When Matt first brought me home to the brownstone apartment in Oak Park, we laid down in the marriage bed belonging to his grandparents. It was thick and dark, heavy old wood, storing memories like secrets we would never know. I guess you would call it mid-century, all clean lines and right angles and the start of our prairie life together.

Unfortunately, we broke it less than a year in, the victim of a tickle fight. I swear.

Fate and Jesus would have it that my job at the bookshop provided a hefty Christmas bonus. I'd never had one before - a full time job or a Christmas bonus - and suddenly my rash refusal to put off returning to school seemed fortuitous. We apologized to the parents for accidentally destroying their birthright, took that $500 bonus and bought a mattress set and faux-wrought-iron Ikea bed. Happy Y2K.

That bed moved from Chicagoland to Kansas City with us. It's gone from apartment to house to apartment again, up flights and flights of stairs, been crated and shipped overseas, held our babies as I nursed them to sleep. It's been jumped on, fought on, loved on, peed on, stored for several years and put back together again, always worse for the wear. Still beautiful, still ours, but old and rackety as 14 years, ten moves and three children will do to you.



Today the marriage bed is on its last leg. This bed... this bed is so done. Just sitting on it feels like you're breaking its back. The sounds it makes when I roll over at night keep me awake, not to mention the wee lad sharing the other side of our wall. It literally sounds like it's dying, creaking and groaning loudly with every midnight breath. Between the noise and the no sleeping, it's time to go.

I'm not particularly torn up about it, as beds (even beautiful mid-century oak beds; even especially Ikea beds) don't last forever. The mattresses are wearing thin, too, and at this point in life and marriage, it's time to trade up. And while we know it's time - probably way past time if we were to be honest - I'm dreading it. It's not just the money (of which we have none) or the memories (of which we have so much), but it's the time and the effort and the discernment. It's the future we must take into account now, making the wisest, cheapest, best decision for our family. It's the stress of getting it wrong, spending too much, wincing over every knick or scrape or squeak. I'm all a ball of nerves just thinking about it, the anxiety rising with every move in the night.

And, you know, it's our marriage bed. At 35 I love it as much as I did at 21, in all its fake wrought iron and brushed metal finials glory. It makes every house a home, holds every secret.

But, you know, I kinda hate it, too. Secrets will only allow you so much sleep. Secrets, and lumbar support.

***

I have this habit of writing odes to inanimate objects; the marriage bed is just the latest. What do you love/hate in your own home?

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?

We do marriage counseling (and it is good)

image above: courtesy of Verite Photo.

I'm in this weird phase right now where I try to decide what's blog-worthy and for public consumption and what's best to remain just-for-us. Some things are obvious - do you really want an hourly recap on our potty training escapades? - while others remain elusive and ambiguous. There are some things I really want to share... and others, well, not so much.

So here's my current appropriateness barometer: will it help someone?

Yes, I know that's all big and out there and self-important. But there are a few bloggers - less than a handful - whose confessions and diatribes and play-by-plays leave me sighing, near tears, saying, "Yes, yes, that's me." It makes me feel:

1) not so crazy,
2) validated or known, and
3) like at least I'm not as bad as [fill-in-the-blank].

Which leads me to marriage counseling. We go to it. And it is good.

Ok, we're not really going to it now. We're still newish here and I so loved our stateside guy (he's been around since that 9 year old and her sad stories) and finding an affordable counselor we both like with a similar life philosophy stresses me out. So, yeah, we're not attending weekly sessions or anything. But we do marriage counseling, and like I said: it is good.

Next week I'll share five signs it could be time for marriage counseling. But to start, I want to try and remove any cringe-inducing wince-factors you may come across when you hear some sorry sap say he and the missus are going to marriage counseling. This is usually how it goes:

Bob: "Suzy and I are in marriage counseling."
Awkward Friend: "Ohhhh, hmmm," (with knowing nod).

This alone is groundbreaking as someone has just admitted to going to - insert knowing nod - marriage counseling. I dare say most friendships never enter this territory, where one feels safe saying those five syllables outloud without implying you've hit the rocks and you and your spouse are stranded adrift in search of lifeboats. We're afraid to say it, afraid of suppositions. We're afraid of outsiders judging the quality of our family, the strength of our intimacy, the legitimacy of our bonds of matrimony.

But you don't have to be in crisis to be in counseling. Actually, I think it's preferable not to be. In my experience, counseling is at its most valuable when it comes before the crisis.

For us, it's an off and on thing. There have been years we've sailed along without any 3rd party interference (apart from our children, and some in-laws, and maybe the ocassional couch-crasher). We've simply not felt like we needed it. Other times, we find ourselves in a pickle, or in high-demand mode, or about to enter a crazy season. In these times, the first one to the punch - Hey, honey, let's go to counseling! - wins. It helps that we've both been open to it, we knew a guy, and so we went.

What do we do in counseling? We talk about our backgrounds, our families and their eccentricities (even the most "normal" ones have them!). We share about our kids and any worries or joys we feel on their behalf. We open up about our own weaknesses. We acknowledge when there's fear.

But most importantly, we listen. 



There's this independent question-asker who can draw out things usually left unsaid or misunderstood. We hear thoughts, longings from a different perspective. And then when one of us is on a roll, the other is at full-attention. We soak it all in without realizing it. Just because we're there. Just because, for this one hour, nothing is more important than hearing one another.

Does it always end in cuddles and smiles? No, not always. This is hard work, people! Sometimes there is tension, frustration or messiness. I've been known to pout my way home in the passenger seat. But instead of being hidden away in the junk drawer, the messiness is laid right there on the table. You gotta do something with it now. You've gotta sort through it and put everything in its right place.

Which is what you do at the next session because the buzzer just rang and time is up.

***

So, marriage counseling (or any old regular counseling, for that matter). Do you do it, too? Has it been good?

Dear Sister {On your engagement}

Dear Sister,

I've had tears in my eyes all weekend. Dumb ocean. Of course I missed the 2 am (and then the 3am) texts. Of course cell reception would be bad. Of course I wouldn't hear your voice tell me those sweet words. Of course your world would be sleeping, while mine would be rejoicing, wanting to shout from rooftops.

Of course, none of that matters.

Ella is fine wearing a dress, she wants you to know that. Matt told Jack, who came downstairs twinkling, giving his own play-by-play to the others. I sat on the couch with my coffee, blinking away the happiness, the melancholy of being separated. It's bittersweet, just a bit, but so much more sweet than I can fathom.

You will be a wife soon. A wife!

Oh, we have prayed for that man. Knowing God could only create a wonder, someone who would be good enough for you, someone who could match your creativity and your joy and still joke about your tall forehead. Only those of us who love you best could understand that, and we're all in on the joke because it shows how much he loves you. Just you. For you.

We toasted you last night. Because you are worth celebrating, not just for the engagement, but for your past and present and future. For how God made you and how He knows you. For Nathan and the adventures you will have together. For the joy and wonder (perseverance and patience, too) we know is coming. And for the little art-cultivating, music-playing, people-loving babies that may come your way.

For all of it.

So Sister, here's to you. On your engagement. Even from afar, three cheers to you and your fella. Hip Hip... 

Hooray.

Love,
Me.



I write letters to my sisters, both the God-given ones and the blood-tied ones. Letters for the regular days and for the totally-amazing-non-regular-in-every-way days. This day was one of the latter... more of both, though, are still to come.

Five Friday Favourites

1) 32 birthday gift ideas for girls who don't like princesses :: I remember, before she was born, praying for our sweet little girl and asking God to make her however He wanted her. I prayed she would feel free to be or do or go wherever, that she would never feel hemmed in by her gender or her age or her circumstance. I want her to be fierce, God, I prayed. Fierce and wild and strong. And He said, Sure thing, Karen. So that's how we got Ella. I love this list of birthday ideas for non-girly girls, which will help immensely when her 7th (7?!) birthday rolls around in October. Thanks, Rookie Moms!

2) Mornings with my boys :: Matt's been working an actual normal schedule this week, and with Ella @ Camogie Camp, just me and the boys have been chillin'. These guys... they play hard and fight hard, and Jack is so patient with Ash, and Ash is so in love with Jack. "My brother!" they both cry, frequently, in good times and bad. Love them.



3) Date nights in the garden :: You know how people say, "You should do regular (weekly, bi-weekly, monthly, whatever) date nights. Married people need date nights!"? Well, they're right - we do need date nights. But the euros required for actual date nights are few and far between. So we do date nights with Doctor Who on the couch. Or we do date nights in the twilight of the back garden. This week we sat back there, after the kids were in bed and the daylight waning, and we listed our missed things, well-loved things from back home. Top of the list: the people (family, friends, Crossroads, community group), then places (River Market, our park in the city, the Grand Balcony), then food (ohhh, Margaritas, how I need you!). It was bittersweet, but good to remember. And truly, we have traded quite nicely. Date nights in the garden... what will we do in winter?

4) What Missional Communities Do :: An acquaintance on Facebook shared this, and it's totally our jam:

What Missional Communities do:
You’ll use the old rubble of past lives to build anew,
rebuild the foundations from out of your past.
You’ll be known as those who can fix anything,
restore old ruins, rebuild and renovate,
make the community livable again. 
Isaiah 58:12 {The Message}

5) #IrishHeatwave :: Want a dose of happy? Search the instagram hashtag #irishheatwave. We may not have any air conditioning, nary an outdoor swimming pool or splashpad, but we've got beaches and oceans and loads of shiny happy people frolicking in this unbelievable weather. Thanks, God, for your good common grace.

***

Ok, that's my list. What's yours? 

Wordless wednesday {anniversary edition}

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.

Sentimental birthday typo

We just celebrated Matt's birthday this week, and like all things with Big Plans, the day got little out of whack. I came down with a bad full-body cold and the weather dipped below freezing, so our fun day out with Ash in the city was a no-go.

I decided to redeem the day by special ordering snow (thanks, God) and designing a subway art picture to commemorate the life Matt and I have lived together all these 13+ years. I've seen these everywhere online and thought to my delusional self, "That can't be that hard." And in truth, it wasn't. I just picked an idea - cities we've called home - played around with fonts and layouts, and voila! Homemade pressie for husband of the year.

I mean, really, look at this touching, yet simple, sentimental work of art.  I was seriously so proud of this I posted it on Facebook so people could ooh and aah over my wifely awesomeness. Oh, hey, what's that? A typo?! Yeah, so apparently, not that awesome. I am queen of submitting, publishing, printing, sending of anything and everything right before discovering the typo. This is just the latest in my line of almost perfection.

But Matt, he loves it anyway. He says it's an homage to one of our favourite albums, (Come on Feel the) Illinoise by Sufjan Stevens. And maybe he's right and it's only for us, anyway. And he can't spell, either. Match made in heaven.

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

31 days of LIVING in transition :: the anniversaries {day 18}

The man and I like to remember dates in our history. Besides birthdays, we try to celebrate anniversaries of all sorts: when we met, first date, engagement, when we found out we were expecting the boy (or the girl, and the wee lad), when we experienced a tragedy, when we moved to Ireland, etc etc. Remembering these days, these milestones that tell our story, prove that something bigger than us is at work, and promise a future full of anniversaries, both good and bad.

So yesterday (Oct 18th) was the 14th anniversary of our first date, but we actually didn't really celebrate it all that much. Instead, I remembered the anniversary of the day before. The day he first called me his future bride. Because that is the unpredictable one, the one that came during our second conversation, the day after we met, the day before our first date, 13 months before our engagement.



Strange, but true. He was joking, of course. And I laughed and laughed. It was absurd, and we both knew it, but it would turn out to be real. Prophecy.

Sometimes I think about that day, about how ignorant I was then to the life we would have. Not a bad life at all, but one I thought I knew but still never expected. And still don't know what to expect. Our relationship, our path, our life continues to evolve. 

I hope and wait for the next evolution.

For father's day and everything after

I've told this story so many times, it's become classic and renowned and certainly an ironic way to begin a marriage.

He untied my shoelaces and that was it. I knew then and he knew it, too.

When I tell the story, I remember the details. The way my head laid against the dorm room wall, cradling the phone, as I smiled and tried to remember the real name of the boy we called Tico. The girls across the hall, behind their own door, stifling giggles with hand-covered mouths. The MASH games (girls in Bible college play this best, because there is no harm, no sin in it) that had us living in Vegas, driving a blue Honda with four children and an apartment.

Part of that came true. There were four children, though only three are here with us. There was a Honda, though it was red and lived in Oak Park, IL where our love first creaked and groaned under the strain of imperfect unity and immature lovers. There have been apartments, and houses, and more apartments, yet still no Vegas. There was Chicago, and Kansas City, and Dublin instead, even more unexpected than Vegas could ever be.

But I digress. The details are this: He had a side part and I had uncombed curls (the image above is a rarity: I presume I combed it just because I knew I'd see him). He wore ties and I wore plaid flannel. His were creased khakis and mine were combat boots and a skirt with poppies. He'd had no heartbreak and the sutures on mine were just beginning to heal.

In chapel, my feet were on his chair, before I knew his name. He untied the shoelaces and I looked at him and thought without thinking, "Surely not him. He has no idea." When the giggles and the whispers hushed and I sat down beside him on that next day, he looked at me, called me his future wife, and in that moment it was us
against the world,
the school,
the giggling girls,
the frowning boys,
the painful past,
the unsure future,
the parents who no doubt would be doubtful,
against all odds.

It wasn't angry unity, but a united front. Thick and thin. Through my pain and his arrogance, to think it would be easy but to know for certainty that it would not.

And here it is: together we are nearly 12... still children, with growing pains and changing voices. His is stronger now and mine is singing new songs. We don't yet know who we will be or where we will go or how long it'll take us to get there. But between the two of us and the children we try to lead and protect as the divine gifts they are, we make no mistake:

He is the father here, following the Father of our future, and I am the mother who sings the songs that point us Home.

Love in the kitchen

I hear him in the kitchen now. He says I love you with the clanging of dishes and the crashing of forks.

He wears an apron with a cartoon crazy-chef-like image on it and is covered in flour. Hospitality could be his middle name, apart from the tornado aftermath of an amazing meal. But without the tornado, there would be less to love, for he throws all he has - hands, eyes, brain, and heart - into making us full. He allows the rest of us to sit awhile and talk, sharing ideas and updating stories, laughing like mothers and sisters do.

He knows its value, the heart of his wife. The ability to care for and nurture does not come easily to all men. But to him it does, he says, because he does it for me.


the man, the tattoo, the camping/cooking/loving legend

10 Years and Counting

Today we celebrate 10 years of wedded, imperfect, beautiful bliss.

A Kept Woman

Today we celebrated our 9th wedding anniversary. That is such an amazing feat, at least to me, considering that I am not yet 30 (one month and counting!) and have already been married 9 years. Not just that, but today we celebrated those amazing 9 years in Ireland. We spent four of those nine years just trying to get here!

There are a few conundrums to our union, not the least of which is that I hate cuddling. And he loves to cuddle. And you'd think in a marriage, this would be a difficult thing to overcome. And yet, because of love, there are days when the world stops for the brief few moments that my head rests between his clavicle and shoulder. It just fits there perfectly. I believe God made it (him) just for my head (me).

And then there's the kiddos. I'm stunted for words when I think about it. There's a quote from a Doris Lessing short story (To Room Nineteen). The anthology I have that this story is in is still in America, so I don't have the quote perfect, but essentially it's the wonder of love, marriage and family: that all this (kids, house, home, life, family) came into existence because two people fell in love. The short story actually is quite depressing, so there's nothing else really from the story that reflects our marriage, except that one idea. But it's a mesmerizing notion just the same.

On my spouse's nifty facebook page, it says: [he] thinks it has been 9 years of blessed imperfection. I think that's all we can really ask for.