Our Story: Bub, A Toga, and Vomit

We have a love story.

I am right in the middle of my (tumultuous, laughter-filled, crazy, unplanned) "happily ever after." And I'm loving every moment of walking with the wonderful man which God gave me.

I always loved hearing every detail of my parents' story, and God's plan through marriage is one of the most delightful workings of His grace, so, I'm going to use this fall-into-winter, to commemorate our crazy rush down the aisle.

Because we were crazy. Stark-raving mad. And totally, completely meant for each other.

It began as October began to wrap its crisp fingers around the world. I had begun my career in September (finally!) after six long years of school. I was in love with life. And I was blissfully content. Alone. With my wonderful roomie, a fabulous job (money, finally!), and family.

Other people were not quite as content as I was. It does seem like as soon as you become fully content with being alone, everyone else decides it's an absolute necessity to find you someone. I would smile, nod, and ignore all suggestions. God had finally planted me in perfect peace. It was heavenly. I did not want a man.

Which is, of course, when he entered.

Scott Allison. His picture in the church bulletin insert made him look about 32 years old. His educational background (Pensacola Christian College) made me think of ankle-length skirts and panty-hose. I shook his hand in a long line of people welcoming him to the church. It was cold. And he looked like he was trying really hard to be cheerful.

Through the remnants of September, into October, we would bump into each other occasionally. He always looked chronically tired and determinedly happy. And he was busy. All the time. Constantly. He worked like crazy cakes. So, even though he wore old man jeans, too much flannel, and had a hyper-conservative college experience, I started watching Scott Allison.

The vomit sealed the deal.

A very distraught, whining child worked herself up into a frenzy. And then she hurled all over a preschool classroom one Wednesday night. I was picking up my little sis, Julie-Bop, and I saw Scott, down on his hands and knees, cleaning up vomit for the queasy teachers.

That was it. Any guy who would clean up that mess--voluntarily--was worth some attention. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion that he didn't really need help when he asked me to serve in the Community Center on October 16th. But, since he was willing to clean up vomit, I was willing hand out gym towels and find out more about Scott Allison.

So, I curled my hair, bought a new sweatshirt (so I could look effortlessly pulled-together), and showed up for a four hour shift. It was entertaining. The people I talked to on that day... I went toe-to-toe with a volunteer's adamant stance on questionable movie choices, counseled a crying mother, and cleaned bathrooms, and passed out lots of towels. Scott kept taking me places and "training" me: how to raise and lower basketball hoops, doing laundry, stocking the janitor's closet... And he kept talking. He shared his testimony, family history, upbringing, and how he's not a Bible-thumping-King-James-only preacher.

It was fun. I liked him. He was funny. And quirky.

Which is why, on October 27th, 2012, at the Annual Harvest Party, after my Wednesday night FCI class, I walked up and down the hall, ostensibly to find different people and chit-chat, I actually just wanted to see Scott.

And there he was! Wearing a bed-sheet toga. Because he was Pontius Pilate. Obviously. My mouth wiggled as I controlled my laughter. Our brief conversation was stilted and unsatisfactory. It's very hard to small-chat with a man draped in cream, 300 thread count bedding.

I left. A little bummed. After all, that Saturday may have just been a fluke.

"Courtney!"

I turned. A toga-clad man was jogging towards me.

"Here. There are some extra pumpkins. You want one?"

I grinned. Yes. Of course I wanted a pumpkin. "Sure. What's this one's name?" Everyone knows that each pumpkin has a name.

"Ummm... Bub?"

"Bub. Okay. Thanks."

We exchanged awkward grins... And our love story began.



Happy October 27th!

So, we were prepping for our Sunday School lesson.

Scott and I are Sunday school veterans (I think we have a combined number of 25+ years serving with kids), but this summer has stretched us beyond our comfort zones. It has tested the bounds of our teaching abilities. It has demanded that we scale unseen, unknown heights, and press through Sunday school struggles hitherto unknown to us.

We're teaching preschoolers.

It sounds easy enough. Especially if you love kids. (And we do.) Especially if you have a world of teaching experience. (We like to think we do.) And especially if you have a very clear, cut philosophy of children's ministry (and that's a soapbox we practically live on).

However, preschoolers challenge all of the above.

I don't know what to do with them... They need to go to the bathroom all the time. It's impossible to have a snack time without someone drowning all of their goldfish in their cup of water. And your story must be 7 minutes long (max) with pictures, actions, and silly voices.

I teach 4 and 5 year olds.

Scott teaches 3 year olds.

(I know. I lucked out.)

So, this past week, we were discussing the upcoming story: Rahab hiding the two spies.

I'm chatting about how we're going to role play the story, how our craft should be a verse on a braided red rope (just like the sign that Rahab lowered down to save her family), and how we would talk about how God protected both Rahab and the spies.

I turn to Scott, "Honey, what are you going to do with your three year olds?"

He pauses for a moment and then says, "I think I'll explain the terms 'brothel' and 'prostitute.' I think they need to know that it was a clever move for the spies to go to Rahab's, because the city would have been used to seeing strange men go into her house."*

Moral of the story: review your child's Sunday school lesson with them. You never know what they might be learning...



*NOTE: The 3 year old class did not learn about brothels, prostitutes, and strange men. They were just informed of the story's basics. My husband is a good teacher. Promise.

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.