The Dented Finger

When our boys get together with their best friends, chaos almost always ensues. They're 9, 9, 7 and 6. And they're BOYS. It's always sword fighting and Nerf gun shooting and THIS IS OUR BASE and GET YOUR OWN BASE and LET'S LOCK THE LITTLE BROTHERS IN THE BEDROOM and then THEY LOCKED US IN THE BEDROOM!!!

Last night, my best friend (who is also the mama of my boys' best friends) had us over for a most delicious meal. She invited our associate pastor and his daughter because his wife and other daughter are off  gallivanting around Haiti with my husband. (Okay so they're with a missions organization building homes and ministering to the Haitians. But still. Gallivanting.)

As the adults talked, the boys participated in the above mentioned chaos. At one point, a high pitched shriek rang out. "BEN!" my friend yelled at her youngest. As the shriek continued, he appeared, dressed as Indiana Jones and not yelling at all. That's when I realized it was one of mine. The scream continued and then subsided only to be replaced with Matthew's voice yelling unintelligible things. His finger had been accidentally slammed--and then stuck--in the hinge side of the door.

A long dent ran across it.

"IS IT BROKEN????" he repeatedly asked me when it was freed. He could bend it with ease so I assured him that it was not. He'd calm down for a minute and then he'd start writhing and sobbing all over again. At one point he wailed, "I just want dad!"

Eventually, his sobbing induced his seventh nose bleed in five days. Our associate pastor, Chris, who is horribly prone to nose bleeds, sprang into action and started assisting with the nose bleed while I held the writhing six-year-old. I finally announced that we'd have to leave because I just couldn't get him to settle down. "Can you carry me?" he cried.

"Hey bud, can I carry you instead?" Chris asked. Without responding, Matthew curled up on the ground in the fetal position. Apparently, it was a decided no. I heaved him up into my arms. By the time we got home, Matthew was calmed down and talking coherently to me. He climbed the stairs and put himself to bed fully clothed.

I'm a smart, self-sufficient, modern day, independent woman. I have people here who are more than willing to help when things go wrong. But I'll be very glad to have my husband back tomorrow. He forgets his wallet and his standard of cleanliness is beneath mine but he's kind of the super glue that holds this family together. We work better with him here, is what I'm saying.

Warrior Diva

I'm not dead!

I know that's the conclusion you all jump to when I don't blog for more than a week. "Huh, welp, she must be dead."

But I'm not dead. I just took off to southern California for the holiday because my husband took off on a missions trip to Haiti. He is gone so now is the time for all the ax murderers to come over and kill me. I feel like I should warn you though, the littlest one is impressively strong for his age and, also, slightly violent. The older one has a penchant for war documentaries and is armed with both a Red Rider BB Gun AND an airsoft gun so, while he is not likely to kill you, he may stun you just long enough for us to get away.

Anyway, so Troy's in Haiti and I've decided that it is a darn good thing I'm not a military wife. Military wives, I salute you! He's been gone before but not without ANY contact. We can't talk or email or text or send smoke signals or anything. It's been THREE ENTIRE DAYS SINCE I'VE HEARD HIS VOICE OR COMMUNICATED WITH HIM AT ALL AND IT IS KIND OF KILLING ME SLOWLY.

I got home today and found little notes all over the house. I love yous in the bathroom and on the kitchen counter. More of them in the boys' room. Garrett almost cried when he was getting our vitamins out for dinner and he didn't need to get any for Troy. That led to me wondering if my absent minded pastor remembered to take his vitamins to Haiti and I landed solidly in the I HIGHLY DOUBT IT camp. As long as he remembered to take his Malaria medicine, I am not going to worry about a multi vitamin. And I don't see his Malaria medicine lying around so I'm crossing my fingers on that one.

We left this morning at 5:00 am and I drove through post Thanksgiving traffic, snow, and some kind of pinched (or otherwise terribly wounded) nerve thingy in my back and/or neck that alternates between being a dull ache and a burning sensation as though someone suddenly threw a fireball onto the very top of my spine. The only thing that relieved the pain when the fireball came on was lifting my arm up into the air and holding on to my own head rest. I'm sure it was a sight to behold.

But I got our crew home--one tired mama, two hyper children, one six-month-old golden retriever puppy, and a partridge in a pear tree. I made it in such good time that my friend said she was going to write a musical about it and call it The Road Warrior Diva of I-15. Or something like that. I don't know. It sounded just riveting!

I'll let you know about ticket sales as soon as there's a script and a score and a space to perform it in. I have a feeling though that we might have to shelf it due to lack of funding. It'll be a crying shame because it otherwise had such potential.

So, for now, I'm just sitting here missing my husband and humming would-be notes to a would-be masterpiece. But I'm alive, so it's all good.

Why I Chose My Husband

Yesterday was my 12th anniversary. That is crazy talk because I cannot possibly be a day over 25. And I did not get married when I was 13. If for no other reason than the fact that my husband is 10 years older than me. This year was, maybe, not the best. But we weathered through and we're better for it. For better for worse and all that. I'm so blessed to have him by my side.

As a pastor's wife, I have the opportunity to listen as women tell me the things they love and adore about their spouses and, sometimes, the things they are struggling with. I pray for women with stories of addiction, anger issues, unfaithfulness. I rejoice in "atta boys" when husbands are promoted, get raises, or break free from sin. Often, I am able to get a glimpse into what she was looking for when she chose her husband in the first place. Sometimes it's because he was hilarious or he knew how to fix things or he was a hard worker. Sometimes a guy was chosen for his strapping good looks or because he made her feel beautiful. It's often a combination of a lot of things, of course.

I chose my husband for one reason only. 

I "grew up" in the middle of a relationship with my first fiance. We started dating when I was 18 and I broke up with him when I was 21. He shared my faith but, among many other things that led to my ending our relationship, he was not a spiritual leader. I couldn't see my faith growing or ministry opportunities developing as a result of marrying him. At 18, I didn't think to consider that. At 21, with our marriage looming in the not-so-distant future, I realized that it was all that I should have cared about.

In Troy, I found a man who would walk with God and challenge me in my own walk. I knew he would teach me and, from the very beginning, he would lead our children spiritually and point them toward our Creator. If I break down my entire marriage, absolutely nothing else matters to me. This world is fleeting. It is but a moment. Everything points us toward eternity. I wanted a spiritual leader. A man who would open the Word with me and explain it when I was confused. A man who would share his knowledge and opinion but one who would listen if I came to a different conclusion. A man who would debate with me as his equal, pray with me, and grow old with me as we waited for what was to come. Not to get stuck in this life, but to look ahead to the next. 

It's an added bonus that he makes me laugh and puts food on the table and that he's patient and kind and honest.

The cards we've been dealt haven't always been stellar hands. We lost our home when we moved to Utah, we went into incredible amounts of debt to gain the privilege of adopting our son, and we buried our daughter. More than 13% of our monthly income goes to our medical insurance premium. We rent our home and we'll probably have to work until we die. To name just a few of our card games.

Such is life.

Through all of that, I'm proud to have this man beside me, pointing me toward eternity. I'm amazed at the way he teaches our boys about our God and about biblical principles. I love the way he has changed me and the way we have grown together. When I pray for my children's future spouses, I ask for one thing only.

She doesn't need to be able to cook or clean well. She doesn't have to be beautiful or wealthy or smart or have a strong set of child bearing hips. I just want her to love Jesus and dedicate her life to following Him. And that's ultimately all I want for my boys as well.

That is why I chose my husband. Because, above all else, that is what matters. And because, when we, as a couple, love Jesus with our whole hearts, we can trust that He will bring us through whatever He puts in our path. No, this year hasn't been easy. But at least I had him holding my hand through it all.

Our Boys' Message

The following post was guest written by my husband, Troy. I stand behind what he says and I love him so very much for the way in which he leads our family.

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Ever since we got the news about Kate, our lives have been all sorts of turned upside down. Profound sorrow and feelings of loss have been combined with the incredible support and generosity of family, friends, and even strangers.  We have been forced to cling to God’s mercy and promises.  When we forget, our children are there to remind us.

The other day Matthew drew a picture of Jesus rocking Kate.  He told us that she was in Heaven with Jesus and he was taking care of her.  That’s typical of how our boys have been responding.  In between their own sorrow they respond with great statements of faith.

The other day, all on his own, Matthew decided we needed to tell all of our neighbors about Jesus so that they could be in heaven too.  He asked if we should wear suits.  Suits.  That part makes me think, maybe, that we have been in Utah too long.  Still, we were impressed how his sorrow had set aflame his little evangelistic spirit.  With his older brother in tow (Garrett, the original street-corner preacher) they knocked on several doors attempting to invite their friends over to hear about Jesus. No one was home or available.  Not to be dissuaded they came up with their next plan.  They could make a video like the Just One Dollar video.

This is their video. 

It took a little adult help, but the idea is all theirs.  While this is blog is certainly meant to be a witness to our family’s faith (as well as a record of all the other crazy things we do) we do not usually try and force-feed our beliefs to anyone.  Sometimes, though, it is these boys that remind us that the greatness of God and the importance of His salvation needs to be shared.  We cannot be silent.  We certainly cannot make them be silent (believe me we've tried).  And if we somehow, wrongly, succeeded in quieting them in this matter, I'm pretty certain that the rocks themselves would cry out. 

I hope you take the time to watch their video.

If you are interested in learning more about Jesus and what He has done for you, you can click over to the additional websites:

http://themissionutah.com/thegospel/

http://www.gotquestions.org/gospel-of-Jesus-Christ.html

https://bible.org/article/gods-plan-salvation

If you aren't interested, please know that we share this message because it is what we believe. It is because we believe and because we care for you that we share.  

We believe there is eternal hope in Jesus.

It is this hope which gives us peace as we process our sorrow.

It is a hope we want to share with you.

Germs

This past Tuesday my husband came home from work in the afternoon. He has to be back to the church around 6:00 pm because he's teaching a webinar for CBMatrix. He teaches for roughly an hour, takes a break and then teaches for about another hour. When he got home, he wasn't feeling well. He took a nap. When he woke up, I was getting ready to head out the door to get the boys their flu vaccination. I kissed Troy and he WAS BURNING UP.

That fever, 101.5 when I shoved the thermometer into his ear a minute after feeling ALL the HEAT, did not break until yesterday. It was almost a full 48 hours of 101. It would dive, temporarily, down to a high 99 when he took Ibuprofen but then it would shoot back up again. He was miserable.

Yesterday, he woke up, still burning, and informed me that he was throwing in the towel. It was time to bring in the big guns. And by the big guns, I mean, a physician. I asked if he had any other symptoms and he said that his head hurt horribly.

"Does your throat hurt?" I asked. "Maybe it's strep."

"I've never had strep in my entire life," he reminded me. Just before I left to take the boys to school he took his temperature again. I asked him if his fever was down at all. "It's 100," he told me. Then he switched the thermometer to the other ear. "Wait. Maybe not. It's 105."

"A HUNDRED AND FIVE?!?!" I howled. Because I think my temperature was 104 or 105 when I was two years old and I can vividly remember all the terrible hallucinations I saw on that horrid night. And I was a child. I feel like 105 for an adult would be, maybe, mostly dead. I kid not, my mind had already thrown my kids in the car and used super human strength to lift my husband from the bed, stuck him in the car, thrown cold, wet towels on his head and floored it to the ER before he ever had the time to shake his head. "No. Sorry. 101 POINT 5."

Whew. That's, just, a lot better.

I insisted on driving him to the doctor because, in his feverish state, I didn't want him hallucinating an open lane where really there was a bus. The doctor asked him if his throat hurt. "Not really, Maybe just a little." He pointed a flashlight into Troy's throat and nearly recoiled.

"Oh. Okay. Wow. So your throat is really red and there's white pockets on your tonsils and I'm pretty sure it's strep."

So there's a first time for everything.

He took an antibiotic and he's on the mend. But, apparently, strep really doesn't agree with my husband because I have never seen him sicker than he was over these last few days. I wanted to love him and take care of him and will him to feel better all while simultaneously staying several feet away from him and his highly contagious germs.

Sunglasses

I recently had to send someone some pictures. It was specifically requested that we not be wearing sunglasses. DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO FIND PICTURES OF MY FAMILY WHERE MY HUSBAND IS NOT WEARING SUNGLASSES?

I wanted to send some pictures from our Israel trip a year ago. EXCEPT THERE WERE NONE. I could not find a single picture of our family that was both GOOD and SUNGLASSES FREE. In fairness, we spent the majority of our time outside and it was bright. So, I was pretty much wearing sunglasses the entire time too.

So I went back in time to our Maui trip from 2012. I found ONE picture where my husband wasn't sporting his shades. Obviously, this wasn't it.

Neither was this.

The pictures from all of our Tahoe trips look like this...

And, alright, so these aren't sunglasses but I couldn't resist posting this shot. I married him because he is reserved and proper. Clearly.

He even takes a picture in front of the door to a bed and breakfast. Sunglasses.

It's like he doesn't even have eyes. You wouldn't know that he actually does. And that they are the bluest blue you've maybe ever seen. You wouldn't know that I get lost in them. Maybe that's the thing. Maybe he has to wear them so that I can properly function.

My Guy

My husband is not perfect, y'all. No. He likes to take naps and he likes making piles of things and his idea of deep cleaning is vacuuming and scrubbing the floors. He's not a planner, he hates to be touched while he sleeps and he likes mayonnaise on his sandwiches. So, like I said, not perfect.

But he's spiritually wise and he knows EXACTLY how to handle me.

Four weeks ago, when I thought I was maybe dying, he humored me while I showed him where everything was that he would need if I met an untimely death. He only barely shook his head when I instructed him to replace me right away with an even better model.

And, this weekend, during The Great Buggy Disaster of 2014, he listened to me as I processed and cried and went through several possible scenarios in my mind. (I did all of this while sitting seven inches away from a giant black widow I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW was there.) He spoke words of affirmation to me as I (unnecessarily, as always) put the weight of the world on my shoulders. YOU try being a people pleasing, overdramatic, focused activator, with fear of rejection issues sometime and see how you like it. Then add the pressure of telling forty women they've been exposed to bed bugs.

It's fun to be me. Except when it isn't.

He prayed for me. He gave me his opinion but told me it was up to me and he would back me whether I took his advice or not. (For the record, I did.) And then, when I came home and tried to slowly unwind my stress paralysis, he even let me fall asleep draped all over him.

He sees me at my most vulnerable. He holds my hand in doctor's offices and he reminds me, always, of the bigger picture. He guides me and teaches me in my own walk with the Lord and he gently corrects me when I'm not applying God's word to my course of action. He makes me want to listen to him. He calls me out when I put the focus on myself and take it off of how God can be glorified through my experiences. He earns my respect because he loves me.

He's mine. And I am so thankful that the Lord saw fit to give him to me.

Even though it means I have to buy mayonnaise.

I Need You at the Dimming of the Day

There's an old song, originally performed by Richard and Linda Thompson. It was released in 1975 and was written after the couple had adopted the Sufi faith and moved to a commune in London. So, um, that's not my story. In case, you know, any of you aren't following this blog very closely. Several years ago, Allison Krauss covered it and said that it was about a woman losing love and forgetting her pride and just admitting that she's broken. That's also not really my story. But I first heard this song in its original form on the soundtrack for The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. And I loved it in a way that resonated with some deep recess of my soul. As in, my eyes started leaking for no good reason. The lyrics. The melody. The musical genius.

This old house is falling down around my ears
I'm drowning in a river of my tears
When all my will is gone you hold me sway
I need you at the dimming of the day

You pull me like the moon pulls on the tide
You know just where I keep my better side

What days have come to keep us far apart
A broken promise or a broken heart
Now all the bonnie birds have wheeled away
I need you at the dimming of the day

Come the night you're only what I want
Come the night you could be my confidant

I see you on the street in company
Why don't you come and ease your mind with me
I'm living for the night we steal away
I need you at the dimming of the day
I need you at the dimming of the day

This is what love is. Maybe not all the other lyrics. Maybe not the parts about seeing him on the street in company. But the single line, repeated, again and again, I need you at the dimming of the day. This is love. When everything settles down. When the kids are asleep. When the world falls silent. Where do you want to be? There are moments when this old house is falling down around my ears. There are moments when I'm drowning in a river of my tears. And there are certainly moments when all my will is gone and he holds me sway. I need him at the dimming of the day.

This life is not perfect.

It's not how I expected it would be.

It has taken me up a winding path that is far from what I saw at the trail head.

But to share this life with a man who gets me, makes me laugh, cares for me, holds me, humors me, knows me, chooses me, and loves me, well, sometimes it's almost too much. The Lord has been exceedingly good to me. I know I take his presence and his goodness for granted. Too many days go by without me telling him just what he means to me. I forget to tell him how much I need him.

Troy,
You're only what I want. Your arms are where I want to be. It feels like yesterday and it feels like a hundred years have passed since we said our vows. Thank you for honoring them. I cannot tell you what it means to me that you are a man of your word. A man on honesty. A man on integrity. In this journey, there have been moments of purest joy and moments of deepest sadness. Through it all, you are my rock, my adviser, my best friend. Through it all, you hold me sway. I need you at the dimming of the day.

Happy 11th anniversary.

P.S. You know if you ever tried to leave me I'd punch you hard in the face, right? Hard. Just sayin'.

P.P.S. You know that the above post was way too sappy for me not to add something about punching you in the face right?

P.P.P.S. Thank you for not being a drippy romantic. It would make me throw up a little bit in my mouth. (Maybe even a lot bit.)

P.P.P.P.S. Now that I mentioned throwing up, can I use the "vomit" label? I think I will. Label: Troy. Label: vomit. Happy Anniversary!

P.P.P.P.P.S. I forgive you for losing track and telling people that this is our 12th anniversary. It totally feels like that sometimes. Good thing I still need you at the dimming of the day. Even after these long twelve, er, eleven years.

Jackpot

This guest post is brought to you by my husband, the love of my life, the man who puts up with all of my shenanigans. And lemme just say something right here and now. I tease this man mercilessly. I am sometimes driven straight up the wall, across the ceiling, and down the opposite wall by him. I promise he'd lose his very own head if it wasn't strapped down to the rest of his body by a conveniently placed spine and some ligaments in his neck. But if someone else says something about him, that individual had better retreat and do so quickly. Because he's my man and I love him something fierce. 

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I was reading the boys their nightly Bible story. Tonight we read about how Solomon stopped worshiping only God and began to worship idols. When the story was over, I explained to Garrett and Matthew that the reason Solomon had stopped loving God was because he married many wives--most of whom did not love God.

I told them that someday, when they got older, they might want to get married and the most important thing was that the girl they wanted to marry loved Jesus. I began to list the characteristics that were less important than having a heart that loves God.

"You might like a girl who is very pretty, but loving God is more important than being pretty.

It is more important to marry a girl who loves God than to marry someone who is smart.

It is more important than if she is kind.

Loving God is more important than if she's funny.

Loving God is the most important thing of all."

The boys nodded as if understanding. "But Dad," Garrett suddenly interjected. "Mom is all those things."

"I know, Buddy," I answered. "Daddy hit the jackpot."

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I don't know a whole lot. What I do know is relatively useless information involving stage directions, the Laban theory of movement, and Uta Hagen. But man. I know I love them. 

Love

He loves me.

Eleven years ago he took me on a first date.

It was my last first date.

He gets me.

Even when I make it difficult.

Which I do. More than I care to admit.

He cares for me.

He puts my needs before his own.

He puts my wants before his own.

He loves me.

Language

I don't put all my stock money (HA! As IF I had any money to put into stocks) on the idea of 5 Love Languages, but I do think they're a fun tool to have in navigating our relationships. I wonder how much of them are just built into us and how much of them stem from the way in which we were parented. I mean, my kids have different love languages but I can also look back and see that I catered to them in certain ways when they were really little people. For example, I never wanted to put Matthew down because I was just terrified that, one day, he wouldn't be around for me to hold and love. So even though, as a teeny infant, he was fine being left in his crib, I held him and snuggled him and loved him like he was going out of style. As a four-year-old, if I had to guess, I'd have to say his love language is Touch.

On the flip side, Garrett's love language is Quality Time. But how much of that is the fact that I gave him all of my undivided attention for a two and a half years? Maybe there is some innate quality that leads us to our love language. Or maybe we shape them as parents? I don't know.

I also doubt that there are really only five and that we all fit into nice neat categories. However, that being said, I'm totally an Acts of Service girl. TOTALLY.

I mean, there may as well not be any others.

So yesterday I wasn't feeling well because of the Pretend UTI. Troy took both boys to school, took the cat to the vet, picked both boys up from school and shampooed the carpet. What was I doing while he performed all of these duties? I was becoming one with my bed. I mean, sure, I was working Bible studies and speaking things and retreats, but I really didn't get up much. At one point I managed to move down the stairs. I found him cleaning the carpet and I said, "Nothing makes me love you more than when you're cleaning carpets." Although, to be fair, I could change out "cleaning carpets" for "doing dishes, yard work, scrubbing floors" and it would still be true.

I know he loves me when he's trying to make things look better or relieving me of some of my duties. I try to tell him as much so that he knows he's appreciated.

This led to him making a comment about never allowing a man who cleans carpets to enter my house unless he's home as well.

"That's true," I said. There's just no telling where my heart would lie. "We probably also shouldn't hire a gardener."

"Right," he responded.

"Or any kind of handyman."

"Yes. So we're agreed. We don't hire any carpet cleans, gardeners or handymen."

"Well, not if we know what's good for us," I finished.

I'm an Acts of Service kind of girl. Although, if humor was a love language, that's probably what I'd speak.

To My Husband On Our Tenth

To My Husband,

It's getting late and I'm staring at a bright but blank screen. What can I say in an essay that I'll schedule to post three days from now? Because tomorrow I'll pick you up from the airport and we'll begin a three day adventure together in celebration of this occasion. And I don't know where we'll have online access because we still don't pay for an Internet package on our old cell phones. I'm certainly not going to sit in a Starbucks and type up a blog post with you hanging over my shoulder. I can't write nice things about you while you're looking. It's easier to think them and to feel them than to say them all aloud. You know. It didn't take you long to figure out that you might have married one of the least romantic women in the history of all time. And it's not that I don't place a value on it or desire bed of roses style romance, it's just that I usually find it so uproariously funny, so hard to take seriously. Which is why you're perfect for me.

Because when I spit the fortune cookie out so that I could ask if you were serious when you popped the question on April Fool's, you didn't think I was gross. I didn't swallow it first and then wipe the corners of my mouth daintily before replying. I just spit the thing on the rocks at the harbor, asked if you were serious, and then said, "There's nothing I want more than to be your wife."

Four months later I said, "I do." And if that was just an elaborate April Fool's prank, the joke's on you. You're stuck with me.

It's a lot to be saddled with, I know.

I'm just so naggy and bossy and loud.

And you aren't. Not at all. You're like my very own character foil. You complete me.

It feels like I should say something monumental. Ten years is a long time. Especially in this world of divorce and separation and defeat. But the truth is, it doesn't feel like a big deal. It doesn't seem like the milestone that I thought it would because it's all just been...love. Thirty years. Fifty years. Those are milestones. This, though. This is just another year of loving you. This is knowing that we just got married yesterday because I feel like I can remember every detail and I know it didn't all happen an entire decade ago.

But then I hear the noisy breathing of the kid sleeping nearby. He's almost four and a half and all ours and the pain that we went through together is almost a distant memory. How can it be an old memory when ten years ago seems like yesterday? His brother is here, too. He's all limbs and loose teeth and seven. Our oldest son is seven. And after all this time, the trial that came before him produced endurance and is considered joy.

So much has changed in these ten years, but so much has stayed the same. Your smile still lights up my room. Your arms still hold me tight. Your eyes still search mine and in them is the blue depth of your love for me. It's not always easy. I'm not always easy. You're not always easy. Our children are definitely not always easy. But I love this life something fierce. I love you even more.

I'm still not sure what you were thinking when you picked me after all those years of waiting for just the right girl, but I'm so glad that you did. I know that I don't thank you enough for what you are to me, what you mean to me.

So thank you.

For all that you've been and all that you'll be. My best friend. The father of my children. My husband. Happy Anniversary.

I love you,
Your Wife

Only He

I'm really so ridiculously glad that I found him.

By him, I mean, of course, all three of them, but I'm talking specifically about the one in the middle. 

Only he would put up with my weird dance moves, my life's a musical, sing it loud mentality, and my general bizarre-ness. 

Only he would humor me by sitting next to me and watching a show that is ten years old.

When I quickly run upstairs in the middle of making dinner just to dial my home phone from my cell phone, only he would know that when he answered, I was going to ask for Joey's pizza. And only he would respond, "Wrong number," as though this was the most normal conversation we'd ever had.

Today, I discovered a pair of tweezers in my travel bag that I thought were supposed to be in my bathroom. I stared, confused, and said, "Did I go on a trip recently?" Without missing a beat he responded with something about Hong Kong and a covert op. Because only he and I, after cramming our heads full of Alias, are at least 0.0219% convinced that the other one is actually working for central intelligence. 

Due to a series of ridiculous and unfortunate events, we ended up with an A/C company at our house on Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. I told Troy today that I kept repeatedly sabotaging our air conditioning because it was the only way I could connect with my handler who was aliasing as an Action Plumbing, Heating and Air repair man.

"Ooohh. Good cover," he told me.

Because only he would actually engage in this kind of dialogue. Had I married anyone else, I think he'd have had me hauled into intensive psychotherapy by now.

My life is actually one big audition for whatever play, musical or television show I can think up in my mind. Only he would actually stay around, convinced that I'm perfect for the role.

Trees & Apples

There's a thing about apples falling in close proximity to trees.

My oldest son is a TALKER. Nine times out of ten (or 99 times out of 100), he's the last one finished with his dinner because he has spent the entire time flapping his jaws. I'm sensitive to this because that was me. Last one done. Always losing a point in citizenship because I couldn't keep my trap shut. So I probably have more patience with my child as a result.

And I refuse to stifle this in him. Curtail it, yes. Make sure he's being respectful of authority and other people's time, yes. Teach him to listen more, yes. But restrict his speech, never. (For the record, my family endured my incessant chatter as well.) See, talkers turn into lawyers and broadcast journalists and pastors and CEOs (and, also, apparently, stay at home moms). I don't want to encourage my child to be shy. You might say that I am aware of what silencing my child might do to him.

But I have no patience when it comes to his ridiculous knack for losing things. Apple=Garrett. Tree=Troy. I married the absentminded pastor. I wouldn't trade that man for anything but stories about him are becoming legendary. (At least, in my mind they are.)

His son is no exception.

He misplaces shoes, shirts, toys, books, you name it. Then we spend precious minutes (hours, weeks) of our lives searching for these things.

Currently we're looking for a jacket. A jacket. How do you misplace an entire jacket? It's not like we're looking for one sock (although currently we ARE looking for about six of Garrett's socks as well). I worked yesterday so Troy picked him up from school and while Garrett insists that he had his jacket on, Troy doesn't remember. It's fine. He remembers minute details of the Bible as well as several professional football players' college stats so he can't really be expected to remember what his child was wearing when he exited the school 22 hours ago. But heaven help us all if Garrett ever goes missing and the police are relying solely on my husband's recollection of what he was wearing. "Clothes, officer."

"Are you certain that he was wearing clothes?"

"Not entirely," my husband might say.

(On a side note, my husband has been a total rock star with helping Garrett get his weekly homework done on Mondays while I'm working.Yesterday, I came home to all the homework done and the house picked up. That man would make a terrific stay at home dad. Unfortunately, we wouldn't be able to live on the 12,000 dollars that I'd bring home in a year if I worked as a full time substitute. So he's keeping his job.)

The jacket is missing. I've searched the house. It could be at school although this is doubtful because they hang their jackets over their backpacks. Then again, my husband picks up his wallet but leaves the thing that was sitting on top of his wallet when he walks out the door so maybe Garrett put his backpack on and left his coat hanging there. It could be somewhere in the neighborhood because it's warmed up into the 50's so you can bet that all the kids are outside playing in shorts and hoodies. They get hot because of FIFTY DEGREES AFTER THREE MONTHS OF SOLID TWENTIES and discard the jacket in someone else's yard. It could be anywhere.

And the whole point of this rambling post is that I have almost infinite patience with my son when it comes to excessive chatter but nearly no patience at all when it comes to losing things.

I'm going to need my inlaws to give me lessons and an explanation as to how my husband survived his childhood. I will then implement these tools in raising my own son. The end.

Nine

Dear Troy,

Just this morning I saw a post on Facebook that said, "How will you know if a person truly loves you? It's when he brings you closer to God." And I thought to myself, well, that pretty much sums it up. My number one criteria for finding a husband was that he drew me nearer to the Lord instead of pushing me farther away. Thank you for meeting that criteria. Thank you for teaching me to be more like Christ. Thank you for praying with me and for me. Thank you for teaching me and astounding me on an almost daily basis with the vast level of your spiritual knowledge. If you were nothing else, nothing more than this godly Christian man, it would be enough.

But.

You are so much more.

You're the guy who surprises me with flowers, who tries to surprise me with nights away but usually only succeeds in accomplishing the actual date but not the surprise, who couldn't care less if I let the house turn into a total mess and, who encourages me to do whatever makes me happy.

You're the dad who plays with his boys in the playroom, who takes them bike riding, who teaches them to wrestle, kick a soccer ball and swing a bat, who hugs and kisses them even though they're boys and you're a man and, who tells them over and over again how proud you are of them.

You're the man who cares about my opinion, who kisses me goodnight, who kisses me good morning--sometimes even before I brush my teeth, who says I'm pretty when I'm wearing sports shorts and a t-shirt and my hair is in a pony tail.

You're the dad who goes to every soccer game, every wrestling match, every school performance, and every t-ball game (except that time when you had to do a funeral but we all understood), who works on his sermon late into the night so that he can spend Saturday with his kids, who works a weird schedule so he can watch a morning swimming lesson because his son begged him to.

You're the husband who knows exactly what I'm thinking, who puts up with my desire to drop everything and paint the house right now, who takes us camping and out to dinner, who thinks I'm talented and smart and funny when clearly I'm not really any of those things.

Nine years ago today, we promised to love one another. Forever. For always. Thank you for being a man of integrity, for honoring those vows, for never giving me a single reason to question your love for me.

Happy Anniversary. I love you.

41

Happy Birthday to my husband! 

Today Garrett asked Troy how old he is.

Troy: How old do you think I am?

Garrett: I don't know.

Troy: How old was I on my last birthday?

Garrett: 80?

Troy: Not quite 80.

Garrett: 16?

Troy: Older than 16.

Garrett: I don't know.

Me: 39. Now you're going to start going backward.

Troy: I could handle that.

We Made A Vow

My husband went to Redbox last night and we watched The Vow because he's always been really good at balancing the action movies and the war films and the comedies with a good chick flick. He loves me that way. He's not a selfish movie watcher. He also voluntarily changed a high volume of diapers when our boys were babies. Every teenage girl should be taught that she must find herself a man who will watch chick flicks and change diapers.

So we watched and it's really nothing if not thought provoking. I mean, seriously. What would I do if I woke up tomorrow in a hospital bed with massive brain trauma? What would I do if I had no recollection of my husband and every single memory that we share together was gone? What would I do if I thought I was still engaged to He Who Shall Not Be Named?

"But I'm in love with *insert real name of He Who Shall Not Be Named*!"

Troy would shake his head, "No. No, you're not. Trust me on this one."

What if I couldn't remember the butterflies that took up residence in my stomach every time I thought about him for the first year we were together? What if I forgot the way he looked sitting across from me at Bennigan's on our first date? What if I didn't know that fireworks really do explode and that they just so happened to shoot into the sky the first time he kissed me?

I can't bear the thought of forgetting his arms around me or having no recollection of all the times I've almost keeled over and died because he's hysterically funny in his own unique way. I can't imagine looking through our wedding album and having no idea that it was one of the happiest days of my entire life and also like a really weird dream. What if I forgot that I kind of floated through that day and it felt like I was walking on a cloud and I smiled so much that my cheeks almost broke in two. What if I forgot the way the door sounded when it closed and we were alone in the limo. Just him. And me. And our brand new life together.

What if I couldn't remember that he carried me through infertility, shielding me, protecting me, holding me. What if each moment of our adoption journey was wiped out of my mind and I forgot how much my husband's patience, faith, and forgiveness astounded me during that time? What if I didn't know, with every fiber of my being, that he is good and honest and respectful and wonderful? What if, suddenly, I forgot that the only place I want to be is with him.

On a beach.

In the sun.

But on the beach, in the sun, with him.

What if I couldn't remember any of it?

Would he win me again? Would I fall in love with him again? If the slate was wiped clean, would I once again know what it's like to know that I know he's the one?

Valentine's

My husband = the love of my life.

Oh sure, there are a couple of really cute kids who have my heart wrapped around their little fingers, but it still beats for my husband.

His parents are in town so he decided to whisk me away for a Valentine's celebration on Thursday night. First we went to the Cheesecake Factory and used gift cards (insert OH HOW I LOVE GIFT CARDS! here). We shared the chicken piccata which, if anyone is keeping track, is the very dish I nearly choked to death on when I was visiting my old roommates last summer. I managed to not choke on it this time. I didn't think ahead enough to take a picture before I had inhaled most of it. For the record, those are not peas because, um, ew and gross. They are capers. Delicious little tasty devils.

We shared our chicken because The Cheesecake Factory is not skimpy on their portions and we had our eye on this...

There may be nothing on earth that tastes quite as good as a slice of Red Velvet Cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory. I mean it. If you haven't tasted this you need to. Immediately.

After our amazing dinner, Troy took me to a Bed & Breakfast. He'd managed to pull off the entire surprise until about five minutes before we left. I stumbled upon the packed overnight bag and it was a darn good thing too because my husband had forgotten that his wife needs a little make up and a straightening iron in the morning. I would have had to saunter down to breakfast looking all a mess. I pretended not to know what was going on until we were in the car. "You almost pulled it off," I said.

I'd considered faking it and acting surprised but we've made it through eight years with honesty being the best policy. I was, however, surprised when we pulled up to a castle.

It was seriously cool. I mean, we did spent about a half hour discussing the fact that our oldest son would love it even more than we did but we are total dorks who were seriously excited about staying in a castle. In the picture above, Troy's head is aligned with one of those little square windows you can open from the inside to see who is at your door. I felt like the heroine in every great medieval movie.

We'd thought about going to see a movie but decided to stay in the castle and watch one of their many dvds. I  relaxed in the whirlpool tub and in front of the gas fireplace in our Excalibur room. The next morning we were treated to a delicious breakfast of fresh fruit, cinnamon bread, eggs, cheesy hash browns and bacon. Once we'd finished stuffing ourselves, we explored the grounds.

We left with enough time to pick Garrett up from preschool. It was a wonderful and refreshing night away and a big thanks goes out to my inlaws for holding down our fort while we were away. Seriously. A huge thanks to my mother-in-law who got to deal with a toddler who decided to start vomiting.

Mini Mart Santa

It just so happened that when my husband opened his stocking gifts, the first three were as follows:

1. A small bag of Doritos.
2. A bottle of Gatorade.
3. A small bag of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

After the third gift he said, "I think Santa forgot about me and stopped at a mini mart along the way." And it was hilarious. The way he said it and the fact that it was entirely possible given what he'd received made the rest of us burst into laughter.

Later he went on to open a t-shirt, a book, and several other less-Quicki Martish items but I think he might be on to something. Maybe next year Santa really will stuff a stocking with only gas station items. Any ideas? What's something really good that Santa could grab at the local Chevron?

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

The little one keeps tabs on the bigger one. One thousand times a day he asks about him. "Where brudder go?" "Brudder ah schoo?" "Brudder home!" "Brudder dowstair?"

And "Brudder" loves Matthew right back.

Oh sure, they have their moments. Sibling rivalry on an hourly basis. Garrett is a rule follower. Matthew thinks they were made to be broken. Garrett is bossy. Matthew is sensitive. Both spend their days vying for the alpha dog position. Even still, it's pretty much a coin toss.

I can't believe I lived more than two decades without evening knowing that these brothers would one day exist. Now I cannot imagine a day without them.

These are a few of my favorite things...