But before I go, tell me: where do you see Him, in anything?

Torn in two (a guest post) :: at home in Ireland

Today I'm sharing a story offered up by a new friend. Allison and I met through our husbands and immediately I knew I'd found a kindred spirit. Watching her blend her identity as a Canadian prairie girl with life as an Irish mum and wife has inspired me. She makes a brilliant writing co-conspirator... and a mean cappucino, too.



We got married in 1999, despite the cultural differences and the ocean between our backgrounds and families. There was no question of us living in Canada; his job is here and secure, and I had no practical ties to my homeland (just emotional ones). The first few years were good but hard; I struggled to make connections and "fit in." Now, we have roots: a home, two children, a dog. I have good friends. I have Irish citizenship. I can drive here (that took a while), I know where I like to shop, and I am involved in local stuff - the girls' school, my dance class, a church. I play tour guide to our visitors. Life is here, and it is rich.

But I will always be torn in two. I might have Irish citizenship, but I still think of myself as Canadian. I will never quite "fit in." I still have my Canadian accent. I have learned to say "tom-ah-to" instead of "tom-ay-to," but I still say "mall" the Canadian way ("mahl," not "mall" with a short "a"). I am a prairie girl; I miss the huge skies and the Rocky Mountains and the snowy winters (sometimes). I love my husband's family, but I miss mine. My daughters think of Canada as a holiday destination, not as home. I missed my Grandad's funeral, and I will not be there for my parents' 65th birthdays. Ireland has changed a lot over the past 14 years, and it is a fantastic place in many ways: so green, so cosmopolitan, so creative. So old. And I love my life. But I remain an ex-pat Canadian longing for the places of my childhood.

And I'm OK with that. It has taken a while, but that's where I'm at. I have grown to understand that this tension between past and present, between here and there, is just part of life; I am the better for it. And besides, regardless of where we live and where we're from, we are all "aliens and strangers" on this planet; we are all longing for our true *someday* home. For now, I am content to be a mixed-up ex-pat, a mum of Irish kids, a child of the God of heaven and earth.

wordless wednesday :: at home in Ireland

In the garden where we mine our hearts :: At home in Ireland

I wrote this six months ago, but it's probably my favourite post from this year. So yes, it's kind of cheating. I hope you'll forgive me, anyway, as I'm still learning and relearning the lesson here over and over and over again...



Nine months pregnant with Asher and I'd sit in a bed of weeds. 

Matt would grab hold of my arms and lower me down as I could neither bend nor reach over my belly to the ground. He would check on the veg, plucking and pulling what was ripe. I would weed anything within 12 inches and 360 degrees of my extreme roundness, turning on the garden pad (a soft yellow sunflower, reminding me of Kansas summers). Ella was usually nibbling on an herb of some sort - fennel, mostly - or elbow deep in mud. Jack manned the watering hose.

We would talk things over there: how we were doing, what our hopes were, where we had run short, what middle name we should give the baby. He'd be named Asher years before, and we needed a suitable follow-up. There was a long list of Irish names I couldn't settle on. Cian, Eoin, Niall, Liam, Rhys (this one was Welsh, but a favourite of mine).

In the end we gave him his grandfather's name. Jared. But those conversations in the garden weren't all for naught.

I never pictured myself here. Blooming with child on Irish soil. Matt was the gardener, the outdoorsman, the lumberjack. I was the city girl, happy with a book and a lamp and air conditioning. But in the garden, everything was up for discussion, and in turning the soil ("I'm working the land," I'd tell my mother-in-law, who laughed at the thought of it) we plucked our brains and mined our hearts for where the truth lay, where our spirits settled, where tears and contentedness met under cloudy skies and ocassional sprinkles. It was Ireland, after all, and no trip to the garden left us untouched by rain.

When the harvest was done, and the baby born, and the peas and green beans and lettuce and parsley eaten and used, we had nothing left but beet root. The beets just kept coming. Time was getting on and we were soon returning to America. The garden we'd have to let go of, but we were trying to outlast the beets.

I don't care for beet root. Don't like the texture or the colour or the taste, but it was a big hit among our friends (and children) here. We had beets for dinner, beets for company, beets in baby food, beets for dinner parties. We'd show up to a new house with a steaming plate of roasted beets, solidifying our post as favourite American guests among our crowd (at least, I like to think so).

We never saw the end of the beets. Had to give up the land before the last of them found their way to our plates.

It had been months since I'd been to the garden. Those days I did my pruning and weeding in a rocking chair with a baby at my breast, mining my heart for him who could only reply in full sighs and fragrant burps. We were leaving and the garden was no longer ours and this surprisingly beautiful moment had passed. Matt wanted to drive by it one last time, parking the car in front of the allotment, the beets now gone and the land tilled, lying in wait for the next gardener to dig deep.

I hate to admit it, but the truth is we cried there on that farmland, silently, so as not to alarm the children.  And then we drove away.



Yesterday we spent hours in the back garden. It was overgrown and messy, in need of a sharp handsaw. The seeds - sprouting in egg cartons and toilet paper rolls - were in need of a new home outdoors. Asher ran round in his pyjamas and wellies, Ella working a tiny hatchet on the remains of a pine tree. A rosebush had rerooted and webbed itself around several times. A mystery tropical plant (like a palm tree, but not) overshadowed a humble hydrangea, ready for spring.

Matt handed me the garden shears, "Do you want to prune back the dead blooms of the hydrangea? It'll make way for new growth."

The weight was heavy, but the burden was light.

"Yes, yes I do."

We do marriage counseling (and 5 signs it may be time)

image above: courtesy of Verite Photo.

*disclaimer: I'm hesitating a bit to write this as I am not a counselor, nor am I trained in counseling. I just super recommend it. Consult your spouse, doctor and/or pastor.

Whew. Continue.

So now you know Matt and I do marriage counseling. While we haven't found an Irish counselor yet, I'm wondering if it's time to do the leg work necessary before a crisis hits. Here's our personal 5 signs when it's time for us to go back to marriage counseling:

1. A lot of sighing, multiple times a day.
2. One of us always asking, "Are you OK?" with the other one responding, "Yeah," when you're so not.
3. Failure to get out of bed or failure to get into bed.
4. Right before or right after we move overseas.
5. Fighting in front of the kids. (this is last ditch, usually, and a good wake-up call for us)

These are our signs. Yes, sighing a lot isn't really all that traumatic or telling, but for us it's an indicator that one of us (mostly me) needs to talk, but either can't get the words out or isn't getting the response or engagement he or she is looking for (again, mostly me).

As I said last week, I think counseling is at its most valuable when it comes before the crisis. It's important to us to find those pre-crisis signs indicating a need for counseling and the better communication, clarity and honesty that comes with it.

For people who aren't as adept at reading the seriousness of a loud sigh, here are five actual signs it may be time for marriage counseling:

1) LIFE CHANGE & TRANSITION :: If you find yourself and your family leading up to (or immediately following) a big life change. You know I've tried to perfect "living in transition" ... and actually, the "living in transition" series all began because our counselor wanted me to have an action plan for our indefinite transition period. So, our rough definition of transition is a year before or after a life change or other significant event or circumstance. Examples can be moving, new baby, new job, death, divorce or reconciliation. This is often a high stress and all-around exhausting time where communication can hit an all-time low and freak-outs are bound to occur (as evidenced by the archives of this blog). A marriage counselor can help the whole family find ways of coping and thriving despite circumstances.

2) PARENTING ISSUES :: If you or your spouse is concerned about your child or disagree in how to raise, teach or discipline. Sharing these concerns with a counselor can truly release this burden from your shoulders and enable you and your partner the space and freedom to discuss it sans kiddos (I speak from experience... turns out our 4 year old did not have gender identity confusion). 

3) FINANCIAL PRESSURES :: If you and/or your partner are feeling the weight of bills and budgets, or you're at odds in how to budget or deal with financial stress. You just can't mess around with money issues. Yes, paying a counselor may add an extra line to your budget, but that bi-weekly or monthly fee pales in comparison to the alternative.

4) ROLE EXPECTATIONS :: If you find yourself sparring over who does what in your home, marriage and life. Ideally, this is sorted before making a life-long commitment, and how Matt and I eventually ended up in the Equally Shared Parenting camp. But even the most well-intentioned couple can unintentionally fall back on unspoken expectations and a counselor can help draw out family dynamics (past and present) that both hinder and help role definitions.

5) YOU'RE IN A CRISIS :: Chances are, you will know it when you're in it. I hesitate to put any details here because no matter what it looks like to an outsider, if you feel in crisis, you are in crisis. We were in crisis once, and our counselor was so adept, gently diffusing the tension, waiting out the pain with us, and providing us with next steps to climb out of the crisis... and stay out of it.



Ok, did I mention I'm not a counselor? These are just signs, probably ones you've already thought of and moved on from. But it's my true, deep-in-the-heart prayer that whomever is in need of a mediator, an advocate, a third party or a friend will find it.

For us, it's not only been a marriage counselor, but also a friend, a coworker, a pastor or a family member. We are so blessed to be surrounded by a community of love-warriors (yes, that's a term and I just made it up). They root for us and encourage us to seek the best in one another and reach for help when necessary. Because of them, I'm totally chill with saying, "Yeah, we do marriage counseling. And it's good."

I wish everyone that same support, minus the stigma.

***

So, did I miss anything? How has counseling helped (or not helped) you manage life's winding road?

When we were a family of three

The last few posts have had me digging through old photo albums. Given that we've moved ten times in 14 years, old photographs and albums and picture frames are scattered to the nether reaches of family attics and basements. We've only got a smattering here with us, consisting mainly of our wedding albums, the first few years of our marriage, and a few painfully created Easter poses of the elder two wearing coordinating pastels (yes, that happened, and it was adorable).

Today's photo is brought to you from the year 2003, when we first became a family of three.



I love remembering Jack at 9 months, all 30 chunky pounds of him. I particularly like his dazed and confused look here. But today, this photo makes me remember us more. Me and Matt. Young and exhausted and fragile, but content and peaceful and proud.

That's it, not much else to say. I just wanted to share it with you, to remember. And to admit: I'm still this. Content and proud and exhausted and fragile. We never really grow out of it, do we?

I'm sure there's more to come...

The shadows of someone's masterpiece

Oak Park is a dream. When I close my eyes and try to remember when, I realize the colour of the floorboards is gone. I can't find the smell of the bookshop. We moved away from those tree-lined streets 12 years ago and I find myself still wishing we could go back, sit in the park across from Hemingway's old place, my head in your lap and the church bells ringing.

We would ride our bikes on those streets, looking at these old victorian houses, the craftsman porches. You had your favourites and I had mine, and we envisioned this prairie life in the city, where we'd walk our children to school. Sit on the porch swing. Knock down some walls and plant a lilac bush. Open our own bookshop.

There were all these Frank Lloyd Wright places and we could never decide on one. You know, just in case. You liked the one with steep, sharp angles. I like the one with the rounded front door. These were our Sundays, spent in the shadows of someone's masterpiece.

Oh, we had so much time.



I think about it now, and what we thought growing up looked like, what success looked like. I sit here, today, coffee in hand by the kitchen door. I see the carrots popping up and the hydrangea sprouting new leaves and how our children prayed for a tree. Who'd have thought He'd give us so many trees we'd have to cut down a few just to make room? I watch as the yellow sun on our garden turns to grey and the rain comes in. I smile when I hear it on our skylight, I'm so glad I haven't put out the laundry yet.

It's not Oak Park, not the dream of those houses, not the porch swing, no Chicago skyline. There is no mortgage here, no deed. Frank Lloyd Wright never came to Ireland and I don't think Hemingway wrote from behind these windows.

But we have covered walls with paint swatches. You fret over the lino-wood flooring. The tree out front is in bloom. And we sit in the bay window, in our landlord's two leather chairs, king and queen of our own masterpiece.

Not the house, not the city, not the country, nothing but His design. 

I still cry over Oak Park, that we left and can't go back. I know it's all aglow in wistful unreality. I know we're changed and it's changed. I know these 10-plus moves in 10-plus years can really do a girl in. My homesickness is truly all over the map. But when you first brought me home a week after our wedding, with our quilt on the bed and the chest you built and your grandparents' old dresser, I didn't know I'd only ever want to live there. Frozen in time, forever. I didn't know that a dozen years later when I'd close my eyes, I'd still feel those floorboards beneath my feet.

And now that I can't see the colour, can't smell the books, can't remember what road that one house was on, I realize forever has changed. A dozen years from now, when I close my eyes, this is what I'll see: me at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, looking out on our back garden to the trees our children prayed for. 

Not the house, not the city. I will only see the masterpiece.

Between the clicking and the crash (five steps to managing culture stress)

There's this thing that happens when you move to another culture. You have a really great day, everything flows, you accomplish much and feel like things are finally clicking. You've been waiting a long time for this clicking, this normalcy, and victory awaits you in the wings.

Then you have dinner, a couple of hours at home, or even just a few lazy minutes by yourself. It's overcast out, the bedtime routine is drawing nigh, and the crash hits. This level of exhaustion where all your emotional, mental and physical energy is zapped clean out of your body. You don't know whether to run for the hills or crawl under the covers.

It's so surprising, given the really awesome day you just had. You feel like all the effort, all the success has been overshadowed by... well, by nothing, really. It is what it is. You could call it culture stress. Or maybe homesickness. Or plain old fatigue.  But whatever it is, it's got you in a vice grip.

So what do you do? This is what I do.

1) Hide in bed. This seems counterintuitive, I know. But the first thing I really need is a quiet space where I can figure out why I feel so crappy.

For me, this is my bed; the one we bought our first year of marriage and shipped over the ocean and is all bent and creaky and mine. It's a cocoon of comfort and familiarity and when I feel all the feelings (loneliness and fear and frustration and tiredness and anxiety and...), I escape here to sort it out.

Living in another country, culture or region is literal, actual hard work. Find your quiet hiding place (garage, comfy chair, toilet seat), rest and search your heart.

2) Give the children something to do (in lieue of children, this could be your spouse, roommate or any other random people you happen to be living with). They will not suffer (long) if you place them in front of the telly, put a remote in their hand and flee the area. It could be anything: toys, food, games, but let's be real - electronic devices are preferred and will offer you the most time to recoup. Don't judge me.

By giving them an activity, you release yourself to take care of you so you can take care of them. And you allow them space from you so you don't freak out on them.  This is key. Don't freak out on them. This they will remember. I know from experience.

3) Get outside. Just do it. Right now. Go outside.

Fresh air is a cure for all ills. If you didn't sort what's in your head before, do it now in the wide open. Pray or talk or do yoga. Again, it doesn't really matter what you do or where you go, but the big blue sky has a knack of recalibrating the soul. Garden, walk, sit, people watch. Be outside and be all there. 

Fun fact: Ireland is awesome for this. We've got the sea, meadows, forest, mountains, and cities, all within an hour of our doorstep. And I've got a man who likes to kick us all out of the house when things get tense. We walk, the kids play, we rescue Ash from oncoming traffic, and we arrive back home renewed and nearly ready for the next big (or small) thing that comes our way.



4) Do the next thing. What is the next thing, you ask? For me, it's feeding somebody. Or switching laundry. Or replying to an email. Whatever you need to do, just do it. If you keep it small, all the better. It's usually so much easier, not to mention faster, to switch a load of laundry rather than menu plan for a month. Build up to it. Do the next thing, and then the next and then the next.

Free tip: if it's not on your to-do list, add it on after you do it. Then cross that thing right off. Tick. Done. Congratulations, you've completed your to-do list and you didn't even know you had one.

5) Write it down. What just happened here? Did you suddenly realize your mom wasn't close enough to drop everything and pop over with a diet coke? Did you get to bed too late and up too early and miss your third cup of coffee? Did the mere thought of shifting gears with your left hand just seem so exhausting you just couldn't leave the house one. more. time?

Whatever it was, even if you don't know, write out how you got here. Whatever you did today, whatever you did or didn't accomplish, wherever you went or whomever you saw, write it down. And when you've reached down deep and found the cause (not the symptom) at play, write that down, too.



A few weeks ago I was laying in bed. I just could not force myself to get out. We needed milk and cereal and an assortment of other things, and the thought of getting in the car and driving the 2km to the shop overwhelmed me to pieces. I emailed my sister to ask her to pray and in that moment it hit me. I knew exactly what it was the stunted me. The ladies at the shop don't smile. When I queue up to pay for my groceries, nobody smiles at me. Nobody is happy to see me, nobody knows my name... nobody knows me.

I needed just one face, one smile, just one person to see me. And I couldn't face leaving the house and coming back without that need being met. When I realized what it was, I could talk about it with people who've been here longer. They could tell me what smiling looks like here (it's in the eyes, in the posture, in the words being used) so I knew how to look for it. I realized the smiling thing was just a symptom of a deeper need for someone to know me.

And yes, people smile here all the time. My BIF - best Irish friend - Bronagh has a brilliant, loving smile and I really should just pick up the phone or meet her for lunch. (Ugh, see how much you discover just by writing it down?)

So, you know, I hide for a bit. Then I get out and do the next thing. I try to write it down and then I do it all over again. Because I want to have that feeling... the feeling of a great day, things accomplished, the peace and comfort and joy that comes with new rhythms. I want that feeling where things just... click. Even if exhaustion and discouragement follows soon thereafter, and it will. It's the clicking I remember.

That's the other thing I meant to tell you. You'll forget the exhaustion, the fear, the doubtful bit. It's shortlived. Tomorrow you'll wake up and you'll only remember the victory. 

Ok, I need your help now. What am I missing? How do you cope with stress, of any kind?

Faith in the ink of rebellion

I had a boyfriend once, whose thick hoop earring and cross tattoo on his back made him quite the object of fascination among us youth group girls. When I finally got the chance to touch those dark lines, I asked him why he did it, the earring and the tattoo. I thought I knew; he was all hard edges and loud music. But he looked at me with such innocence, "I am a slave to Christ," he said, referencing the Old Testament binding of a slave to his master. The boy with the ring in his ear.

This was how I knew I loved him. Faith in the form of rebellion.

***



I was looking to add to my rebellion. Getting married at 20 made me feel much more settled, safe and pure than my teens had led my heart to believe. Matt was my match, my calming force and steady hand, sent from above. But I still had a wildness burning within that tandem bike rides along the lake front could not tame. Adulthood had onset with a swift force and I needed one last look back at the years which broke and bore me.

Like any good big sister, I talked my little sister into it, too. It wasn't all that hard; she was - and still is - a willing accomplice. In any case, we took our 18 and 21 year-old-selves and asked for our mother's blessing. She sighed and fretted, but the fact we were doing it together, the fact we had spent the majority of our young lives at odds, the fact we had finally seen one another for what we really were - mirror images, best friends - her fight for tradition and propriety faded away in the face of soul sisters.

And so it was, we took a printed copy of a clip-art image of a daisy into the tattoo shop. Yes. Clip-art. We left imprinted, her ankle and my back, with a white and yellow daisy. My inner rebellion was satisfied by a pure symbol of peace.

Over the years, Matt got the itch as well. His calmness and maturity gave way to a hidden dissenter, asking questions and searching for depth. His soft edges grew stronger while my hardness became less brittle. When the systematic theology and preaching formulas he deferred to for so long failed to make much headway on the uneven and narrow footpath of life overseas, he longed for simple faith in the face of doubt. The calm in the storm.

And so it was, he journeyed to Belfast with a youth pastor friend and left imprinted with St Brigid's Cross. His inner dissenter was satisfied by a symbol of simple faith, folded within with the reeds of long Irish grass.

This is how we belong to eachother. Me and my sister. Matt and I. Us and Christ. The story is written on our skin and when we are asked, we tell it. Faith, hope and love in the ink of rebellion.

There are more stories to be shared, and we dream up the designs and the placement. A pair of strong hands cradling the tree whose leaves hold the names of our children, Yahweh written like a wreath around my wrist, the ring of black with my name on his finger ("You know it's permanent, right?" my mother asks, aware more than others that some things tattooed on our hearts do not last).

We shall see... whether these stories are written on paper or skin or heart. We shall see, the shape it takes. We shall see if it fades away.


joining the syncroblog at A Deeper Story on our Embodied Stories...

In the garden, where we mine our hearts

Nine months pregnant with Asher and I'd sit in a bed of weeds. 

Matt would grab hold of my arms and lower me down as I could neither bend nor reach over my belly to the ground. He would check on the veg, plucking and pulling what was ripe. I would weed anything within 12 inches and 360 degrees of my extreme roundness, turning on the garden pad (a soft yellow sunflower, reminding me of Kansas summers). Ella was usually nibbling on an herb of some sort - fennel, mostly - or elbow deep in mud. Jack manned the watering hose.

We would talk things over there: how we were doing, what our hopes were, where we had run short, what middle name we should give the baby. He'd be named Asher years before, and we needed a suitable follow-up. There was a long list of Irish names I couldn't settle on. Cian, Eoin, Niall, Liam, Rhys (this one was Welsh, but a favourite of mine).

In the end we gave him his grandfather's name. Jared. But those conversations in the garden weren't all for naught.

I never pictured myself here. Blooming with child on Irish soil. Matt was the gardener, the outdoorsman, the lumberjack. I was the city girl, happy with a book and a lamp and air conditioning. But in the garden, everything was up for discussion, and in turning the soil ("I'm working the land," I'd tell my mother-in-law, who laughed at the thought of it) we plucked our brains and mined our hearts for where the truth lay, where our spirits settled, where tears and contentedness met under cloudy skies and ocassional sprinkles. It was Ireland, after all, and no trip to the garden left us untouched by rain.

When the harvest was done, and the baby born, and the peas and green beans and lettuce and parsley eaten and used, we had nothing left but beet root. The beets just kept coming. Time was getting on and we were soon returning to America. The garden we'd have to let go of, but we were trying to outlast the beets.

I don't care for beet root. Don't like the texture or the colour or the taste, but it was a big hit among our friends (and children) here. We had beets for dinner, beets for company, beets in baby food, beets for dinner parties. We'd show up to a new house with a steaming plate of roasted beets, solidifying our post as favourite American guests among our crowd (at least, I like to think so).

We never saw the end of the beets. Had to give up the land before the last of them found their way to our plates.

It had been months since I'd been to the garden. Those days I did my pruning and weeding in a rocking chair with a baby at my breast, mining my heart for him who could only reply in full sighs and fragrant burps. We were leaving and the garden was no longer ours and this surprisingly beautiful moment had passed. Matt wanted to drive by it one last time, parking the car in front of the allotment, the beets now gone and the land tilled, lying in wait for the next gardener to dig deep.

I hate to admit it, but the truth is we cried there on that farmland, silently, so as not to alarm the children.  And then we drove away.

Yesterday we spent hours in the back garden. It was overgrown and messy, in need of a sharp handsaw. The seeds - sprouting in egg cartons and toilet paper rolls - were in need of a new home outdoors. Asher ran round in his pyjamas and wellies, Ella working a tiny hatchet on the remains of a pine tree. A rosebush had rerooted and webbed itself around several times. A mystery tropical plant (like a palm tree, but not) overshadowed a humble hydrangea, ready for spring.

Matt handed me the garden shears, "Do you want to prune back the dead blooms of the hydrangea? It'll make way for new growth."

The weight was heavy, but the burden was light.

"Yes, yes I do."

Masquerading as Ronald Reagan, among other things

I can pick up accents. It's kind of a gift. Drop me anywhere in the western hemisphere (so far) and I can pick up the cadence, the lilt, the structure and the pronunciations of someone else's mother tongue. Places I've experimented with this include, but are not limited to, Wisconsin, Canada, New England, the Deep South, Ireland and England. Scotland is the lone exception. It it an impossible - though beautiful - accent.

And I used to do impressions. As a kid I had this great Ronald Reagan catchphrase. I don't even remember it now, but my mother would have me do it for her friends, my teachers would laugh with pride at my political wit, and late at night I would practice it for my inevitable audition tape for SNL. I was hilarious.

Oh, and I changed my name. A lot. Karen was just too... plain. Homely. I filled an old mead notebook with practiced signatures of Callie, Kali, Kim, Kat, Karin, Kari, etc, etc. Nothing stuck, though, apart from a 5th grade English teacher in a bolo tie who nicknamed me Irish, on account of my auburn hair and super shortness (you know, like a leprachaun).

Only recently have I put my finger on the pulse of this weird and slightly disconcerting talent.

I am always trying to be someone else. And when someone else doesn't work, I conform quickly and effortlessly.

Nearly every personality test (and teachers and most friends I have) told me I was an extrovert. Life of the party, friend to everyone, comfortable being out front and in charge, ready for action. This was me. This was who I wanted to be. Growing up, I would throw affection and attention to anyone who would return it. I'd cast my net out looking for a bite, a positive response, affirmation, and love.

Being loud and gregarious - and well, let's face it, dramatic - was the best way to get noticed. This was the Karen people wanted, I thought. But this Karen... this Karen was so uncomfortable, unhappy, and afraid. Being me was exhausting! Actually, it is exhausting! Because I'm still trying to figure out who Real Karen is (and I have the sneaking suspicion Real Karen is an introvert).

Even today, I mimic what I see and hear around me, quick to mirror the images I perceive to be normal, better, prettier, smarter. And I do this a lot here. Without even realizing it, I sit with an Irish friend and I project her beautiful words and phrases back at her. I replace my midwest tongue with a manufactured Irish brogue and, like a reflex, think to myself, "There, that's better. I'm Irish now."

What am I trying to hide? Who am I trying to be? Why can't I just, you know, be me? Karen, from Kansas. (or Kah-ren, from Kahn-sas, as the case may be).

"We should always start with who God made us to be and out of that find direction for our actions."

This quote scares the crap out of me. Today at 34, three great kids, a husband I love, a new life abroad, and I'm still asking, How has God made me to be?

"You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
before I’d even lived one day." Psalm 139:15-16 | the message

You know me, You know me, You know me.

I'm trying to drop the accent; the faux-Irish one, that is. Nearly three months in, and it's harder than it should be. I'm Karen, from Kansas. And I still don't know what I'm doing here, who I'm supposed to be here, where I fit or how this will all work out.

It's a little hilarious when you think about it. Mid-30s me, still a mess. But I think, deep down, I'm not alone in the mess. I think you might be here with me, too. I think, if we were to be honest about it, there's a lot of us here, trying to figure out who we really were made to be.

Then again, it could be just me.

***

Make me feel better. Are you a mess, too? Can we cut the crap together, leave Reagan in the 80s and just be real?

2012 favo(u)rites :: The success lie (on family, failure and faith)

We are babysitters this weekend, slumber party novices leaving evidence of mildly irresponsible late-night milkshake drinking. Blankets, pillows and swords litter the hallways. Before he heads to work, we cuddle in a very large, very comfortable, very I-don't-ever-want-to-get-up-from-here bed. I feel his chest rise and fall heavily, hear him sigh as he says, "I'm sorry our bed sucks. I'm sorry for all of it."

It takes me a moment to register what he's saying, what he means, how his heart drops in the memory foam of the bed.

We are laying on a big, soft symbol of success. And our pokey, old, free-for-the-taking mattress back home is a symbol of failure. 

We all believe that, don't we? The house, the job, the car out front, the kids in excelled learning, the 401k. These are barometers of a life well done. We work hard for them, make sure they're shiny, take comfort in them and feel successful. This is what we're told we deserve, what we can get it if we try hard enough, what will make us happy and what will keep us secure.

Except, it's a lie. It's a lie we are all too willing to believe. Honestly, it is so much easier to look successful with hard work and money than it is to prove we're successful in quiet prayers and patience.

What is success anyway? How other people see you? How you think you look to the outside world? Does it really matter what Dave Ramsey thinks? Is the interest rate that big of a deal? I don't believe those things influence or determine success. 

My sister is successful not because of her wonderful bed, not because of her athletic kids, not because of the house or picket fence or chocolate lab (though those are all real and fantastic things). She's successful because she and my brother-in-law just celebrated 20 years of marriage. They are successful because of the hard work, time, patience and sacrifice they put into marriage and parenting. They are successful because they come home together, pray together, serve God together, and love their kids together. They are successful because they believe all these things are gifts from above, a life they never imagined, a family based on faith and hope and love.

And us? We haven't failed just because we don't have a house, a backyard, a sturdy retirement account or spotless refinished hardwood floors (though that would all be very nice). We are successful because our kids are happy and we get to spend the majority of almost every day with them. We're successful because we are pursuing something we know God has called us to do. We're successful because at the end of the day, we come home to each other. We're successful because we get to show our kids and our friends and our communities how faithful God is, how He's provided, how He's leading, how He loves. We're successful because we work hard, not for the house and the car payment or the fully vested stock options, but we work hard at prayer and perseverance and obedience.

We're successful because when we fail, it's not over. The failure is never permanent. Mercies are new every morning, and we get to try again. Jesus holds it all together, and it all belongs to Him. 

"Oh, babe, don't say that," I tell him. The house we are staying in is filled with the laughter of our children and their cousins. They are so happy and free. We get to serve my sister and her family on this happy occasion of a 20th wedding anniversary. And I feel so blessed and so thankful for one night of peaceful sleep in a big, comfy bed.

We are a success story... one I can't wait to tell.

***

I'm reposting a few of my favourite bits and pieces from this year. God worked me over hard... I want to remember. Leave a comment with a blog post of your own, a favourite or a new one. Let's remember together.

2012 Favo(u)rites : That caviar is a garnish! (and other things I learned from Nora Ephron)

You are daring to imagine that you could have a different life. Oh, I know it doesn't feel like that. You feel like a big fat failure now. But you're not. You are marching into the unknown armed with... Nothing. Have a sandwich.

Nora Ephron, You've Got Mail

I was just thinking last week that I should write a post on my obsession with the You’ve Got Mail apartment. 

You know the one: Kathleen Kelly’s shabby chic brownstone walk-up, home to the lone reed and upright piano, walls covered in books and mementos, and open window overlooking a beautiful autumn New York City morning. I’ve laid awake at night, trying to figure out this apartment’s dimensions (Is it a studio? U-shaped? Does the kitchen lead into the bathroom?), imagining where I would put my mother’s secretary or the wall shelf my husband built me six Christmases ago.

image source

I love that apartment. I would be happy in that apartment. I belong in that apartment, in the city, in the Autumn, with a bookshop around the corner.

So yes, I had formatted in my mind this beautiful ode to the You’ve Got Mail apartment. And then Nora Ephron died.

Nora Ephron, to quote the younguns, was a beast. She was a writer, in every sense of the word. Journalist, essayist, playwright, author and screenwriter. She nearly literally did it all. And then she started directing movies, where she created girls like me - independent, quirky, proud, loud, naïve, flawed, sensitive - and a world girls like me could inhabit.

Her genre was “romantic comedy,” but her stories were so much more than that. They were about messing up, and someone loving you anyway. They were about taking a chance, and getting let down. They were about discovering your true self, and falling all over yourself in the process. At least, these are the ones I remember.

I’m too young (yes, I get to use this phrase!) to know about Silkwood, and maybe a bit too young to really appreciate When Harry Met Sally, but I remember crying along with Annie in Sleepless in Seattle as she first heard Sam’s voice on the radio. And I remember the first birthday after we were married when my husband gifted me with a VHS of You’ve Got Mail hidden inside a brand new grey felt messenger bag.

Oh, I so wanted to be Kathleen Kelly. I even worked in a book shop (on the corner of Oak Park and Lake Street), wore black tights and black skirts, and sadly, experimented with an ill-advised short haircut.

(Side note: no one, in the history of the world, will ever have Meg Ryan’s hair in that movie. I don’t care who you are.)

But back to Nora. Her movies made me feel like it was ok to be weird. In fact, I could be weird and smart. Weird and smart and loved. Weird and smart and loved and imperfect. I could lose my temper, make a mistake, try again and conquer the world.

And now, at 33 and a mother of three and in the midst of so many life changes I can hardly stand it, I’m realizing that loving her stories doesn’t mean recreating the Meg Ryan look or working in a book shop. Loving her stories means I’m embracing my own. Loving her stories means I go forward bravely, confident in who God made me, believing that my loudness or weirdness or sensitiveness isn’t a mistake. Loving her stories means acknowledging that the world is messy and we are messy, but still, somewhere, there’s a place for us in it.

Oh, I love the You’ve Got Mail apartment, but no matter how I try to bend it, I’m not sure it’s possible for the pictures on the screen to match the dimensions in my head. Still, I’ll take solace in the world Nora Ephron created.

In her stories, it’s not about the apartment, anyway.


***

I'm reposting a few of my favourite bits and pieces from this year. God worked me over hard... I want to remember. Leave a comment with a blog post of your own, a favourite or a new one. Let's remember together.

Cry, till it's out of sight

We have a moving tradition: we cry, till it's out of sight.

Our first home was in Oak Park. Matt moved in first, bringing hand-me-downs and woodworking projects to the brownstone apartment. I sat in the living room, under the bay windows, reading in a green chair. This was the life (as my sentimental mind remembers it): young love in romantic Chicago, stained glass over the mantle, a white cat and an antique bed ensuring - no matter how bad our fight was - we rolled to the middle, every night.

After our wedding and summer of getting to know yous (sharing a bathroom with a boy? another parking ticket?), I decided to take a semester off of school. Our parents were severely disappointed, no doubt, as the first sign of marital mediocrity was the wife without a degree. We'd made a promise to them - I would finish school - but I just couldn't go back. Not yet.

So I found a job. An independent bookstore. A large, loving Irish-Italian-Catholic family owned the place and ran it like it was an extension of their family tree (it was). They welcomed us naive newlyweds in, showered us with love and homemade tiramisu, honored our education and Biblical insight. I quickly became the go-to person on the slight semantic differences between the NIV and the NLT, sitting behind the desk inhaling the thick scent of new books and Yankee candles. This was heaven, and about as close to the Shop Around the Corner as I was ever going to get.

I've never loved any place as much as I loved Oak Park. We were surrounded by trees and art and front porches and children. As we exited Austin, turning left on our street, a sign greeted us: "Oak Park, IL is a nuclear weapon free zone." This was not comforting, but it was true to form. The People's Republic of Oak Park, we called it. Taxes were crazy, the rent only went up-up-up, and the hippies... oh, the crazy old hippies. And I loved it there, right up until we left it.

I went back to school full-time (still keeping my hours at the bookshop) and we tried to balance life and school and friends and books. Chicago itself was so busy, so fast. We were exhausted, couldn't keep up. Our building was bought out and I was graduating and paying an additional $200 in rent for our one-bedroom apartment just didn't add up.

The bookshop, too, was bought out. The family we had loved, in the face of big bad Fox Books Borders moving to town, decided to retire and move on. And we were both looking for full-time work that didn't leave us gasping for nickels and dimes at the end of the month. We knew we couldn't stay, we knew it was time to go, so we packed up our hand-me-downs and wedding-gifted afghans and cried.



I write this all with the next move at our fingertips. Every two years, this is what we do. We fall in love, we build a life, and for reasons beyond our control, one road ends while another opens up, and we move. 

And we cry, till it's out of sight.

Where was the first place you called home? And how did you leave it?

My slow clap for 7 {a review}

I'm interrupting this regularly scheduled 31 Days series with a major announcement:

I have finished yet another non-fiction book! Thank you for the slow clap.

7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess by the hilariously brave Jen Hatmaker rocked my socks off. I've already hinted as much in my post for (in)courage about the chapter on Waste, but I wanted to share a bit more about this brilliant book and it's main message:

Jesus, may there be less of me and my junk and more of You and Your kingdom.

Truth be told, I was afraid. I'd heard about this book, and really, the last thing I wanted to read was something else to make me feel more guilty (than I already do) about what I wasn't doing (or wasn't doing well enough). But this is not that book.

You see, God had already called Jen to a life changed. And He's already called me to that, too. But the thing is, I don't think many of us really know what that change is to look like. We feel in our bones and in the (very) few contemporary worship songs that touch our hearts, and see in the sojourners who have gone before us into the great unknown of risky obedience, we have been set apart to do and be something different, but what that is...? Well, I for one am fumbling in the dark, hands outstretched, feeling for something tangible to keep me steady and point the way.

This message gets drowned out with busy nonsense. It gets overshadowed by online bill pay and mandatory church programs and the school pick up line and coffee meetings. We see glimpses of it in a random blog post or an invitation in the mail, but then mom, i need this permission slip tomorrow! and when is dinner ready? and oh my gosh there is just so much junk in my house where did I put that email address?!

Are you feeling any of this? Well, apparently Jen was, and they were soon making choices of change: resigning from the big (well-dressed) church, planting a church in an undesirable neighbourhood, and pursuing the call to adoption, to name just a few. But then a hurricane-displaced child showed up, recognized affluent wealth in the open doors of her 2400 square foot home, and Jen's mutiny against excess began to take shape.

Food, Clothing, Possessions, Media, Waste, Spending, Stress. These are the areas of relatively normal human life where Jen saw something amiss, something that needed to change, something that needed some... tweaking. Thus began a year-long experiment of abstaining from (or practicing anew) one topic, for one month, in seven simple ways.

Jen's LLOL humour (literally laugh out loud), her obvious hard-spent research, and her trial-and-error approach kept me reading. As did her refusal to turn this project into another form of evangelical guilt-turned-legalism (spoiler alert: she fails sometimes!). This book, her experiment, is about freedom. It is about letting go of a culturally desired, but not entirely necessary way of life. It is about thinking before you eat, before you spend, before you throw away, before you turn on the computer. It is about asking yourself, in that oh-so-1990s way, What would Jesus do?

And it's about loving God, loving your neighbour, loving your city and loving the world in actions and in truth.

When I closed the last page of 7, I did not feel guilty. Quite the contrary, I feel empowered. I feel like a good friend had just walked me through a refining fire, showing me the glory on the other side (I miss my new good friend Jen). I can see tangible acts of change, of grace, of mercy, of Gospel living. I can see small steps in obedience that lead me closer to Jesus.

This is no formula and it is no checklist. 7 is at the very least a guidepost, at the most a call to repentance. It is an ebenezer, and it is a challenge. I hope we're all brave enough to write a different script, to embrace a counter-cultural life of simplicity and stewardship, to put God's heart above our bottom line. Less of me, more of Jesus.

Oh, that sounds so nice for a change.

My new good friend Jen did not compensate me for this review in any way. But I'm not above a tweet shout-out or friending on facebook. 

So tell me, have YOU read it? Or is there something else on your nightstand that I have to know about?

Dear Me (at 17)

Dear Me,

You think you love him. But you don't. On your 17th birthday he will give you a necklace and take you to a Cranberries concert. And you will break his heart.

You don't mean to. You love boys until they love you back, and then you fly away. This is how you work. Then there's another boy, and you think you are just broken enough for each other, that your traumatic childhoods and love for flannel and U2 have bound you together. You think that him loving you back will make all the black turn to light, but he won't.

And you will be ok.

I know you think value is all tied up in who favors you, who compliments you, the A you did or didn't get, the solo that went to someone else, the taste of a first kiss. You think acceptance is just out of reach, you feel on the fringes, you are self-conscious about your lack in ability in peeling an orange (don't ask me why - it was a thing). Even when you succeed in the best choir and the coveted acting troupes, you still feel a fraud, still long for approval.



I wish I could tell you to fight it. I wish I could tell you that the boys don't define you. The solos and the As don't define you. Not even your apple cheeks or your curly hair don't define you, though I do still admire those (spoiler alert: it gets curlier).

What will define you is slowly coming into view. You will lose it for awhile, but when you do catch glimpses of it - on the first crisp fall evening at 18, when you leave Kansas behind at 19, when you walk in Galilee - I want you to see, fully see, that you are worth so much more than a gold plated necklace or a hot prom date in an even hotter blue Jeep.



I'm not gonna lie, there is more breaking to be done. But the putting together, there is holy beauty in that. 

Let Him do that for you; bringing you soul sisters, weaving you songs, and taking you across the sea to a Wicklow mountaintop.

Let them do that for you; three imperfect little people who cuddle you in your sleep and slap your cheeks in fits of laughter.

Let the one you know you love, the one who loves you back, do that for you (I promise he will come along sooner rather than later). He'll be poor and will fill your living room with sawdust, but he will cook and carry your tears in his heart, and your head will fit perfectly in the nook of his shoulder.

There's no need to fly away now.

Also, ditch the tube socks. My So-Called Life will only last one season. The red hair can stay for awhile, though. You rock red.

Love
Me, twice your age <wince>

PS - Remember this as your own girl - your tiny twin - grows. You will need to show her, and she will need to see it, too.



I like to say I don't like teens, but I think that's because I didn't really like myself as a teen. But in honour of a new book for teen girls, here I am: writing to teenaged me. It feels... painful. But redeemed. What would you say?

The success lie (on family, failure and faith)

We are babysitters this weekend, slumber party novices leaving evidence of mildly irresponsible late-night milkshake drinking. Blankets, pillows and swords litter the hallways. Before he heads to work, we cuddle in a very large, very comfortable, very I-don't-ever-want-to-get-up-from-here bed. I feel his chest rise and fall heavily, hear him sigh as he says, "I'm sorry our bed sucks. I'm sorry for all of it."

It takes me a moment to register what he's saying, what he means, how his heart drops in the memory foam of the bed.

We are laying on a big, soft symbol of success. And our pokey, old, free-for-the-taking mattress back home is a symbol of failure. 

We all believe that, don't we? The house, the job, the car out front, the kids in excelled learning, the 401k. These are barometers of a life well done. We work hard for them, make sure they're shiny, take comfort in them and feel successful. This is what we're told we deserve, what we can get it if we try hard enough, what will make us happy and what will keep us secure.

Except, it's a lie. It's a lie we are all too willing to believe. Honestly, it is so much easier to look successful with hard work and money than it is to prove we're successful in quiet prayers and patience.

What is success anyway? How other people see you? How you think you look to the outside world? Does it really matter what Dave Ramsey thinks? Is the interest rate that big of a deal? I don't believe those things influence or determine success. 

My sister is successful not because of her wonderful bed, not because of her athletic kids, not because of the house or picket fence or chocolate lab (though those are all real and fantastic things). She's successful because she and my brother-in-law just celebrated 20 years of marriage. They are successful because of the hard work, time, patience and sacrifice they put into marriage and parenting. They are successful because they come home together, pray together, serve God together, and love their kids together. They are successful because they believe all these things are gifts from above, a life they never imagined, a family based on faith and hope and love.

And us? We haven't failed just because we don't have a house, a backyard, a sturdy retirement account or spotless refinished hardwood floors (though that would all be very nice). We are successful because our kids are happy and we get to spend the majority of almost every day with them. We're successful because we are pursuing something we know God has called us to do. We're successful because at the end of the day, we come home to each other. We're successful because we get to show our kids and our friends and our communities how faithful God is, how He's provided, how He's leading, how He loves. We're successful because we work hard, not for the house and the car payment or the fully vested stock options, but we work hard at prayer and perseverance and obedience.

We're successful because when we fail, it's not over. The failure is never permanent. Mercies are new every morning, and we get to try again. Jesus holds it all together, and it all belongs to Him. 

"Oh, babe, don't say that," I tell him. The house we are staying in is filled with the laughter of our children and their cousins. They are so happy and free. We get to serve my sister and her family on this happy occasion of a 20th wedding anniversary. And I feel so blessed and so thankful for one night of peaceful sleep in a big, comfy bed.

We are a success story... one I can't wait to tell.


What is your success story? I know you have one.

Results may vary (my advice on having a happy marriage)

:: I hope you don't mind feet ::

So this is my advice*, on having a happy marriage, after 13 years of more happiness than not (though to be fair, some years might fit in the not category, but not many... less than a handful really... but I digress):

Say, "I love you."
Say, "I love you, too."

Don't quit.

Say, "Thank you!"
Say, "You're welcome!"

Don't quit.

Ask, "Did you remember to grind the coffee before bed?"
Say, "Yep."
Say, "Oh, thank God. And you, too, of course. I love you. Good night."

Don't quit.

Say, "I don't know how."
Say, "I know. It's ok. We'll figure this out."

Don't quit.

Say, "I'm sorry."
Say, "I forgive you."

Don't quit.

Of course, these are only the things we say, but it's the not quitting part that helps us mean it. It's what makes us get up in the morning and before we even think to brush teeth, reach over for a quick kiss and a good morning and how did you sleep? It's what binds us during the day with the don't forget and the we're out of milk! It's what closes the book, turns off the lamp, and rolls over whispering good night and i love you.

It's the not quitting that makes it stick. It means we're in it together. 

And that makes us happy.

1999

*Not a scientific study; based solely on a random sampling of two midwesterners trying to make a go of it, keep their wits about them, and still love God and each other. Results may vary. Consult your partner.

2012