Dinner at seven is marriage in the Stone household. It's Mark leaving working early evening and arriving home at seven in the summer season. It's Christina gathering her grocery list and heading to the store and compiling meals from old family recipes or pinterest or her own creations.
Dinner at seven is marriage in the Stone household. It's two ways of life blending. It's Wever casseroles and Stone meat and three finding a rhythm usually of neither -- pastas and enchiladas and crockpot roasts. It's salads and late night ice cream for the usual dessert. It's water with lemon, it's two at the table. It's special napkins with white plates spread. It's taking two lives and committing them to one.
Dinner at seven is commiting to the dinner table and to the coming together routine. To being present with each other, to setting aside the day, to being purposeful about that time. Dinner at seven is Mark laying aside the freedom of work hours, to come home at a spoken time. Dinner at seven is Christina snacking at four to wait for his hug at seven.
Dinner at seven is commitment, compromise, unity, protected.
Dinner at seven is marriage.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
And You'll Grow, Grow, Grow.
When I was a kid, we would sing this song in Sunday School and grow like little sprouts from the ground. Our arms would stretch wide and our fingers would stretch like limbs off branches, as large as we could go. Then the verses would switch and we would end bundled and balled, wilted and scrunched into plops mashed into the floor.
These lyrics fumbled through my mind riding in a white tour van across the Costa Rican highway, I heard the words in my heart in a fresh way. A convicting way. I sang them with Mark, bumbling across bridges and through rainforest, and near alligators, and wheeled them through my mind for miles since.
Praying, reading, growing.
Neglecting, forgetting, shrinking.
I am [almost] always a woman who is praying, reading, growing. I live in these words, I harvest in this garden.
But I know my recent days have been full of neglect, full of forget. And I know it more in my heart than in my head. My head knows it, a poignant fact. My heart knows it, a worried soul.
Shrink, Shrink, Shrink.
I now know shrink. I now know neglect, forget.
The old children's ditty has spoken to my heart. The lyrics set to simple tune, strumming strings in my soul. I wish I could go back and tell the writer the words sting me at thirty. I wish I could go back and tell my 28 year old self to keep trucking, keep reading, keep growing. But life swallowed me up this year, like Jonah in the whale, and now I find myself spit-out and sand-sitting, and wondering how I turned into neglect and forget.
Yet the woman on the sand, the flower in the soil, knows the way to grow again: Read, and Pray.
I sing the little children's sonet in my head and grab the Gospel words from my memory, my Biblegateway, and my NIV, and I begin to read.
I lay in my bed under covers and mull over the days conversations, and I begin to pray.
And I begin to grow.
~~~
*If you haven't heard this little children's ditty, you can see/listen here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfScu505a2o
** I praise the Lord, too, though for these days where I haven't read and prayed, because it has allowed me to grow in purposed faith, without [at least, with less] worry and pushed me to simply move forward with greatly abundant trust.
Read your Bible, pray every day, pray every day, pray every day
Read your Bible, pray every day and you’ll grow, grow, grow
And you’ll grow, grow, grow and you’ll grow, grow, grow
Read your Bible, pray every day, and you’ll grow, grow, grow
Neglect your Bible, forget to pray, forget to pray, forget to pray
Neglect your Bible, forget to pray and you’ll shrink, shrink, shrink
And you’ll shrink, shrink, shrink and you’ll shrink, shrink, shrink
Neglect your Bible, forget to pray and you’ll shrink, shrink, shrink
These lyrics fumbled through my mind riding in a white tour van across the Costa Rican highway, I heard the words in my heart in a fresh way. A convicting way. I sang them with Mark, bumbling across bridges and through rainforest, and near alligators, and wheeled them through my mind for miles since.
Praying, reading, growing.
Neglecting, forgetting, shrinking.
I am [almost] always a woman who is praying, reading, growing. I live in these words, I harvest in this garden.
But I know my recent days have been full of neglect, full of forget. And I know it more in my heart than in my head. My head knows it, a poignant fact. My heart knows it, a worried soul.
Shrink, Shrink, Shrink.
I now know shrink. I now know neglect, forget.
The old children's ditty has spoken to my heart. The lyrics set to simple tune, strumming strings in my soul. I wish I could go back and tell the writer the words sting me at thirty. I wish I could go back and tell my 28 year old self to keep trucking, keep reading, keep growing. But life swallowed me up this year, like Jonah in the whale, and now I find myself spit-out and sand-sitting, and wondering how I turned into neglect and forget.
Yet the woman on the sand, the flower in the soil, knows the way to grow again: Read, and Pray.
I sing the little children's sonet in my head and grab the Gospel words from my memory, my Biblegateway, and my NIV, and I begin to read.
I lay in my bed under covers and mull over the days conversations, and I begin to pray.
And I begin to grow.
~~~
*If you haven't heard this little children's ditty, you can see/listen here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfScu505a2o
** I praise the Lord, too, though for these days where I haven't read and prayed, because it has allowed me to grow in purposed faith, without [at least, with less] worry and pushed me to simply move forward with greatly abundant trust.
My Heart, A Welcome Home.
I meandered around the courtyard yesterday, church goers and attenders and newcomers strolling to and fro. I watched, read faces, analyzed walks, then created an approach. Some woman stood singlely by a post, waiting for another. Others bee-lined to the cafe or sanctuary, sunglasses covering their nose. Others clasped childs hands, or strolled confidently.
My eyes were captured by the bee-liners. The women covered with their own lashes, or hugging their purses tightly. There was a noticable fear in them, approaching the worship grounds. Scared for how to fit, who to see, how to behave, where to go. I know them, because I know that look in me.
I talked to the wanderers, or the ones standing at the info booth, looking for links, for lifelines, for a place to connect, a niche, a home.
And I sat in the pew, minutes later, and thought about Jesus. And thought about strangers. And thought about visitors. And thought about me; us.
Who are we to strangers? Who are we to visitors? In our hearts, in our home, in our church?
Women walking into church, feeling unaware, feeling vulnerable, feeling insecure. Who greets and welcomes the strangers, like angels unaware? (Hebrews 13:2)
Robert Boyd Munger titled his book My Heart, Christ's Home. I sat in the pew and thought: Is my heart, a welcome home?
Is my heart a welcome home to strangers? Is my heart a welcome home to those it meets, those it greets? Do they feel a sense of rest there? Do they find it shelter, find it home?
Do they read that on my face? In my greeting, in my smile?
Do I walk around and visit strangers, with a heart that is a welcome home?
~~
Note: Think of this too, as an encouragement. I never realized how much my church was a church of visitors, and greeting this day reminded me how much I need to be heart that is a welcome home to those who approach the throne of worship. What a difference it may make to have a hug, a word, a handshake, as they come to the church, to my heart, to Christ's home.
My eyes were captured by the bee-liners. The women covered with their own lashes, or hugging their purses tightly. There was a noticable fear in them, approaching the worship grounds. Scared for how to fit, who to see, how to behave, where to go. I know them, because I know that look in me.
I talked to the wanderers, or the ones standing at the info booth, looking for links, for lifelines, for a place to connect, a niche, a home.
And I sat in the pew, minutes later, and thought about Jesus. And thought about strangers. And thought about visitors. And thought about me; us.
Who are we to strangers? Who are we to visitors? In our hearts, in our home, in our church?
Women walking into church, feeling unaware, feeling vulnerable, feeling insecure. Who greets and welcomes the strangers, like angels unaware? (Hebrews 13:2)
Robert Boyd Munger titled his book My Heart, Christ's Home. I sat in the pew and thought: Is my heart, a welcome home?
Is my heart a welcome home to strangers? Is my heart a welcome home to those it meets, those it greets? Do they feel a sense of rest there? Do they find it shelter, find it home?
Do they read that on my face? In my greeting, in my smile?
Do I walk around and visit strangers, with a heart that is a welcome home?
~~
Note: Think of this too, as an encouragement. I never realized how much my church was a church of visitors, and greeting this day reminded me how much I need to be heart that is a welcome home to those who approach the throne of worship. What a difference it may make to have a hug, a word, a handshake, as they come to the church, to my heart, to Christ's home.
Grace These Days.
What grace looks like these days is women in sweatpants, women running late, women with unmade beds. What grace looks like these days is women canceling for a party, women late to pray, women who don't work out. What grace looks like these days is women grabbing to-go dinner, women having husbands iron, women who let weeds grow.
Grace in these days looks different. Grace in these days is these women.
I came back from my honeymoon and knew I would tackle this issue, and know I will forever, but still need and covet the way that grace looks in these days.
I want to be the perfect wife. I want perfectly laundered clothes, flowers that blossom full each season, meals from scratch each night at the table. I want lipstick that seals and stays, coffee that is consistent each day, and little "love yous" posted everywhere.
I want Etsy, Real Simple, and Giada De Laurentiis to stare in awe of me.
And I want it all with a calm, confident, and "fresh beach day" look on my face and curls that bounce along with my pleasant lipsticked smile.
Here is where and why, God has intercepted and given me little glimpses into grace these days.
His grace to my perfectified idol, is his people. His women. Who laugh when they haven't made the bed, who miss meetings because they have missed their morning coffee, who show up to events with sweatpants. And yet are the most godly women I know. And they care for their home and their families with deep love and commitment.
His grace is his words through my Mother-in-Love, retold over me four times in the last week: that being a wife is being. That it's the smile in the "welcome home", the calm love evening night, the sleepy kiss in the morning good-bye. Its Bekah's words about rest and doing one single thing each day, and being the well to come home to. Its the WLT ladies and their laughter and words that remind me that "godly" doesn't mean my painted perception.
Grace these days is women. Women who love well, who love whole, who let grace be the guide and love the statute. Grace these days is their story, God's story, given to me through them, so I can learn, and teach, and accept it myself: Grace.
Grace in these days looks different. Grace in these days is these women.
I came back from my honeymoon and knew I would tackle this issue, and know I will forever, but still need and covet the way that grace looks in these days.
I want to be the perfect wife. I want perfectly laundered clothes, flowers that blossom full each season, meals from scratch each night at the table. I want lipstick that seals and stays, coffee that is consistent each day, and little "love yous" posted everywhere.
I want Etsy, Real Simple, and Giada De Laurentiis to stare in awe of me.
And I want it all with a calm, confident, and "fresh beach day" look on my face and curls that bounce along with my pleasant lipsticked smile.
Here is where and why, God has intercepted and given me little glimpses into grace these days.
His grace to my perfectified idol, is his people. His women. Who laugh when they haven't made the bed, who miss meetings because they have missed their morning coffee, who show up to events with sweatpants. And yet are the most godly women I know. And they care for their home and their families with deep love and commitment.
His grace is his words through my Mother-in-Love, retold over me four times in the last week: that being a wife is being. That it's the smile in the "welcome home", the calm love evening night, the sleepy kiss in the morning good-bye. Its Bekah's words about rest and doing one single thing each day, and being the well to come home to. Its the WLT ladies and their laughter and words that remind me that "godly" doesn't mean my painted perception.
Grace these days is women. Women who love well, who love whole, who let grace be the guide and love the statute. Grace these days is their story, God's story, given to me through them, so I can learn, and teach, and accept it myself: Grace.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
I Am Sarah.
Genesis 18 tells the story of Sarah and her faded heart. I say faded, because years had gone by and hope had waned. I sense her as strong in her youth, risky and daring if you read her efforts in Egypt, but as life rubbed against her flesh and will, she simply learned to live without.
She had longed for a child, longed so much she gave her husband over to her servant to birth offspring. She wanted a heritage of her own. Yet jealousy ate at her to despise Hagar and cast blame on her husband.
But the Lord wasn't finished with her story. The Lord had a call yet for Sarah. A plan yet for her heritage.
Yet Sarah had lost trust, had surrendered hope, had let faith recluse.
With three men [angels] the Lord reminded her of the promise he had made years before to Abram, the promise of generations under his care. A nation as his flock. She listened from inside the tent and felt the years tug at the wrinkles of her skin, turning belief into sarcasm.
I sat on a wall, tall and thick with rocks and mortor upholding the hedges growing thick. The Barbados sunrise screamed with brillance: reds and oranges and yellows blistering over the sea. The five o'clock sun beckoned and awakened me, I stretched with the morning light to be quiet with the Lord.
And as morning drew, so did the Lord. His words so pristine, made audible to my heart. I would have a husband. His call and plan were clear. My heart left to no doubt that it was He growing in me faith, due to his assurance.
Years wore down my conviction, and belief turned to doubt. And I, like Sarah, hid in behind a tent. Not knowing, not trusting, not believing. Letting go of the words I knew to be so clear and True. My trust turned to embittered laughter, my hope turned to defeat.
Along the way I would remember, and see that bright sunrise and feel my heart testify: I know that I know that I know... then life would remind me still, it wasn't so. Anne recalled his promise over me one summer (she knew, but rarely anyone else) but I shook with doubt and let tears stream hot down my angry cheeks. And I, and like Sarah, let laughter aim towards heaven, and my heart harden to the hope of the dream.
Hebrews 10:23 says: "for he who promised is faithful." Sarah and I both had heard, had known, had clung to his promise. Then doubted that He was faithful. Time aged our belief, our strength, our hope until it dried up like a raisin in the sun. We let it wither and die. But God speaks boldly back to Abraham, and Sarah, and me, and questions: "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" (Genesis 18:14) and lets us choose our response, despite his knowing the rhetoric answer.
Sarah lay one day with child in her arms: Isaac, the Lord's called and sacred lineage.
I fell in love with a man: Mark, my beloved, the Lord's assurance of his plan.
Sarah looked down at Israel, and felt the breath and conviction of promised hope.
I placed a ring on Mark, and know it as testimony of covenant fulfilled.
~~~
Thanks to Megan Holst Besemer who rose with me for those Barbados mornings, and Anne Visker Harbough who reminded me of his promise in my tears.
She had longed for a child, longed so much she gave her husband over to her servant to birth offspring. She wanted a heritage of her own. Yet jealousy ate at her to despise Hagar and cast blame on her husband.
But the Lord wasn't finished with her story. The Lord had a call yet for Sarah. A plan yet for her heritage.
Yet Sarah had lost trust, had surrendered hope, had let faith recluse.
With three men [angels] the Lord reminded her of the promise he had made years before to Abram, the promise of generations under his care. A nation as his flock. She listened from inside the tent and felt the years tug at the wrinkles of her skin, turning belief into sarcasm.
I sat on a wall, tall and thick with rocks and mortor upholding the hedges growing thick. The Barbados sunrise screamed with brillance: reds and oranges and yellows blistering over the sea. The five o'clock sun beckoned and awakened me, I stretched with the morning light to be quiet with the Lord.
And as morning drew, so did the Lord. His words so pristine, made audible to my heart. I would have a husband. His call and plan were clear. My heart left to no doubt that it was He growing in me faith, due to his assurance.
Years wore down my conviction, and belief turned to doubt. And I, like Sarah, hid in behind a tent. Not knowing, not trusting, not believing. Letting go of the words I knew to be so clear and True. My trust turned to embittered laughter, my hope turned to defeat.
Along the way I would remember, and see that bright sunrise and feel my heart testify: I know that I know that I know... then life would remind me still, it wasn't so. Anne recalled his promise over me one summer (she knew, but rarely anyone else) but I shook with doubt and let tears stream hot down my angry cheeks. And I, and like Sarah, let laughter aim towards heaven, and my heart harden to the hope of the dream.
Hebrews 10:23 says: "for he who promised is faithful." Sarah and I both had heard, had known, had clung to his promise. Then doubted that He was faithful. Time aged our belief, our strength, our hope until it dried up like a raisin in the sun. We let it wither and die. But God speaks boldly back to Abraham, and Sarah, and me, and questions: "Is anything too hard for the Lord?" (Genesis 18:14) and lets us choose our response, despite his knowing the rhetoric answer.
Sarah lay one day with child in her arms: Isaac, the Lord's called and sacred lineage.
I fell in love with a man: Mark, my beloved, the Lord's assurance of his plan.
Sarah looked down at Israel, and felt the breath and conviction of promised hope.
I placed a ring on Mark, and know it as testimony of covenant fulfilled.
~~~
Thanks to Megan Holst Besemer who rose with me for those Barbados mornings, and Anne Visker Harbough who reminded me of his promise in my tears.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Unbuttoned.
I ran into the meeting, a Wednesday night, with my hair all a flutter and my sandals slipped on my feet. Smiling and greeting, then looking down and laughing.
"Oh boy! I'm unbuttoned!"
My shirt hunt open everywhere but the top knot, exposing just the white tank top underneath, the wind caught the sides and there I laughed, and hung. And the women laughed with me. Good 'ole WLT (Church at Charlottes Women's Leadership Team).
I laughed and shook my head, rolled my eyes. "Oh, this is so exactly the epitome of me right now! Trying to look all put together, and calm, but inside I'm all unbuttoned and coming undone!"
And so true it was! My pleated Banana Republic skirt looked pressed well, the yellow silk of the Ann Taylor shirt matched to a "T" and I had my WLT binder ready to go... Appearing all together...
Then we sat in the meeting, and I had paint still drying down the side of my leg, and splotted in my hair from working on getting my house ready for Mark and guests. I had a flurry of emails I couldn't keep straight, and shoved sunglasses on my head to try to convince my hair to look tame.
Unbottoned. I laugh about it. Its truly the epitome of me, in these days and moments. Trying to be calm, cool, collected, and casual... but typing to-do list on my phone during sermons, scrounging through receipts for a centerpiece return, and filling my bathtub with boxes of decor.
Unbuttoned. Oh boy, this is me.
"Oh boy! I'm unbuttoned!"
My shirt hunt open everywhere but the top knot, exposing just the white tank top underneath, the wind caught the sides and there I laughed, and hung. And the women laughed with me. Good 'ole WLT (Church at Charlottes Women's Leadership Team).
I laughed and shook my head, rolled my eyes. "Oh, this is so exactly the epitome of me right now! Trying to look all put together, and calm, but inside I'm all unbuttoned and coming undone!"
And so true it was! My pleated Banana Republic skirt looked pressed well, the yellow silk of the Ann Taylor shirt matched to a "T" and I had my WLT binder ready to go... Appearing all together...
Then we sat in the meeting, and I had paint still drying down the side of my leg, and splotted in my hair from working on getting my house ready for Mark and guests. I had a flurry of emails I couldn't keep straight, and shoved sunglasses on my head to try to convince my hair to look tame.
Unbottoned. I laugh about it. Its truly the epitome of me, in these days and moments. Trying to be calm, cool, collected, and casual... but typing to-do list on my phone during sermons, scrounging through receipts for a centerpiece return, and filling my bathtub with boxes of decor.
Unbuttoned. Oh boy, this is me.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Orpah in Black Veil.
She's wrapped in headdress, concealing her Moabite features, her dark eyes hid beneath cascading veil, and all limbs and visage undisclosed for vanity. She hovers still in black, robed in mourning, her head still cautious, heart guarded from the wounds of hurt and burden that carry so closely with burial. She does not speak of him, Kilion, the look of lost bewilderment in her eyes.
For ten years she knew him and watched him and lived with him and loved him. For ten years she forsook her own family to marry from out, to marry a Judean. For ten years she learned from him, followed him, and gathered customs of him.
And now he lay: dead. Now he abode the grave.
No questions are asked, for her eyes hold all, the dark dressings over them like thick Arabic coffee swirling with doubt and darkness and concealed desperation. As if thoughts evaded words and spoke through:
Years of her mother's chiding, enamored for this Judean man. Words of her father, as she left and married him. Begging and wishing Kilion, eluding him not to go to war. Haggard men returning, her husband lost from line.
Naomi gave her words. Her wavered strength pouring through, tight hugs of known commencement, fathers and sons and husbands that both she and they too, the three, knew heavy. "Go back...to your mother's home" (Ruth 1:8). Like love, she tried to set them free.
But both Ruth and Orpah clung, like sisters and daughters to she.
Her eyes moisten, her lips bitten to close. As if she watches them again, like two souls of hers on dirt.
And she stood there alone.
Naomi gave her permission, but was her mother now too. And now she walked away, down the road with Ruth. Her quiver still Orpah heard, "Return home, my daughters...find rest in the home of another husband" (Ruth 1:11, 9). The words stung, in senile truth. Another husband?! Like blasphemy, the words catapulted her, piercing with Kilion's depleted existence.
I want to ask her about him. I want to ask her of her mother's hug, or if she even offered one. I want to ask her if her heart made room for another, if her fallen grief revived, if her Moabite family took her in.
But her veil keeps her from him. Her dark, quiet eyes shelter her secrets.
I sit with Orpah for coffee. But am afraid I will not find the truth.
For ten years she knew him and watched him and lived with him and loved him. For ten years she forsook her own family to marry from out, to marry a Judean. For ten years she learned from him, followed him, and gathered customs of him.
And now he lay: dead. Now he abode the grave.
No questions are asked, for her eyes hold all, the dark dressings over them like thick Arabic coffee swirling with doubt and darkness and concealed desperation. As if thoughts evaded words and spoke through:
Years of her mother's chiding, enamored for this Judean man. Words of her father, as she left and married him. Begging and wishing Kilion, eluding him not to go to war. Haggard men returning, her husband lost from line.
Naomi gave her words. Her wavered strength pouring through, tight hugs of known commencement, fathers and sons and husbands that both she and they too, the three, knew heavy. "Go back...to your mother's home" (Ruth 1:8). Like love, she tried to set them free.
But both Ruth and Orpah clung, like sisters and daughters to she.
Her eyes moisten, her lips bitten to close. As if she watches them again, like two souls of hers on dirt.
And she stood there alone.
Naomi gave her permission, but was her mother now too. And now she walked away, down the road with Ruth. Her quiver still Orpah heard, "Return home, my daughters...find rest in the home of another husband" (Ruth 1:11, 9). The words stung, in senile truth. Another husband?! Like blasphemy, the words catapulted her, piercing with Kilion's depleted existence.
I want to ask her about him. I want to ask her of her mother's hug, or if she even offered one. I want to ask her if her heart made room for another, if her fallen grief revived, if her Moabite family took her in.
But her veil keeps her from him. Her dark, quiet eyes shelter her secrets.
I sit with Orpah for coffee. But am afraid I will not find the truth.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Tuesday Nights
Tuesday nights. Tuesday nights were breakfast food: dad eating eggs or Grandpa forking Belguim Waffles. Mom swirled new recipes to dollup oatmeal pancakes and Kelly stirred her famous cheese eggs. We'd gather at the big wood dining room table and listen to dad tell stories, and eat our "breakfast for dinner" with orange juice and all. I loved Tuesday nights.
Tuesday nights turned intentional family, when mom watched Jaxson each Tuesday and Josh came for dinner. I drove in from Grandville or Grand Rapids, and Grandma would often come too. Tuesday nights were everyone come, everyone served. Tuesday nights were open table, open conversation, full of lingering coffee and voices mulled and stirred.
Tuesday nights were Josh growing, seeing him blend and become family, flourish at being a dad. Tuesday nights were his purposed spot at the table, and his chuckle interwoven with dads.
Tuesday nights were Melissa. Melissa modeling mom to cook and befriending in the process. Tuesday nights were the two of them preparing and sharing meals, figuring grocery list, and all of us coming to take part.
Tuesday nights were all of us. Learning grown-up family. Being together. Being fed, in heart and body. Tuesday nights were no one rushing out, were real estate discussed, cars bought & sold, and laughter all around.
One of the most difficult things about getting married, is absense of giving Mark Tuesday nights. Is the space void of his place at the table, his knowing of our memories, his viewing of how we all reminisce, his understanding of the men's interaction. I wish I could give Mark Tuesday nights -- for him, and for me. I wish I could give him the taste of my moms homemade blueberry pancakes, of rides on the quad out back, of hugs walking in the door, of the smell of fresh-mowed Homerich grass. I wish I could give him wild rides on the boat, where hands grip the handles, and days rocking on the green chairs at the lake.
I wish I could give him Tuesday nights. I wish I could give him that understanding of me.
Tuesday nights turned intentional family, when mom watched Jaxson each Tuesday and Josh came for dinner. I drove in from Grandville or Grand Rapids, and Grandma would often come too. Tuesday nights were everyone come, everyone served. Tuesday nights were open table, open conversation, full of lingering coffee and voices mulled and stirred.
Tuesday nights were Josh growing, seeing him blend and become family, flourish at being a dad. Tuesday nights were his purposed spot at the table, and his chuckle interwoven with dads.
Tuesday nights were Melissa. Melissa modeling mom to cook and befriending in the process. Tuesday nights were the two of them preparing and sharing meals, figuring grocery list, and all of us coming to take part.
Tuesday nights were all of us. Learning grown-up family. Being together. Being fed, in heart and body. Tuesday nights were no one rushing out, were real estate discussed, cars bought & sold, and laughter all around.
One of the most difficult things about getting married, is absense of giving Mark Tuesday nights. Is the space void of his place at the table, his knowing of our memories, his viewing of how we all reminisce, his understanding of the men's interaction. I wish I could give Mark Tuesday nights -- for him, and for me. I wish I could give him the taste of my moms homemade blueberry pancakes, of rides on the quad out back, of hugs walking in the door, of the smell of fresh-mowed Homerich grass. I wish I could give him wild rides on the boat, where hands grip the handles, and days rocking on the green chairs at the lake.
I wish I could give him Tuesday nights. I wish I could give him that understanding of me.
Monday, May 14, 2012
To Those Who Say It's Good.
These are the ones I lean into. They are the stories I long to hear, the messages I take notes from, the carols I memorize to repeat, the friendships I hug into. They are the words of people I hold dear, the words of wisdom, of smiles, of goodness. The words of years won, of hands still held, of enjoyment continually shared.
People say marriage is hard.
I know that. I know that I know that I am naive. But that's okay. Let me be that way.
Let me hope for tomorrow.
Let me hope for good.
I watched my parents. I watched them laugh and share and boat and travel and errand and eat. I watched them enjoy. I watched them: I watched hope; I watched good.
Some warn, some paint furrowed pictures. But I crave and listen in to those who say it's good.
In this season of planning, in this particular time of preparation, what I am most thankful for, is those who say it's good.
~~~
Thank you Bekah and Patricia and Kate and Amy and Rachel and Heidi and Aunts and Sisters and WLT... all those, who say it's good.
People say marriage is hard.
I know that. I know that I know that I am naive. But that's okay. Let me be that way.
Let me hope for tomorrow.
Let me hope for good.
I watched my parents. I watched them laugh and share and boat and travel and errand and eat. I watched them enjoy. I watched them: I watched hope; I watched good.
Some warn, some paint furrowed pictures. But I crave and listen in to those who say it's good.
In this season of planning, in this particular time of preparation, what I am most thankful for, is those who say it's good.
~~~
Thank you Bekah and Patricia and Kate and Amy and Rachel and Heidi and Aunts and Sisters and WLT... all those, who say it's good.
Waving Transition.
I live a life of transition. Always moving, always changing, always growing, rarely knowing. In a 10 year span, I moved more than 30 times (move=unpacked into drawers), lived in 3 states, traveled to 5 continents, endured family reconfiguration, and worked 13 different full-time jobs.
I used to feel jolted by every transition. I can remember crying the days I packed boxes to move from one house to another. Now, life has taught me to brace myself, and ride the waves of transition.
I stand in camp between multiple phrases. Between single and married. Between teacher and nanny. Between roommate and lifemate. Between individual and couple. The cognitive shifting, the psychological process, the physical preparation all live in limbo between what was, and what comes, and struggles to find a sandbar of what is.
Files fill boxes of school supplies to keep, rooms are tested with paint color to rotate, budgets are examined and restructured, weekend activites move from "me" to "we", student letters are stashed in binders with degrees, registries for new lead to releasing the old, and I live between what was, and what will be.
What was, what is, and what will be. The transitions find me in waves, both in the pace of the flow, and in the depth of thought.
Yet, I have learned to "wave" at the waves. Not clutch for shoreline, or sink in overwhelm, but feel the movement, then raft on faith.
Transition has taught me, is teaching me still, to wave from waves.
I used to feel jolted by every transition. I can remember crying the days I packed boxes to move from one house to another. Now, life has taught me to brace myself, and ride the waves of transition.
I stand in camp between multiple phrases. Between single and married. Between teacher and nanny. Between roommate and lifemate. Between individual and couple. The cognitive shifting, the psychological process, the physical preparation all live in limbo between what was, and what comes, and struggles to find a sandbar of what is.
Files fill boxes of school supplies to keep, rooms are tested with paint color to rotate, budgets are examined and restructured, weekend activites move from "me" to "we", student letters are stashed in binders with degrees, registries for new lead to releasing the old, and I live between what was, and what will be.
What was, what is, and what will be. The transitions find me in waves, both in the pace of the flow, and in the depth of thought.
Yet, I have learned to "wave" at the waves. Not clutch for shoreline, or sink in overwhelm, but feel the movement, then raft on faith.
Transition has taught me, is teaching me still, to wave from waves.
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