Thursday, January 4th, 2018
In December, two weeks after my Mimi passed, my Papa left this earth to join her. In the span of just a few weeks, they were both here and then they were both gone.
My sweet Papa.
He was an adventurer. He traveled West as a young man and spent most of his life under the Arizona sun. He and my Mimi logged thousands of miles on road trips. When they got home from their trips, my Papa would trace the roads they had taken on the map behind him in the picture at the top of the post. I think my deep love of road trips comes from him. I took many a road trip with Mimi and Papa. I’d sit in the back seat as we drove down desert roads listening to news radio. There was always a stash of Baskin Robbins ice cream hard candy and Mentos in the car, and a special car trashcan to place the wrappers in.
He loved cereal. To this day, I think of him every time I sit down to a bowl of cereal. He like to mix his all together- a little bit of shredded wheat mixed with cheerios and perhaps some grape nuts. Papa ate all the cereals you’d expect an old person to like. This love of mixed up cereals was passed to me during the weeks I would spend with them during the summers.
Papa had gleaming white hair and smelled like laundry detergent and sawdust. He gave the very best hugs.
He was a very talented woodworker. He built me a dollhouse when I was a little girl and then he made me candle holders, salt and pepper shakers, and napkin holders when I got married. His woodworking has carried me through every life stage. Sitting in his wood shop and watching him work was an intensely calming pastime. He was steady and smooth as he turned wood on his lathe or sanded his projects to a soft gleam. It was incredible to watch him make something beautiful out of a hunk of wood.
I always believed that there was nothing that Papa couldn’t fix. He was always out in his yard or in his garage tinkering and fixing and beautifying. He took such good care of his house and his yard and his family. He also took care of their little town. I remember many a walk with Papa through the Bowie cemetery as he made note of weeds to be pulled and things to be fixed and tidied up.
I’ll never forget his quick wit and comedic timing that always took me by surprise. He could play a game of Shanghai or dominoes with skill and good humor as he beat everyone before we even knew what was happening.
He took me to my first basketball game. I was pretty sure that I didn’t care for basketball, but Papa told me how exciting basketball was to watch in person. He was right. It’s one of my favorite memories.
Papa and I would watch basketball, and the news, and westerns together in the living room. I don’t remember much of what was happening on the TV, but I do remember spending that time with him as we escaped inside from the afternoon sun.
Soft spoken, with kind eyes and a gentle face, Papa was the sort that was quiet but strong. He never seemed old to me. He was always full of life and energy; as though he didn’t take any of it for granted.
The way he looked at my Mimi would bring tears to my eyes, especially once I got married and I was better able to understand the undertaking that marriage is. It was such a beautiful love that they shared.
There is so much to say about him and how much I loved him. He was my friend and my mentor; a strong and steady companion.
It’s been hard to process their passing because they really never seemed old to me; they always seemed to stay the same age. They were truly an example of how to grow old with grace and full of life.
On the night that Papa passed away, there was a meteor shower. Nathan and I went out to one of the lakes on Post and found a dark patch of beach to lay a blanket on. We stared up at the meteors shooting across the sky and Nathan leaned over to me and said “I think this is for them. These beautiful shooting stars for Mimi and Papa as they are reunited.” I can’t imagine anything more fitting.
My Mimi and Papa created a beautiful legacy. They loved each other for a long time. My Papa was a good father, husband, and grandfather.
He and my Mimi had five children and oodles of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. My whole family, all the children and spouses and new babies, are all because of Mimi and Papa.
I miss them both so terribly.
Wednesday, December 6th, 2017
Our one and only Christmas tree is all of three and a half feet tall. We bought it right before Christmas the first year we were married. It was on sale and the cheapest tree at Home Depot. We were poor as dirt, but we so badly wanted a tree of our own. Something beautiful and festive to hold our meager assortment of ornaments. Nathan said that colored lights were the only way to go, so those also went in the cart.
I grew up with a fake tree and Nathan grew up with a real one. A real one was neither in the budget nor a possibility space-wise in our tiny apartment. So this miniature faux tree was the best option. That first year, we covered our coffee table with a tablecloth that my Mom had sent us and set the tree on top. We used a plaid blanket as a tree skirt. We arranged the Nativity, also a gift, around the base. Our coffee table did double duty as our dining table, so we ate meals out of our laps that whole December.
The second and third year we were married we had moved into a slightly bigger apartment, but we still had no room for a large tree and we didn’t really think about getting a new one anyway. We used the same tablecloth but covered our bar cart with it instead. We had acquired a few more ornaments; my parents have a collection of ornaments collected from their travels and we had begun that same habit. The plaid blanket remained. We also strung Christmas lights around our sliding door and our kitchen counter (those ultimately stayed all year), and they joined the soft light of our jolly tree. Nothing seemed more romantic or in the spirit of the season than turning all the lights off and cuddling up on the couch under the glow of our little tree.
Now, as we embark on our fourth married Christmas, we live in an actual house with so much more room than our college apartments that it feels absolutely palatial. We certainly have room for a bigger tree, and so many of them were on sale after Thanksgiving that it would have made sense to buy a larger, taller, more impressive tree. But I just couldn’t.
Our tree is the size that many people buy when they want to have a second (or third) tree to set up on a counter or in an entryway or some such thing. It isn’t the size that people use as their one and only holder of ornaments and shelterer of shiny presents. But I love this tree. I set it up by myself this year. Nathan is away for training, and I couldn’t wait to make the house feel like the holidays. I wanted Nathan to come home to a home that felt warm and festive.
As I took it out of the box, fluffed it’s branches, strung the lights, and gingerly hung each ornament, I realized that it might be a few more Christmases before I’m ready to “upgrade” our tree. This humble tree reminds me of the humble beginnings of our marriage- of our little family. Each ornament holds a sweet memory of an adventure shared together or the thoughtful and generous love of someone close to us. The lights are the same ones that have lit our living room with holiday warmth each year. The Nativity nestled beneath it is the first one we were ever given.
This year, our tree sits on the big plastic tub that holds our seasonal decorations. I covered it with the plaid blanket and used a red dish towel as a tree skirt. It’s just a fake tree that we bought for less than 20 dollars, but looking at it makes me feel known and loved and warm and welcome.
Someday its branches will sag under the weight of more ornaments than it was designed to hold. Perhaps its synthetic needles will begin to get fuzzy around the edges. But this tree and I are in it for the long haul. There will likely be a Christmas when it feels right to bring home a taller, more robust tree, but even in that year our first little tree will still have a place in our home.
Sure a bigger tree would be more impressive, and it wouldn’t have to sit on top of a plastic bin, but this tree is beautiful and it is impressive because of what it means to us. I can’t imagine anything else.
Wednesday, December 6th, 2017
This year, I was lucky enough to have two Thanksgivings.The first was a friendsgiving the Saturday before Thanksgiving. Nathan and his entire BOLC class were gone for training on actual Thanksgiving, so we all got together to feast on turkey and sides and punch with more than a little “holiday spirit” in it. It was amazing. Then, on actual Thanksgiving, I spent the day with the other wives of guys in Nathan’s class as well as Danielle’s mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law and her two sweet kids. It was also amazing. I’m beyond thankful for the community we’ve found here.
Wednesday, December 6th, 2017
Making: fruit bakes and better food choices. Try this recipe and feel free to use any fruit you want!
Cooking: sweet potatoes, on repeat since Thanksgiving
Drinking: a green smoothie every night
Reading: a book about the yoga sutras
Looking: out my window and realizing that it feels surreal that I live in a house in a neighborhood. A big change from our college apartments.
Playing: podcasts all day long
Wasting: a bag of steam in the microwave veggies that just weren’t good.
Crafting: a blanket. I learned to crochet!
Wishing: Nathan was home. He’s only away for a three week training, but the time is just dragging by.
Enjoying: The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel on Amazon Prime.
Waiting: for the dishwasher to finish
Liking: pictures of Christmas decorations. It’s the most wonderful time of the year!!
Wondering: whether I’ll ever master present wrapping. This year’s Christmas presents suggest maybe not…
Loving: my sweet cats. I’m endlessly thankful for them every single day.
Hoping: that December drags on and on. I love this season.
Marveling: at how wonderful it has been to live on post. I never realized how much I’d like our time here while Nathan is active duty.
Needing: Nathan’s big warm body back in bed at night. It is getting cold and he is my substitute for a heated blanket.
Smelling: pumpkin cake candle. I’ve finally used up my Fall candle and it is time for the Christmas scents.
Wearing: leggings- if possible, my style has become even more casual since moving here.
Following: less accounts. I’m trying to de-clutter my social media feeds.
Noticing: the ways that all the little things add up.
Knowing: that the best is both right now and still to come.
Thinking: that twinkle lights are the best decor.
Opening: the mailbox. Tis the season for amazon packages and Christmas cards!
Giggling: in the grocery store. Doing errands with friends is much better than accomplishing them alone.
Feeling: less stressed than I have in years.
Monday, November 27th, 2017
My Mimi died right before Thanksgiving. I haven’t really wanted to talk about it; I didn’t tell any friends, I didn’t post on social media. I told my cat as I cried into her fur. Grief is a funny thing. I simply don’t seem able to talk about it yet, but I have written quite a lot. It seems easier.
This may not be the most eloquent thing I ever write, but I just want to share about her. I want to celebrate her- who she was and who she was to me.
We talked on the phone many times a week throughout my entire freshman year of college. I was so homesick, and Mimi always knew how to comfort me. Sometimes she would just listen to me cry. It was such a gift to have gone to college within driving distance of them. Nathan and I would often go and visit for the weekend, and Mimi would feed us and we would be loved on by her and Papa, and my homesickness would be quelled. She had such a motherly way about her. I suppose that is what happens when you raise five children.
My whole life, whenever I spent time with Mimi and Papa, she would rub my back and talk with me as I fell asleep. Her wrinkled hands, covered in rings and topped off with perfectly manicured nails, were the agents of immense comfort and love.
When I had to start taking anti-anxiety medication and was so nervous and overwrought with the decision, she sat in bed with me and rubbed my back telling me that it was okay to need some extra help for a little while. She was right and, while I’m no longer on the medication, it was a savior to me and I may never have started it had she not encouraged me to accept the opportunity to get better.
She was the first person I remember telling me as a little person that God had a plan for my life and that I needn’t worry about the things I had no control over because He already knew the outcome.
I spent countless hours in her tiny kitchen helping her cook, watching her consult her very old Betty Crocker cookbook, and eating the mountains of food she would always make when we would visit. I would spend time with her and Papa during the summers when I was younger and all of my favorites, fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, would make an appearance the first few days I was there. Mimi believed in feeding people well.
After I got married, she made me an apron for every season and holiday. They hang in my kitchen as beautiful reminders of her and of the many meals we ate together.
She taught me how to play dominoes and solitaire and to write in cursive. She showed me the importance of handwritten letters and cards- I have boxes stashed in my closet of the things she has written to me. Her years of being a teacher permeated our every interaction. She was always teaching me something. Most importantly, she taught me about love. She taught me about the incredible love of grandparents and of family.
I remember the way she smelled, like warm desert dirt and Estee Lauder hand cream. A year ago, she sent me a jar of that hand cream. She scooped some from her jar into an old, ornately decorated Avon jar. Mimi always had the perfect box or jar or container hanging around. The jar sits next to my bathroom sink, and I smooth it over my hands before bed and hold them up to my nose whenever I am feeling lonely.
Last night, I held the jar up to my nose and inhaled deeply and just missed her.
In Mimi’s arms, in her house in Bowie, in her sewing room, in her garden there was no anxiety or fear; the outside world didn’t reach in. There was just love and warmth and bright Arizona sunshine. I don’t remember a time in the last six years that I didn’t cry as I drove away from their house and from them.
Though I know that my future children will have wonderful grandparents, it pains me to know that they will never get to meet my Mimi. I wasn’t prepared for how much it would grieve me that she would never get to hold my babies.
My Dad always tells me that part of our eternal life is the way we are remembered and talked about by those that knew us and loved us. It brings me peace to know that my children will hear of my Mimi and will know of the love she gave to me and the love she would have had for them.
I wasn’t prepared for losing her. I knew it was coming. I knew when her cancer was discovered and was spreading rapidly that I would not have her on this earth forever. Yet, love and grief seem to defy logic. Everyone dies, but my heart and my brain simply could not create a picture of my world without her. She was in pain at the end, and the thought of her hurting was perhaps more painful than the thought of losing her. I am glad she is no longer in pain and that she is at peace.
I could write pages and pages about my Mimi, about what she meant to me, about who she was, about the 23 years of memories I shared with her.
Elizabeth Eyrich, Mimi, was warm and smart and loving and an incredible grandmother. I miss her so terribly. My heart aches, but it is also so thankful for the time I had with her. I wouldn’t have been who I am without her.
Monday, January 9th, 2017
I wasn’t even planning to set a word for 2017, but a gentle and persistent nudging has led me to put words to paper (and screen, as it may be) and set a “Word for the Year.” I have never set a word for the year before but, if someone asked me to tell them what word(s) seemed to permeate my life over the last several years, my answer would look a bit like this:
Resilience, pain, growth, doubt, victory
These years have brought with them the lesson that my life isn’t happening to me. I am happening to my life.
I am resilient and strong, I overcome; that is who I am.
God and I have wrestled quite a bit the last 365 days (and the 365 before that and the 365 before that, If I’m being honest). I’ve never wrestled to the point of unbelief but I have certainly allowed anger and doubt and pain and confusion to enter the ring with me.
Some of the events of the last three years truly shook my core. The things I thought I knew and was sure of were turned upside down. It happened slowly but, as I lived through it, it seemed that all of a sudden nothing was as it used to be. It seemed that my cries to God went continually unanswered. Where was He? Where was He in my life, my circumstances, the world?
Everything needed to be sorted again.
People that knew me four or five years ago might be wholly unable to recognize me now. For better. And for worse.
But 2016 was a year of reckoning. I never stepped out of that ring and I see now that God didn’t either. And, over the last couple of months it became clear that I wasn’t interested in wrestling anymore.
I wanted to struggle less. I decided to surrender. Maybe I could stop working so hard for a while and let God do the fighting for me.
Maybe I could just try trusting that He would walk me through this season of upheaval. Perhaps He isn’t absent in the upending of all the things I thought I knew and believed and understood. Perhaps He didn’t abandon me.
Something inside of me is being pruned and plucked, re-seeded and watered as though a determined gardener has decided to walk through the prickly and dusty fields of my soul. The Holy Spirit has been wending its way into my life for months now, and I feel that with the birth of the New Year so also is something being birthed within me.
Those close to me, and maybe someday I’ll feel ready to share with others, know that the last few years have had some incredibly bleak moments.
A new morning dawned on January 1, 2017.
I am grasping for the clean slate it offers.
For 2017 I am working toward:
Less in exchange for more.
That shall be my mantra, my prayer, my intention.
…of the material for more space.
…screen time for more book time and face-to-face time.
…takeout for more home cooked nourishment.
…busy for more fulfillment.
…doubt for more ease in the mystery.
…anxiety for more peace.
…mindless consuming for more thoughtful purchasing.
…dreams for more realities.
…sitting still for more exploring.
…taking for granted for more cherishing.
…apathy for more justice.
…complacency for more ambition.
…routine for more spontaneity.
…”too tired, too busy, too stressed” for more love and memory and laughter making.
…rushing to do dishes for more time spent in relationship building around the table.
…comfort for more reaching outside my comfort zone.
…religion for more Jesus.
…noise for more peace.
…worry for more trust.
…status quo for more moving against the flow.
…frustration for more forgiveness.
…grudge holding and judgement making for more grace, more mercy, more love.
…Martha for more Mary. Oh that I could quit working so hard and just sit at the feet.
More laughter, grace, mercy, justice, forgiveness.
More love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faith, gentleness, self-control.
Less of everything else.
I’m so tired of the everything else.
My spirit is weary. My heart is overburdened.
This year I will not be afraid of less.
Monday, June 13th, 2016
Countless loved ones.
An entire country.
49 people gone from this world forever.
49 families left with nothing but a hole in their heart and the hope for a reunion in eternity.
Countless loved ones left hurting and scared.
An entire country rocked by the violence and the pain and the horror that mars this human existence.
My heart has been heavy since I woke up yesterday morning to the horrifying news of the shooting in Orlando. With each news story, each social media post, each picture and update, my heart sunk lower, and my anxiety increased. One of the things I handle worst in the world is stories of death and harm. Being so acutely reminded of the fragility of life and the evil of the world gives me anxiety attacks. My mind fogs, my stomach knots. I worry for no reason at all and every reason all at once. My hands go cold, my brain beckons me to give into the fight or flight response. I want to hug my loved ones and never let go.
Perhaps my brain reacts in this way in part because I can imagine, if only in a small way, what those in Pulse were feeling that night. Please, before you go on reading, imagine for a moment the terror those club goers must have felt. Imagine for a moment the despair experienced by their loved ones. I know it is hard to do that. But you should do it anyway.
Do the hard things and experience the hard feelings. Don’t try to separate yourself from this event. Don’t harden your heart towards this event because you don’t want to identify with your fellow Americans.
But this isn’t really about me or my anxiety. Except that it is.
It is about me, and you, and all of us, and the way we respond to acts of terror.
It is about how the media insists on plastering the name and the picture of the gunman on every available media outlet. Giving him what he would have wanted. Recognition. And power. Power over our hearts and minds and emotions.
It is about the disgusting way that some would use this event to push their anti-gay or anti-Muslim agenda.
It is about the way that there were far fewer social media posts about this event than there were about a dead gorilla.
People are dead. DEAD. They aren’t coming back. They were alive one moment and brutally murdered the next.
49 people went out for a night of fun and never went back home.
53 people were left wounded and putting the pieces of their life back together.
What is wrong with this country? What is wrong with us that this senseless violence continues to happen? What is wrong with us that some would say “Good, the less gay people the better.”
What kind of savages are we that some might side with the gunman because he killed gay people, and they hate gay people?
You know what? The “gay” part of that sentence matters in the context of the shooting (because it was a hate crime) but it isn’t the most important part of the phrase “gay people.”
“People” is the most important part of that phrase. Other human beings, just like you and me.
Other human beings with hearts that beat and veins that bleed. Other human beings that need and desire relationships with other people. Other human beings that feel fear and insecurity and joy and pain. Other human beings that deserve to be loved and treated with dignity and grace.
I don’t know if you believe in a higher power, but I do. I believe in Jesus. I am a Christian. I don’t hate gay people. I do hate evil, and I hate the hate that we level at each other every. single. day.
If you believe in a higher power, then perhaps you will relate to what I am about to write. And, even if you don’t believe in a higher power, you will probably relate if you are a decent person with a functioning moral compass.
Because I believe in God, I also believe that he created every single person on this planet.
Psalm 139:13-16 sums up my feelings on the workmanship evident in all of humanity.
Each person is covered in the fingerprints of our Creator. He doesn’t make mistakes.
If God doesn’t make mistakes then I must conclude that every person has infinite worth and potential. Each person deserves to be viewed the way that God views them: as beautiful creations that need love and grace and compassion.
I fall short all the time of treating others in this way. But I do try to live my life in a way that reflects my belief that I am no better or worse than anyone else. I know all too well that every person is fighting battles that I can’t see or know.
I know that every person I encounter is living life just like I am in a mess of feelings and experiences and intersectionality.
When will the hate stop? When will we decide to start removing the walls we put up between each other? When will we learn to view each other as partners all fighting the same battle?
Orlando victims, you didn’t deserve this. I love you. This was senseless. Your life was valuable.
Orlando survivors, you didn’t deserve this. I love you. This was senseless. Your life is valuable, and I hope you get the love, and the support, and the help you need to move through your life as a survivor dealing with what you experienced.
America, we can do better. I love you, and I want to live in a world where fear doesn’t lurk in all of the shadows. This senseless violence that we foster is despicable.
Make it stop. Make it all stop.
I don’t understand it; I can’t understand it.
I will do everything in my power to spread more love and grace, everything in my power to stand with those who are marginalized and those who can’t stand on their own.
I will stand with my friends and loved ones in the LGBTQ community because they have been wounded. I will stand with them because they deserve support and solidarity and community.
Friends, we are not islands. We need each other. Don’t let the horrific events in Orlando foster hatred in your hearts. Let the events foster even more love and compassion for our hurting and broken world that needs you to be a beacon of hope.
Monday, May 30th, 2016
Every year, Memorial Day comes to pass, and I never quite know what to say.
By the grace of God, all of my loved ones in the military have always come home.
But, I know people that cannot say the same.
It is unbearable to think of the pain that must accompany learning that your loved one is gone; knowing that your last goodbye was really the last.
Year after year, my various social media platforms are flooded with photos and status updates thanking and remembering those that lost their lives in the pursuit of freedom and peace. Year after year, I am wrecked by the bravery of our service members and the strength of their loved ones.
In my journeying on the internet, I came across a speech by Ronald Reagan. While he gave this speech on Veteran’s Day, there is one section that addresses those service members that made the ultimate sacrifice. It is that section that I will share.
“Sometime back I received in the name of our country the bodies of four Marines who had died while on active duty. I said then that there is a special sadness that accompanies the death of a serviceman, for we’re never quite good enough to them-not really; we can’t be, because what they gave us is beyond our powers to repay. And so, when a serviceman dies, it’s a tear in the fabric, a break in the whole, and all we can do is remember.
It is, in a way, an odd thing to honor those who died in defense of our country, in defense of us, in wars far away. The imagination plays a trick. We see these soldiers in our mind as old and wise. We see them as something like the Founding Fathers, grave and gray haired. But most of them were boys when they died, and they gave up two lives — the one they were living and the one they would have lived. When they died, they gave up their chance to be husbands and fathers and grandfathers. They gave up their chance to be revered old men. They gave up everything for our country, for us. And all we can do is remember.
There’s always someone who is remembering for us. No matter what time of year it is or what time of day, there are always people who come to this cemetery, leave a flag or a flower or a little rock on a headstone. And they stop and bow their heads and communicate what they wished to communicate. They say, “Hello, Johnny,” or “Hello, Bob. We still think of you. You’re still with us. We never got over you, and we pray for you still, and we’ll see you again. We’ll all meet again.” In a way, they represent us, these relatives and friends, and they speak for us as they walk among the headstones and remember. It’s not so hard to summon memory, but it’s hard to recapture meaning.” Ronald Reagan, http://www.va.gov/opa/vetsday/speakers/1985remarks.asp
So many of our military men and women give up more than their lives when they leave their last breath on the battlefield. They give up the lives they were building before they left and the lives they would continue after they came back.
Is there a right way to remember? Is there the perfect thing to say to the spouse or child of a fallen warrior? Is there a proper way to feel as a bystander; as someone who hasn’t served and doesn’t really know?
Sometimes anger seems appropriate; “How many more of our country’s sons and daughters must be sacrificed on the altar of war and conflict?”
Sometimes overt patriotism seems like the best response; “They died defending the greatest country in the world. They made the ultimate sacrifice so we could all be free. American heroes, all of them!”
Perhaps gratitude or melancholy or anguish.
Maybe acknowledgement that, just like all death, it is okay to not really know what to say or how to act.
Definitely grace as we stumble over the difference between Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day. Grace as we don’t know what to say. Grace as we inevitably say the wrong thing or the weird thing.
There is really no way for anybody to “make up for” the loss of a loved one. There is no way for most of us to understand what it is to embark on a mission or deployment and be willing to give our absolute all. It is difficult to comprehend the bravery or courage or patriotism it takes to sign up to do a job that might ask for one’s life in exchange.
Memorial Day seems particularly hard, at least for me, because all we can do is remember. All we can do is hurt with those that hurt. All we can do is pray for less conflict.
And it just doesn’t seem like enough.
Monday, September 14th, 2015
Five years ago, Nathan asked me to be his girl while we were standing outside his car in the Eat n’ Park parking lot. We had eaten pie and talked about who knows what, and then we wandered outside-neither of us wanting to leave just yet. It was still cold in Sewickley. We were both in sweatpants, and I leaned in close to him so that I could capture his warmth. And then it happened. In just those few seconds, I went from “single” to “not single” for the last time in my life. Sixteen year old me definitely didn’t anticipate that this guy with his shaggy hair made crunchy by sweat from football practice would end up my husband.
I remember our first few months of dating so fondly. We used to text each other in the middle of classes and make plans to meet up at our lockers (under the guise of going to the bathroom, of course). We would sneak kisses and hurry back to class feeling so satisfied by our covert lip-locking. Those first few months that you date someone are filled with smiling stupidly at each other and finding any excuse to see one another. Every time Nathan would brush his hand against my arm or kiss my forehead, my whole body would be filled with butterflies.
Perhaps our first years of dating were fueled by raging teenage hormones and a generally naive view of the world, but I am so glad that we got our start within the walls of Quaker Valley High and the protective bubble of Sewickley. We got to grow into adulthood together. I feel as though we kind of beat the odds. Being together in high school was easy. Being thrown into the world of college, far away from the familiars of home, was hard. Wading our way through talking about marriage when we were still teenagers was hard. It is a weird and difficult thing to come home from your freshman year of college and tell your parents that you are gonna get married. You are barely out of the house and able to vote and now you want to jump into the deep end of adulthood. And jump we did. I grabbed that man’s hand and ran off the cliff into the deep, cold water that was planning a wedding and pulling through our first year of marriage. Truth be told, we were doggy-paddling through a lot of it. My head was barely above water there for a while. But Nathan was always there. He was strong and he pulled me up and pulled me along.
If you told sixteen year old me what the next five years would hold, she would have laughed in your face- or maybe she would have run quickly in the other direction of all the things you told her. There have been times in the last five years that I wasn’t sure everything was gonna be okay. Life has a funny way of pouring everything out on you at one time. But perhaps the most beautiful thing about those times, is that I always had Nathan to fall into.
When I look at pictures of us at our junior or senior prom I think, “Wow! How young!”. I feel as if we have grown ten years in the last five. I am in a way different place at twenty-one than I ever imagined I would be. And I am so thankful for that. God has used Nathan and marriage and college and bills and work and life to turn me from a girl to a woman to a wife. I look forward to looking at pictures of us now thirty years from now and thinking, “Wow! How young!”.
Five years ago, Nathan turned me into somebody that was loved unconditionally by someone other than those related to me. He has loved me well every single day since then. When life is hard, I know that I am loved. When we are fighting, I know that I am loved. When I am wrong and mean and angry, I know that I am loved.
A year ago, Nathan turned me into a wife. Learning to love each other as husband and wife has been one of the most difficult and rewarding challenges yet.
I love that man. I love the way that his eyelashes start to droop around his eyes when he is sleepy. I love the way that he pulls me close to him every morning before he leaves for work. I delight in his ability to drive for hours and make me feel like the inside of a car on a road trip is my favorite place to be. I love the way that he encourages my dreams; he has never told me that my dreams must be sacrificed for the sake of his. I especially love the way that he still kisses me on the forehead. And the way he interrupts me when I am cooking dinner so that he can pick me up and put me on the counter and give me kisses. I am grateful for his willingness to work long hours and go to school so that we always have enough in the bank.
It is my desire that as one September fourteenth passes, and another one approaches, that I would be deserving of the love and the relationship that I have been so profoundly blessed with. You (hopefully) only get one spouse. One partner until death do you part. I want to cherish that and nurture it. I want to be a wife that encourages and loves with every part of herself. I want Nathan to be excited to come home to me. I want to keep laying good foundations for our marriage. As we build a life and a family together, I want to ensure that it keeps getting better and stronger. Twenty, thirty, sixty years from now, I want to look across the table at Nathan and say, “Gosh do I love that man.” Nathan is worth loving and marriage is worth fighting for, and I want to do each in equal and abundant measure.
I married a good one, guys. The Sydney of five years ago totally knew what she was doing when she locked down that football team captain. It has been a wild, passionate, silly, hard, crazy, wonderful half a decade. I can’t wait for a lifetime more.
Thursday, June 11th, 2015
My sweet Dad helped us load and unload the whole truck.
If you ever have the wild idea to move during the last three weeks of the semester, just don’t. It will be exhausting, and disorganized, and rushed, and you will never feel caught up. You will live out of boxes until the semester ends, and you will keep moving piles of stuff (because you have SO MUCH STUFF) around the house so that you have a place to study. In short, just extend your lease by a month and move once summer starts.
Although moving at the tail end of a truly chaotic semester was nothing short of insanity, I do appreciate the ability to start fresh in a new place that meets our needs so much better. All of a sudden we found ourselves with more space, a patio, two bathrooms (TWO), and a beautifully landscaped apartment complex that isn’t in the middle of downtown. We also found ourselves eternally grateful for all of our friends and family that came out to help us schlep our poorly organized mess from one side of town to the other.
As we started packing up our old apartment, I couldn’t help but marvel at the way we attach ourselves to things and to places. We pack the entirety of our material lives into a box, and we lock the door, and we hope for the best. We hope that we will come home and things will be as they were. We hope that nothing bad will happen while we are gone. We hope that the maintenance guy won’t let out our pets. We hope that we will leave for work each morning and we will come home to a house that has been warmed all day by the sun. We expect that all of our pictures, and childhood stuffed animals, and our sentimental clothing items, and our electronics that we saved for and hoped for will be right where we left them.
But what if we lost all of that stuff? I mean, that’s what we buy renter’s and homeowner’s insurance for, isn’t it? We select the policy with reimbursement as close to replacement value as possible so that we can feel as though we have some sort of control over the material possessions we cling to. Yet, in the back of our minds, there is a nagging. We know that our insurance policy may replace our TV or our pots and pans. We trust that the insurance adjustor will make it right and replace our bed or our computer. But, insurance companies can’t write a check and bring back our grandmother’s class ring or the external hard drive with years of photos on it. The things that really matter aren’t replaceable.
No one could ever write me a check and expect it to make up for the loss of the bunny rabbit that my grandmother made for me years and years ago. No amount of money could ever make the loss of Nathan or of our sweet, furry cats bearable. The human connection is what we really seem to be holding onto. When we lock our doors as we leave each day, we are turning the key with the intention of grasping at the bits and pieces of the people that we love that we have sewn into our material lives.
When I fret about the security of a home or the best way to pack a box, I’m not really concerned that a measuring cup might shatter or a picture frame may crack. I’m worried that the ring that once belonged to my mother and to her mother before that may not make its way back onto my finger. The ring probably has very little monetary value, but it is the only worldly possession I have left of my grandmother. My childhood bunny and blanket are not the first things I unpack because I need them to sleep with, but because they remind me so tenderly of my Mimi. The jackets that were given to me by the widower of a woman that I admired to no end bring tears to my eyes as I remember what an incredible person she was-and how much I miss her.
That is what I worry about. The bits and bobbles that bring me back to the people I love. Artworks from my sister, the Bible my parents gave me for graduation- none of these things mean much of anything to anyone else. But, I fret over them. I have come to believe that, for me anyway, the reason that I work to fill my home with things that are functional and beautiful and sentimental is because it truly is all about people.
I want to have people in my home. I want to make them food and pour them glasses of wine. I want them to stay in our guest room, and I want to stay up too late talking about important things that matter (and silly things that don’t). I want to welcome people with a hospitality that is unbridled. I want to form those human connections that characterize the things we own. I want people to gather together on our worn couch, I want them to eat their fill at our dining room table. I want them to feel at home in our kitchen. I hope that no one goes away from our home hungry (spiritually, physically, or mentally).
I want to be reminded daily that no matter what insurance premium I pay each month, and no matter how well I lock our doors, the material things aren’t really what I am worried about. I am worried about losing those relationships, worried about having those connections stolen from me. A loss of privacy or possessions be it from natural disaster or human maliciousness, would be a blow because it would tear down the wonderful, warm bubble that I want my home to be. When I lock the door each morning, I want to lock in all of the good and keep out all of the bad.
In the end, it doesn’t really matter which t-shirt I am pulling out of the boxes that are still largely unpacked. What matters is that every day I come home to Nathan. Every day I step in the door to see two cats waiting for me. What if we kept in mind that the majority of things we pack into boxes each time we move aren’t really the things that give us life and happiness? What if we remembered that the memories and connections and love we create are what makes our houses into homes? What if we worried less that our house was spotless and worried more about loving people well when they are in our home? That is my goal for this year and for this new space we live in. I want to love people well, and I want to make our home a shelter from the chaos of the day-to-day.