Making Eden

This. 

This is peace. 

I'm curled up in "Clifford" our big, red chair, coffee cup cradled in my lap, a candle flickering. Peace. Quiet. Clean. 

I love learning about God, and honestly, I'm one of those people who need quiet in order to meet Him. I think most of us are that way. If we'd really stopped and acknowledged the need. If we cared enough to step away from the noise, the mind-numbing, the crazy. 

One of the things I've been falling in love with is God as my Creative Father. He designed the earth, filled it with goodness, and prepared years of activities and fulfillment. He prepped the ultimate nursery/playroom. Then he put two children in this beautiful newness. Imagine his joy as they stumbled around in new delight and awe. As they began to work and play as he had designed. 

This year, I've struggled and tried and pushed and shoved, trying to buckle my selfish laziness under the saddle of responsible home management. I'll paint a wall in a red-hot second, but dinner dishes? They can sit in slimy water till the next morning. Honestly, housework with toddlers can seem a little futile. Pick-up, get out, pick-up, get out. Scrub, spill, scrub, spill. 

But when I stood in another spot, when I looked at house-wifing from a different vantage point, I saw the creative possibilities and the endless delight that could come from creating Eden. 

So, I've worked really, really, REALLY, EXTREMELY (you got it?) hard at cleaning. And organizing. And purging. And managing. For months. Yes, months. I'm not a quick study. But over the past several weeks, I realized that it has become easier. My house is clean. My kids are cuddled and played with. Laundry is kept up with. Dishes promptly done. I've even had time to tackle several creative projects.

All of this born from a realization that God sees creativity in my juggling of cleaning babies and bathrooms. God encourages invention in the world of husbands and housework. 

And He makes it delightful! By mimicking God's creativity, I'm also allowed a slice of His joy. 

I'm enjoying creating my Eden. It has a lot of weed pulling, and only a smidge of planting and inventing, but I'm learning to love weeding and to "plant" and create more wisely. 

Because "I love you" Isn't Always Enough

When I married my husband I was a "free spirit." I use that term to cover a myriad of housekeeping/lifestyle messes. I had piles of clothes in my room, a layer of dust on my piano, and piles of dishes in a sink. Because, you see, I was a creative person. What is "creative" about gray algae growing over last week's casserole dish, I'm not sure, but that was my excuse.

Scott was the first man I said, "I love you" to, and the gravity of that became deeply rooted over our dating. Saying "love" meant saying "sacrificially give." When I told this skinny, tired, desperately-in-need-of-food, but-oh-so-handsome seminary intern "I love you" I was actually saying "I will willingly sacrifice and give to you." 

But when marriage revealed that he was a morning person and a "neat freak." I became disgruntled. He was also incredibly methodical and enjoyed a consistent schedule. I love adventure and daily variety. 

So, there I was: a creative, adventurous free spirit, who had said "I love you" to a methodical, clean, early bird.

And I became concerned. I told my husband "I love you!" a hundred times per day. But I didn't load the dishwasher. I would cuddle him and plan fun outings, but laundry would pile up. I would praise his spiritual leadership in our home, and then hit the snooze button 13 times and doze my way through what should have been my quiet time. 

When I said, "I love you" I was lying.

Not willingly. Not whole-heartedly. Not even knowingly... but I slowly woke to the realization that my husband might hear my love, but he wouldn't experience my love. 

I wasn't sacrificing for my husband on a daily basis. I wasn't telling my supposed-creativity "no." There was no indication in my daily life that I actually was practicing what my mouth was proclaiming.

So... I started washing dishes.

I came up with a laundry schedule.

I told myself that staying home on Friday night was not a crime. And I found ways to make being a homebody fun. (New pop corn recipes and "Quiddler," anyone?) I stopped sobbing every time our weekend wasn't filled with social engagements. (It's shocking how often I did this...)

My husband really likes everything put away. I came up with a schedule every morning and every evening to guarantee that our house would be tidy.

I got up in the morning.

And slowly. almost without realizing it, I began to change. I started loving having the clothes put away. I enjoyed a tidy kitchen. Staying home and cuddling with my family became fun. I turned into a morning person.

One morning this spring, I woke up, at 5 a.m., looked around my tidy room, and realized that I had changed. These things were no longer work. They were just simply the ways that I loved my husband. And I enjoyed them.

Now, I must caveat this post... my husband never bullied me into changing. He never made my life miserable. I voluntarily chose to make his life easier by removing certain things that were quiet stresses. We could do another post about how he loves adventure and exploring with me. We could talk about how our house is a den of creativity (he lets me paint all over my walls, and just grins when my new decorating/teaching/planning craze takes over). 

And you know what? Increased discipline (getting up early, organizing closets, and keeping a tidy house) actually increases my creativity! I may have less time to be lazy, but I have more time to create in a happy, sunshiny place (without first brushing off a layer of dusty and grime).

This picture is a picture of our new harmony. There's writing on the wall, a crazy reupholstered chair, and a little bit of quirkiness. But it's clean. When I stopped merely saying "I love you" and started acting like I loved him, beautiful blessings abounded. I'm clearly not perfect at this, but I'm delighting in growing in "I love you" actions.

My Sister Is Amazing {and other such sentiments}

During the month of February, Scott and I returned to Lafayette Indiana for the Biblical Counseling Training Conference.

Go to this.

No. Seriously.

It trumps a week on the Florida beaches and it will change your life.

Promise.

Go.

I mean, who doesn't want to hang out in Lafayette, Indiana in the dead of winter?

While we were there, I mooched off of my sister's amazing talent, and we had family pictures taken for the first time in 14 months. If Bets ever complains to you that she's not in the family pictures that are currently hanging around our home, please inform her that she was in those pictures. She was just in my uterus and hadn't made her formal debut into the world. BUT SHE IS IN THE PICTURES.

Okay. Kind of.

I got super-excited because of my radically inventive suggestion of taking the kiddies back to some of the sites where Scott and I had our engagement photos snapped almost exactly four years earlier. (My sister had already thought this. And she also had already come up with some additional cute ideas... so... Basically anything creative in the following shots is because of her amazing genius.)

All that to say, she's incredible. (Seriously: http://www.erikaaileen.com/)

Last time we stood there, we weren't "allowed" to kiss. We made up for that on this day!

I'm fairly confident we will always spend hours in bookstores as a family. We may be single-handedly keeping B&N afloat.

Mr. Grant loves running the aisles.

And Princess Bets is selecting her first journal.

These are the greatest children's books EVER. Hilariously simplified classics as board books. Here we are enjoying "Huckleberry Finn" while Bets lobbies for "Pride and Prejudice." hashtag: raisingthemright.

Precious.

So, Bets was a pickle this entire shoot. She had just come off a twelve hour car ride the day before, and was working her way into a stomach bug. But you would never know all that from these pictures. Seriously, my sister is amazing. Have I said that yet?

I can't believe this is my life. Delightful happiness!

Lil' ham. Loves the camera.

Bets' face. :)

My handsome men!

Exploring hot cocoa!

I don't know... it's like they're used to seeing their parents make out. ;)

Chuggin' the hot cocoa.

Like a man.

Which cracks Daddy up.

Thank you, Er!
The Allisons
2015
Bets {12 months}, Grant {26 months}

Waiting, Nesting, and Glass Bottles

Well, dear reader, it's time for an adoption update.


Here's where we are in the adoption process... Everything we need to do is done. Everything that we can do is done. Our profile is written, our bio-clip is on the adoption website, and we are settling in for a nice, long wait for our baby.

The online bio. I did not write it, although it sounds like I did. I was surprised to hear I liked camping...

I tell myself that it's going to be a long time, but that doesn't keep me from jumping every time the phone rings, and for the life of me, I can't stop leaking tears when I walk by the baby section at Target. I don't wear water-proof mascara, so seeing baby clothes is very inconvenient.

We were told in our 8-hour "counseling" seminar, that it was probably not wise to outfit an entire nursery and start collecting massive amounts of baby clothes. Couples who have almost adopted, and the birth mom decides to keep her child, have described the emotions as "grieving a death." Having a fully equipped, yet empty nursery, could only be salt added to that wound. Plus, God may still decide that Scott and I are not supposed to be parents.

So, for now, I have only bought the bare essentials: three onesies, some receiving blankets (with elephants on them, of course!), a crib, a car seat, and some glass bottles. (I bought glass bottles because they were cheapest, and I figured all my hippie friends would be proud of my seeming attempt to protect my child from plastic-bottle-induced cancer.) I also bought a Dr. Brown's bottle. I want my baby to be reflux-free, and as a speech therapist, in an office full of speech therapists, I've heard every infant feeding horror story known to man, and I'm prepared for massive episodes of baby reflux. I also attempted gender-neutral, but you can see my natural affinity for blue (over pink) coming out... I'm afraid even a Baby Girl Allison will be dressed in decidedly unfrilly, unpinky creations, as her mother has an intense aversion to pink lace...

"Cedric the Unnecessary" waiting for Baby Allison.

The bare essentials. The onesies say "loved." How perfect is that!?!

So, the essentials being purchased and arranged, I am now in the process of looking for "safe" nesting activities. This involves starting and stopping multiple projects (for example, an oil painting that is worked on in bursts and fits, and is probably giving my husband bursts and fits, as his dining room table is frequently converted into an art studio).

I've purged all the cabinets in my kitchen. Please note this beautiful spice cabinet. My spice cabinet has never looked like this. I'm a "free spirit" everywhere (which is just another way of saying I leave things all over the place), and this is especially evident in the kitchen where chaos is king. I like to cook without recipes, and I throw spices around like I'm juggling. As a result, my cabinets usually reflect this haphazard philosophy. But I'm turning over a new leaf. I have a sneaking suspicion that I haven't gotten a baby yet because my spice cabinet wasn't clean. Moms always have clean cabinets. At least mine does...

I also color coded "my" book shelf. Scott and I have a total of four bookshelves in our house. Scott has two from his bachelor days which are filled with commentaries and dry books on eschatology and the role of _fill in the blank_ in the church. I have one that is staggered, and eclectic, and made by my dad, which I inherited when my brother left. There is also a seven foot, oak beauty is supposedly "ours," but Scott dogmatically arranges the books by author, alphabetically, and he steadfastly refuses to let me organize it as I want: by color. So, I decided that I would organize "my" book shelf in this new fashion. The results are not as striking as they would be on the big bookshelf (which I will conquer one of these days!), but I was delighted with the results of this nesting project.

So, I drift from oil painting to cleaning projects, to taking up new hobbies. I finally ordered photo prints for my picture frames, and I've decided to tackle the linen closet next.

I want to experience the anticipation, the urges to clean, the nesting, the baby showers, the excited questions from people, but I can't. This story is a little different. And I am okay with that. I can't talk about my pregnancy, and no one really wants to hear about the throes of paperwork drama I experienced. I flit between excited expectation, and a convincing certainty that we will never get a baby. I get impulses to clip coupons for formula, and then remind myself our child may already be 2 years old. The lack of certainty could be frustrating, but it serves rather as a reminder that all of life is uncertain. Even if I were carrying a baby, the uncertainty would still be there. Even if I were already parenting there would be uncertainty.

And I refuse to wallow in uncertainty. I have a God who delights in spreading His fame. I cannot but help to believe that our story is but a small, glorious snippet in the grand story He is writing across eternity. I wonder what our story will look like, while I also delight that our story is not the end.

So,  I tie my hair back, pull out my Clorox, and scrub another surface, blissfully content that God will work it all out.

If nothing else, my house will be clean.

Ginger-Ale and Communication

I get sick a lot.

A combination of a weak stomach (hello, ulcerative colitis!) and absolutely no bravado, means that about once a week, all I want to do is curl up on the couch and say "Goodbye, world!"

When we first got married, Scott knew about these episodes. He had been present when one landed me in the hospital, so he was no stranger to my suffering. As such, I thought he was privvy to the private code of the patient.

"I'm not feeling well" = the hubby should come home early, first stopping to pick up chicken noodle soup, a chick-flick with Katherine Heigl, and a big, huge bottle of Ginger-Ale.

But he didn't pick up on the code.

After the first few dozen disapointments, I realized that I was expecting my husband to read my mind. So, being the loving wife that I am, I decided to spell it out a little more clearly...

"Honey, I'm not feeling well... Ginger-Ale would be nice."

He still didn't get it. Granted, it was one text in the sea of 100-or-so that I send him that day, but he didn't grab my desperate need for Ginger-Ale even when I spelled it out.

Well, I'm an understanding, long-suffering lil' wifey. My desire is to help my husband. So I mobilized an ad-campaign via text messaging during the next sick day:

"My tummy hurts. Ginger-Ale is yummy."
"When we were sick, my mom would let us have Ginger-Ale as a treat."
"I love Ginger-Ale."
"Have you ever noticed how soothing Ginger-Ale is when you have a sick tummy?"
"Don't you just think Ginger-Ale is amazing?"
"My goodness, Ginger-Ale would sure taste refreshing."
"My poor tummy needs Ginger-Ale."

Yes. I probably over-did it. But, after all, it was loving of me, because I wanted my husband to succeed!

That night, he walks through the door. Empty handed.

"Honey, where's the Ginger-Ale?"
He looks nonplussed: "Ginger-Ale?"
"Yes, please... my tummy has been hurting."
"Oh Courtney, I'm sorry. I didn't know you wanted me to pick up Ginger-Ale."

At which point, I'm ashamed to say, I lost it:

"How could you not know that I wanted to you get Ginger-Ale!?!"
"Sweetie, you never texted me asking me!"
"What!?! I think I probably referenced Ginger-Ale FIFTY TIMES today!" (A lack of Ginger-Ale makes me a smidge dramatic.)

He pulls out his phone, "Oh, these texts? Yes, I understood you like Ginger-Ale, but you never asked me to get you any."

I bury my head in my pillow, "How on earth could you miss the fact that I wanted Ginger-Ale?"

"Well, you never asked for it... Next time, just send me a text telling me exactly what you want, and I'll put it in my iPod and make sure that it gets added to my to-do list."

Tears welled up in my eyes, "I don't want to be another item on your to-do list! I want you to just know what I need and to just remember and do it!"

"Courtney, honey, I'm not going to remember it unless I write it down on my to-do list."

"But you should! You should just know! You should just do! It shouldn't be so much work! Is it so hard  to anticipate my needs and love me?!"

At which point in time, the poor man could have legitimately said that, "Yes" it was hard! My goodness... pain makes me emotional!

You see, it's a common misconception among women, I along with the rest, that loving service should just spring up like a burbling brook, elicited by my most obtuse references. I have been blessed with the world's most loving, intuitive husband. Because of this, I took it for granted that he would understand every single, most hidden agenda in every single moment of our communication.

It's not fair to expect communication to flow they way it does in movies or chick-lit. Women interpret true love as spontaneous acts of love and service without much direction being needed. Men should just know what we want.

My wonderful hubby was very anxious to serve me, but the thought of being another item on his to-do list, made me feel un-loved (largely because I didn't like acknowledging that sick-me was so much work, and that our intuitive love didn't span all modalities of communication). My interpretation of anticipatory love was very inappropriately constructed. Love is sacrificial. The fact that my husband writes notes to himself in order to remember to be sacrificial, in no way decreases the wonder of his service. If anything, it heightens it--showing me that it is that important to him.

 True love is not a Katherine Heigl movie where the hero interprets her needs correctly during that first, candle-lit dinner. True love is writing notes to remember that a sick wife wants ginger-ale...and a chick-flick... and pj's... and a cuddle while watching said chick-flick in said pjs. It may seem less romantic, but the love that it springs from is consciouly serving the other person and striving to be a loving leader. Buying into romantic, intuitive nonsense is crazy. Clear communication and a willingness to serve (from both husband and wife!) is worth a thousand candlelight dinners.

************************************************
Addendum: Several months after the initial Ginger-Ale conversation, I became deathly ill while working--yucky flu! My wonderful hubby (without my asking!) showed up to drive me home from work. As I climbed into the car, he placed a cold towel over my eyes, presented a giant teddy-bear for me to snuggle, and said, "Honey, there's ginger-ale cooling in the fridge at home."


Now, that's true love.

Negative Transparency

When I first got married, I was on my guard. A lot. My fiance (now husband) had repeatedly told me that I needed to be open with him. Transparent. That I had to share my life.

I am a naturally effervescent individual. I didn't think that would be so hard, but I did know that I always wanted people to think I was perfect, to view my life through a rosy, hazy glow of golden delight. Kind of like a Pinterest post... perfect, artsy, well-lit. And completely not practical.

So I made a concerted effort to share with my new husband. I was determine that I would not be one of those women who isn't transparent with her spouse. I told him about my crappy days, my horrible moods, my freak "flash-fears" (you know, those brief terrifying moments in which you think, "I may lose all my hair!" or "When I'm old, I'll be one of those women who has to visit the podiatrist in order to get her claw-like toe nails clipped."). I told him about my struggled spiritually. I told him my fears about our relationship, our future.

I was honestly, gut-wrenchingly, persistently transparent.

About the bad stuff.

I took it for granted that he would know that I was delighted at the golden sunrise, his amazing pancakes, and the cuddle I got from a little patient that day. Of course he would know that I was growing in joy, developing a deeper love for prayer, and growing my passion for the world-wide church. My love for hip-hop and dance parties, the delight I get in picking blueberries, and my latest victory at work--he had to know about those. Of course.

Except that I wasn't telling him.

I would come home, determine to be transparent about my day, and my transparency turned into a litany of my struggles. Because that's being transparent, right? Surely people know the good things, right?

Nope. Not right.

People have to be told the happy moments too. Especially men. That's not a slam. It's a fact. You share troubles and worries, and they're immediately side-tracked, determined to solve those troubles. I married my knight in shining armor, so he was pretty much sold on the idea of erasing all my worries and cares. So, I would come home, dump worries and cares on him, and he would spend the rest of the night mentally (or verbally) trying to solve them.

Then he started saying things like, "I'm so sorry you're unhappy." "I'm so sorry marriage is so difficult for you." "I'm so sorry that your life has turned into this since you've married me."

And then I was confused. You see, I was (am) ecstatically happy. I love my honey. I thought life couldn't get any better, and I harbored a secret little sorrow that not everyone could marry a man as wonderful as Scott. (Because there is only one Scott, and I got him.) Sure, work was sometimes hard, life isn't perfect, and God gives us moments of trials to make our desire for heaven grow, but as a whole, I lead a charmed, delightful life. Why on earth did my husband think I was miserable with him?

It's because I only shared the bad things. In my book, transparency is something raw and real. It's something you are struggling with and need help to share. When people are "transparent" in church circles, it's usually because they're sharing something very painful or vulnerable, weakening. People aren't called "transparent" when they bubble over with joy. And so, I had morphed into my view of transparency, so that my husband would be able to connect with me. And my transparent joy had drifted out of my conversation.

What's wrong with unadulterated joy? Why, in a ladies' small group, or discipleship conversation, do I feel the need to find something painful and raw? To prove that I'm growing? To prove that God is working on me? What if I'm in a moment where God is working through unstinted blessings? Walks in the sunlight? A period of rest and joy?

Transparency is not negative, raw, painful emotions. Transparency is a delighted, inward look at how God is changing and growing me.

I'm still working to correct months of "negative transparency." Developing a certain communication style is hard to change, but I'm delighted that I get to change by talking more about the delights God is lavishing on me. I'm so deliciously happy!

Personalities, Literature, and Ice Cream

Me: Scott, you're like a Victorian novel. An incredibly excellent vocabulary so that I don't get bored, and a predictable plot line so I'm never scared.

Scott: Hey!

Me: It's true.

Scott: Okay, but you're also a little Victorian. No, I take that back, you're more like a Zane Grey novel.

Me: Ah, more of a 1920s or '30s style.

Scott: Yes, you have incredibly long, detailed descriptions of flora and fauna--

Me: Ugh. I always skip those parts.

Scott: Yes, but then you suddenly jump on a horse and go galloping off to save the world.

Me: Ah. Long periods of boring to provide rest after the crazy excitement.

Scott: Exactly.


When you marry a literature geek, and you're both running out of topics to discuss... Plus, how in-depth are you going to get, sitting on a curb, licking the first ice cream cone of the year?

Dr. Courtney, Google, and Problem Solving

"Honey, I have green poop."

Announcements like this used to surprise me. Now I know that I'm married to a man who doesn't mind discussing the inner workings of his bowels, and who isn't squeamish regarding bodily functions.

"Really? How long has this been going on?"

It should be noted that this reply of mine verges on the heroic. My family doesn't talk about bodily functions, and I took their aversions to whole new levels prior to marriage. I work in a hospital, but I don't like talking about excrement, saliva, mucous, or urine. I can handle blood. (I'm very proud of my ability to handle blood.) After 10 months of marriage, I was at last calm enough to respond to poop information from my husband without an exclamation of horror.

"Probably about two weeks."
"Two weeks! Why am I just hearing about this?"
"Well, it's happened before, but it's always gone away--this time it hasn't gone away..."
"Okay, but two weeks?! Scott, I am your wife. I need to know these things." (Actually, I don't. I'd be perfectly fine never knowing them, but my husband seems to view concern about bathroom issues as a practical manifestation of love.)

"Well, I'm going to figure out what's wrong with you. Where's my computer?" I have now put down my toothbrush and am digging around on my side of the bed for my precious Mac.
"Oh, no, honey... Not Google. Please don't Google "green poop.""

But I was determined. I have spent a large part of my marriage trying to avoid topics about poo, but recognizing that my husband shared this confidence in love, I decided to solve his problem. Isn't that why guys share information? To solve problems? If a girl had told me this, I would have let her talk and worry and steam until she calmed herself down, but apparently men communicate in order to solve problems, not as a vent to their emotions. See? I'm learning.

"Okay... google: "green poop." Let's see..."
"I think that's going to be too general a term."
"Nope. Look. Green poo... Oooh! You could be allergic to gluten. Celiac's disease. I'm sure you have Celiac's disease."
"I've eaten wheat my whole life."
"Yes, and you've had green poo your whole life... Plus, see--it says it can develop at any time."
"Honey, I don't have Celiac's disease."
"Oh, look-- irritable bowel syndrome. Okay. That totally makes sense. I'd believe that you have IBS."
"I don't have IBS."
"It says gas, bloating, pain, green poo..."
"I don't have bloating, and I'm not in pain."
"I still think it could be IBS... Oh, oh, oh! Liver disease! You could totally have liver disease."
"Honey. There's nothing wrong with my liver."
"Oh my word, you're going to die of liver disease. I can see it. It doesn't always come from drinking, you know. You can just get it. Maybe you have a weak liver."
"I don't have a weak liver. Please close the computer."
"You know, WebMD says that there's only a small chance it's cancer. More than likely it's not cancer. Isn't that nice, honey? You don't have cancer!"
"I wasn't laboring under the delusion that I had cancer. Honey, I'm tired, please stop."
"Okay... how do we treat liver disease..."
"Courtney."
"Multi-vitamins. With iodine. Okay. Iodine... Hmmm. I can go to Target tomorrow and get some."
"Courtney."
"What if I have to live all alone the rest of my life because you die of liver disease? Thanks a lot for marrying me. I get less than one year, and then you die. I'm banking on getting at least eighty years out of this marriage, and then you go a bail early."

There was silence. And then a sigh.

"I do not have liver disease. I am not going to die. You can get me vitamins if you want. Please close the computer. You are not a doctor. We are going to sleep."

Next time he says he has "green poop" I guess I'm just supposed to say, "Huh. No way. Can you grab my slippers on your way up the stairs?"

Got it.

Of Red Mixers and Toothpaste... and returning to the writing rut.

It is with a gasp of relief that I am surfacing from the tidal wave of wedding planning. Granted, there's still some flotsam of residual thank you notes and extra spatulas, but for the most part, I'm settling quite nicely into the rut of being married.

Ruts are nice. I've missed my rut... I've missed writing.

And I've missed my sweatpants.

I tried being "cute" all day, every day after I got married. I managed for five whole days until the last day of the honeymoon when I broke down, "But I don't want to go out for a nice dinner.... Can't I just wear my sweatpants!? I love elastic waists! Please... can't I just be a bum?" And that evening we were sweatpant bums together.

That's why I married him-- he loves me even when I look homeless and hopeless in my men's XL sweatpants. (Why are men's sweatpants so much more comfortable than women's? WHY?)

I have been craving comfort, familiarity... Marriage is delightful. But it's different. Very different.

I'm not used to cleaning whisker-bristles off the sink, and he's not used to the fine dusting of cosmetic powder over his razor. I sort every basket of laundry, his strategy is more of a general "just get everything clean." I leave piles of shoes around every enterance. He forgets to rinse his oatmeal bowl.

He gets up at 6:00 a.m.
And sings.

I get up at 7:00 a.m.
Because he pulls me out of bed.

He carefully works up from the bottom of the toothpaste tube.
Because it's economical and careful.


I just grab the tube and squeeze.
Because it's just toothpaste and I'm in a hurry.

We are two, very different, very in-love, very fallible human beings. And we're probably incredibly entertaining to watch.

But we both love working on our new home. We both like cooking for each other. We like driving to church in the gray sunrise--praying. We like using our different wedding gifts and saying "Wasn't that nice of _____?" and "I hope our future children don't break this..." We like arguing points of literature, movies, and shopping techniques. It is wonderful to have someone to walk towards Heaven with...


He likes fixing tubs.
I like not standing in six inches of yucky water.

I like my beautiful red mixer.
He likes eating the cakes that it mixes.

It's very nice being married... I'm enjoying creating new ruts and new habits. (I'm learning how to squeeze the toothpaste.) But it's also nice climbing back into old familiar ruts...



Yes, this is Courtney as a "Mrs.", but I'm still writing.