Blog

I feel like I owe you guys an update. Well, maybe I just want to give you an update.

Mostly because after my last post, I was pretty overwhelmed by the number of folks who (a) seem to care and (b) have had a similar journey in their attempts at having children. Also, a lot of you have asked how it went, which is also pretty humbling.

Thanks for caring.

Thanks for reaching out, for your kind words, for the stories you shared. I know we all handle this struggle differently and it’s neat for me to be reminded that there are other people out there on a quest to have children and not just having it happen instantaneously. I also know that in the quest, there have been so many heartaches for so many of you. Losses, disappointments, despair. Lots of joy, after years of trying. I love what community can look like as we share our hearts and our stories with each other. I love how beautiful it can be, even if I don’t really know you and even if you don’t really know me. Because we’re all just trying to figure this life out and doing the best we can with the hand we get dealt.

You guys are neat and I’m so blessed by the many of you who gave to me.

So here’s where we’re at.
I went to a Family Medicine doctor last week. Nothing special in the way of infertility, but because of my referral, I was confident that I could get at least a few more answers.

I wasn’t sure if my nerves prior to the appointment were because of my fear of what the doctor might say or because of my heavy dislike of being poked and prodded, but I had that slightly queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach for a few hours leading up to the event.

It was fine.
Our options were laid out before us. After 2.5 years of trying with no pregnancies, we have a few decisons to make. It mostly just depends on how much time, money and effort we want to put into anything.

She told me that PCOS (poly-cystic ovary syndrome) is hard to diagnose, but it’s likely that I have it. It used to be required that cysts on the ovaries were necessary for the diagnosis, but more recently there are other symptoms that also give way to it, infertility being one of them.

So, here are our choices moving forward:

• Testing (me: pelvic ultrasound, husband: semen). She encouraged us to be tested to make sure we don’t have anything we are unaware of. 
• Medication. There are two known medications that can often help with PCOS: Clomid and Metformin. Both basically help regulate ovulation and help all the hormones do all the things they are supposed to do.  
• IUI. Intrauterine insemination. This involved placing the sperm inside of the woman’s uterus to hopefully facilitate fertilization. 
• IVF. In Vitro Fertilization. A medical procedure where an egg is fertilized by a sperm in a test tube and then transferred to the uterus. 
• Fertility clinic. She could refer us to the Fertility Clinic in Albuquerque and we do it all there, or we do a hodge podge of it in Santa Fe. 

I set out to write a new blog yesterday.
Hammock strung up, laptop out, birds chirping, dogs digging… it was an ideal set-up for a Saturday afternoon.

I wrote and I wrote and I wrote… but something seemed off about it. Maybe even a little artificial. Maybe even a little hypocritical. While it’s content was all about how I want to be better at all of the things, there was something lacking. Maybe because in the desire for better, there’s sometimes still an apathy about wanting to try to be better at all. Can’t it all just be good enough how it is? Can’t I be good enough…? Isn’t this life I’m leading sufficient enough?

Because I’m tired.
And lazy.
And being better takes work.
And while yes, I want to be better… I don’t know if I have the energy right now to work at what “better” requires.

It means sacrifice.
It means less sleep.
It means spending time with people when I really just want to curl up in a ball on the couch and stream Netflix.
It means admitting that I’m wrong.
It means letting my husband off the hook when he hasn’t done everything my way.
It means thinking of others over myself.
It means patience and kindness and humility.

But lately, I’ve had this overriding desire to be better, to want better. To not settle for this complacent version of myself that just exists, whiling away the hours.

I want to be a better mentor. A better boss. A better developer and manager of people. I want to be better at investing in those around me. I want to be better at motivating and inspiring and reminding people what actually matters and seeing how that might transform attitudes and shape character.

I want to be a better friend. A friend who communicates more frequently with those who are far away. A friend who takes the time to ask people how they’re doing instead of just talking about work. A friend who reaches out, a friend who can sit in the silence without always trying to fix things. A friend who knows what’s really going on in people’s lives. A friend who prays steadfastly.

I want to be a better wife. A better helpmate. A wife who isn’t nagging or critical or demanding. A wife who supports, encourages and selflessly cares about the needs of my husband over my own. I want my husband to know, undoubtedly, how much I love, respect and believe in him.

I want to be a better follower of Jesus. A better servant. A better lover of God and His people. I want to be better about spending time in Scripture, I want to be better about having His name be quick on my lips. I want my life to be more centered on Him and living out of the fullness of who He is calling me to be.

I want to be better about handling frustration. Better about responding with kindness and gentleness instead of assumption and pride. I want to be better about seeking solutions instead of just identifying problems. I want to be patient and open-minded and eager to point out the good instead of my words being consumed with the constant need for improvement.

I want to be a better adventurer. Better about saying YES and doing things that get me out of my comfort zone. Things that are physically challenging and demanding, things that cause my knees to ache and my back to groan. Because, as exhausting as they are, these things also breathe life into my soul as I work my way into settings and sights that are unbelievable and impossible to truly capture on film. These are the types of things that remind me that God is big and amazing and that He has created me to do more than what I often think is possible.

I want to be better about change. Better about receiving criticism and recognizing that in my imperfection there is room for growth. Better about admitting my flaws and acknowledging that I can’t do everything and be everything. I want to be willing to step into newness and hardness and leave behind who I was so that I might move more toward something better. So, essentially.. being better at being better…

And that all requires work.
More than just reading a few self-help books, it requires sweat and probably even some tears. It requires determination, steadfastness, and willingness. And, I imagine, on some days it will require grace. Grace to fail. Grace when I’m selfish. Grace when I’ve spoken too harshly or rashly. And humility when I know that I must actually allow the Lord to do a number on me instead of thinking I can accomplish any of this on my own.

If I were to continue in the stream of thought I was in yesterday, I would assure you, dear reader, that I will indeed begin the path toward better. I would assure you that I’m the type of person who would automatically leap into a new life of sheer determination and willpower that would put others to shame, emerging into a world of blissful obedience and life changing companionship with Jesus.

But, if I’m any type of real person at all, I have to admit the truth.
I want better. I do.
And there may be glimpses and moments where I’m doing all the things to get better. But it won’t be all the time. There will still be days when I curl up on my couch and watch Heartland for hours or mornings when I choose to sleep in instead of spending time with the Lord or moments when I’m annoyed with my husband for not picking up the white hairballs that are all over the house on his day off. Days when I’m tired. Apathetic. Lazy. Days when I’m fighting with myself internally- fighting to do what I know is right vs. giving into my own selfishness, pride, and laziness.

Because of all of that, I will tell you that I’m pursuing “better” with much wariness.
Don’t expect me to be different overnight.
But maybe, with God’s grace, we’re all slowly getting better over time as we fight the internal battles, as we get over ourselves, as life happens and we learn a bit more what really matters.

I think most of us want better. We want better for ourselves and for the world around us. We just don’t always have what it takes to get there.

And so while I can’t tell you that I’m going to change everything in my life (even if I can tell you that I probably should)… I can commit to this: I’m going to try moving in this direction with a little more focus and determination. I’m going to invest a little more. Go on a few more adventures. Memorize some more of Philippians. Continue to beg that I might be a lady who is quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry. I’m going to pursue learning more about how to develop others, both spiritually and professionally. I’m going to work on loving my husband in the ways that he needs, not just the ways I want to.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll be imperfectly working our way toward better: two steps forward, one step back.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s a truer glimpse of life changing companionship with Jesus. Raw, but authentic. Hard, but refining. Ugly, but beautiful.

Want to come?

In Christ alone, my hope is found…

The lyrics echoed off my shower tiles this morning and quieted my aching heart.

In Christ alone.
He is my light, my strength, my song…

There have been a lot of feelings of defeat lately.
A lot of… “do more, be more, do this, do that, can you…”. A lot of feelings of inadequacies, of never being enough, of rarely doing things “right”. There’s always something new to figure out, something to fix, something I didn’t communicate well enough, something I need to apologize for. The list drags on.

In Christ alone, my hope is found…

To top it off, there have been these moments where my heart continues to wonder, “Do I want them? And, even if I do, can I have them?” My desire doesn’t just make it magically happen.

Part of my job is to meet people. Meet all the people. See how they’re doing, how their week is, how we can improve, what they love, etc. Inevitably, part of meeting people also means a bit of introduction and small talk. Names, occupations, family.

The other day, a woman… a mom… asked the question I’ve grown to dread: “Do you guys have kids?”

I don’t hate saying no.
That’s not what I hate.
What I hate is the reaction that immediately follows, because I think the expectation is that my answer will be an easy “yes” and that we’ll go on chatting and laughing about our silly, wonderful kids. There’s often an awkwardness that’s there in the wake of my “no” and the gap between our similarities immediately widens. I generally try to recover in one of two ways. A quick deflection to the next talking point OR, I proceed to share where my husband and I are at in this journey. Because… why not? If I write a blog about it, and if I work at a Christian camp, and if I honestly believe that the Lord is good in this- can’t I just proclaim that, even with total strangers?

Usually I choose to do the latter.
Usually, I explain it all to the poor soul standing opposite of me. No, not only do we not have kids, but we’ve actually been trying for two and a half years… and while, no, we haven’t really done anything about it beyond just… you know… we are content. We see the Lord’s goodness and faithfulness in this and continue to feel really blessed in our marriage and in our ministry.

And usually, there’s this fear that by this point I’ve offended the mom because I’ve probably also said something along the lines of how I love that I get to do full-time ministry and how I’m not even actually sure I want kids and…

**deep sigh**
In Christ alone, my hope is found…

Lately, this too has brought about a deep inadequacy in me.
We hold this future possibility of ours loosely, not really knowing if children will ever be on the table. And it’s still okay. 

I wish I could explain it to people in such a way that didn’t cause them to look at me differently or to pity me or to remind me of Hannah. I wish I could do it in such a way that doesn’t elicit a need for them to try to fix it- offering solutions or empty platitudes. I wish I could do it in five minutes and somehow bridge the gap that has suddenly come between us…. a woman with three kids standing next to a woman with none. We are different. And maybe I feel it more than she does…but we’re both searching for another avenue in which to connect. In an instant, it’s easy for me to feel less than…

In Christ alone, my hope is found…

And then I’m reminded of this resounding, necessary truth that is screaming its way through my veins and trying to get into my heart and into my head. Listen!

In Christ alone. 

Not in my job.
Not in my marriage.
Not in my ability or inability to have children.
Not in my relationships and friendships.
Not in my family.
Not in my perfection (or lack thereof).

I’ve been a little weepy lately.
Not like sobbing… just having to blink back tears and fan my eyes a lot.

I’m not pregnant. I promise.
But there’s been something in the air lately that makes my heart full.

It’s been far from a perfect summer, but it’s been such a good one. It seems that around every turn I’m reminded of the Lord’s faithfulness, His provision, His ability to work powerfully when we just can’t. To Him be the glory. 

There’s something beautiful about summer staff dancing, about the way He is calling them to hard things, about the questions they are wrestling with and the decisions that they have to make. There’s something beautiful about seeing them walk boldly, serve sacrificially, laugh heartily. Something beautiful about how they make friends and become role models. Something beautiful about the way the Lord uses camp to change people.

My heart is full.
And I’m a little weepy.
Because God is good.
And every day, I get to be a part of that. And, in the summers, I get to see the goodness more tangibly.

I won’t ever get to be a summer staffer again. My time has passed. But those summers changed me. There’s nothing quite like a night around a campfire, or bunking with 10+ other girls for three months as we learn how to survive together with all of our soaring emotions. There’s nothing quite like the dance parties, the late night conversations, the early morning devotions, the lives that were shared. There’s nothing quite like the campers that have etched themselves onto my heart for this lifetime (like the Hungry Hungry Homies) or David Crowder on repeat for 13 weeks straight. Nothing quite like the evening dips in the Nueces River while we listened to the songs being sung in the pavilion above, or the baptisms we witnessed in the pool, or the nights at Tent City.

That stuff sticks with you.
It changes you.
Because, for whatever reason, God moves at camp.

There are a lot of reasons I’ve stayed in camp ministry full-time- a lot of reasons that, even when I tried to leave, I found myself coming back.

The past few weeks have reminded me that I’m a part of something that is out of this world. Something good. Something powerful. Something life-changing.

I won’t ever get to be a summer staffer again, but I get to be a part of other people taking on the challenge. Other people partaking in the journey that is never what was anticipated, but oftentimes better. Other people proclaiming the Gospel, asking campers hard questions, being a part of new faith in Christ. Other people having a summer that is unforgettable… having a summer where God changes them.

It’s kind of indescribable.
I imagine those people who have done camp know a bit of what I’m talking about.

God is moving here.
I don’t know why, and a lot of times I don’t fully even know how, but I know that He does. That He is.

And maybe that’s where the tears come from.
Maybe this summer it felt unlikely that He would… and maybe I’m just humbled again that He is. That as much as I can recite over and over again that the Gospel is sufficient- I’m seeing that it really, truly is. He is enough. Even if all else fails, even if nothing is perfect or according to plans… He still is. He is doing beautiful things in the hearts of people around me. Young campers, college students, full-time staff, older volunteers, moms and dads, youth pastors. He is changing all of us.

My heart is full.
Because even in the smallest ways, He is moving. Reminding me, constantly, that He is good. He’s got this. He’s got us. He’s making His name known. He is enough.

To Him be the glory. 

I took up a new hobby recently: pottery.

I’m not entirely sure why, but while reading through Celebration of Disciplines by Richard Foster, I was especially challenged during the chapter on solitude. Challenged to do something different, to pause, to consider different goals for my life, to step out of my comfort zone and try something new.

Reorientation and goal setting do not need to be cold and calculating as some suppose. Goals are discovered, not made. God delights in showing us exciting new alternatives for the future. Perhaps as you enter into a listening silence the joyful impression to learn how to weave or how to make pottery emerges. Does that sound too earthy, too unspiritual a goal? God is intently interested in such matters. Are you? 

It definitely didn’t feel like much of a spiritual decision, honestly. I read the chapter, the word pottery leapt off the page at me as something intriguing, I did a little research (being just outside of Santa Fe, and all) and decided taking a class might just be wonderful. I coerced a few friends into joining me and we, very soon after, began a 7-week adventure into the world of clay.

You should know that I can’t recall touching clay in my past. I’m sure I have- it just doesn’t stick out to me. My fine arts credits were fulfilled through choir in high school, so I had always managed to avoid coming face-to-face with my lack of artistic skills. Because, I assumed, since I couldn’t draw or paint, I probably couldn’t do much else in the art world, either.

Our first night of class, we were tasked with making a cylinder. Our instructor demonstrated. He threw some clay on the wheel, shaped it into a hockey-puck-looking thing, dropped his thumbs down to create a hole, and began to pull the sides up in to a vase-shaped piece.

Easy.
I can do that. 
My pride pounded within.

We weren’t the only beginners in the room, but the girl on my left had done this before. She was already making plates and was quick to assure the rest of us that this new hobby of ours wasn’t for perfectionists. We would have to learn to get over ourselves, hold things loosely, and be patient. Unfortunately, those aren’t things I’m great at.

I threw the clay onto my wheel and tried to make that hockey-puck shaped thing, just like I had been shown. I didn’t really understand the importance of making sure that clay was entirely centered on the wheel- not considering the challenges I would encounter if it wasn’t. You won’t be surprised to know that my first few pieces were about an inch tall, an inch wide and far from symmetrical.

One of my first pieces…

It wasn’t until week 3 that I felt like I began to grasp the concept of “centering” enough to actually implement on my own without my instructor coming to the rescue. It had been a frustrating process. I felt like I had been going through my 25lbs of clay swiftly, only instead of having any successes, I had a wet pile of clay failure. Countless attempts of not being centered, pulling up too quickly or unevenly, slicing the tops off, clumsily taking my hands away too fast, and, just generally, ruining almost everything I was working toward.

Our instructor always encouraged us to keep the things we salvaged, even if ghastly. Keep it. Practice trimming and glazing with it. Keep it as a reminder of what your first pieces were so you can see the progress you’ve made. So I did. They are a humbling reminder that things take time, and that I don’t always do things right the first time (I often don’t, actually).

But I kept going.
Outside of class, some of us would frequent the studio when we could spare the time. I loved it. I fell asleep thinking about centering clay. I dreamt about pulling up the sides of a cylinder with ease and grace. I talked about it often and, as I began to see and feel improvement, I felt accomplished. I was learning something new…and I could see visible change happening.

There’s something strangely cathartic I’ve found in working with clay. Something so satisfying when you realize the clay you are trying to shape is finally moldable and pliable. Something indescribable when it begins to do exactly what you want and begins to transform from a lump of clay to a beautiful work of art.

I had the opportunity to teach a class on sanctification a few weeks into my pottery class. Naturally, there were some parallels to make at the time, but the parallels haven’t stopped coming. There’s been something profound about working with clay, especially when I take myself out of the potter’s role and put myself into the piece of clay, into the Potter’s Hands.

I’ve found myself often humming a melody I grew up singing in church- some of you may recognize it:

No eye has seen

No ear has heard

The good that the Lord has prepared for those

Who wait on Him

To hear His voice

“I am the potter

And you are the clay” 

Jesus take me in Your hands

And make me all that You want me to be

Jesus help me understand my purpose

And what You can do through me

Fulfilling my destiny

accidental spout

The even more beautiful part of it is knowing a bit more about what it means to work with clay and what that image requires. In order to be molded, the clay [us] has to be centered. Only then are we ready and truly willing to succumb to the hands of the Potter. Only then can we be shaped into what we are intended to be, into who He is calling us to be.

Today I picked up 18 finally finished pieces.
It’s been a process.
A process of failing, disappointments, mishaps, uneven pulls, accidental spouts, lumpy handles, tragedies while trimming and the unknowns of glazing. It’s been a process filled with small victories, vast improvements, waiting and hoping, and finally… results.

I think this is just the beginning of my adventure with pottery. I hope to keep learning and growing, allowing this new hobby to affect me and challenge me on a more spiritual level. To seek solitude. To seek change. To be more centered, so that I might be molded and shaped to be more of what the Potter intends for me to be. A beautiful work of art… and while I can’t begin to fathom what the end result will actually be, I must trust that He knows what He’s doing and that I’m in His hands throughout the entire process.

My husband has been traveling a lot lately- so much so that it sometimes feels like I’m learning how to do life as a single person again (a single person in a long-distance relationship, really)…

Here’s the recipe my mom uses if you’re craving any! My mom put together this giant recipe book a few years back for all of her kids, complete with photos from the past. I’m sure she’ll appreciate me posting  this old shot of her and my dad together 🙂

Cooking one pot of Mexican Corn Chowder and literally eating it at least once a day for a week,
figuring out how to adapt my social calendar to doing and creating things for me to do alone instead of with someone else, getting to go to sleep earlier than I’m used to, hearing my thoughts louder and louder without having someone to bounce even the craziest ones off of… the list goes on.

And so I find myself talking to our dogs more- like they’re humans. Today I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d be a lot lonelier if they weren’t around…knawing on tennis balls, shaking their hair all over the house and wagging their tails and wiggling their giant bodies every time I come home from work or other gatherings. It’s good for my soul to have dogs right now, even if they can be master escape artists or incessant barkers from time to time.

I still get asked occasionally how I’m doing with this whole pregnancy thing. I appreciate when people ask. It’s not a sensitive topic for me to discuss, although I realize bringing it up on the other side could feel uncomfortable and people want to be careful.

Obviously I’m not writing about it much anymore. Mostly because it feels repetitive. Mostly because I feel like I entered into a period of not even wanting to get pregnant anymore. Mostly because I still don’t know how to digest my own thoughts and feelings and then regurgitate them out in any sort of comprehensible manner.

Because this was a week where my husband was gone. But it was also a week where I might have found out I was pregnant… or not. A week where all my normal “start” symptoms were delayed or not apparent and my heart, as a result, went a thousand different directions.

The initial thoughts were along the lines of irony… of course the moment when we decide more resolutely that we don’t think we want children would we be pregnant. And then irrational fear: Jack & Rose style- maybe my husband will die on this trip and this is how his legacy will continue. And then rational fear: wait, what would having a child actually mean for my life? And then excitement: Finally! And then worry: Do I want a baby? Like, really…? And could I do it? And then joy. And, really… just a bunch of unnecessary thoughts and feelings pre-knowing if I’m even pregnant at all.

I had picked up a book on my way out of the office on Friday as I was heading home for the weekend. It was a book a friend had given me a year ago to read, a book that had remained on my shelf the entire time (and even through an office move). For whatever reason, I thought I might open it up during my weekend alone.

Would you believe that this book, while largely about other things, was also largely about the struggle of a woman to get pregnant? The very open memoir of a woman who longs for a second child, encounters miscarriages, false positives, the cruel waiting, every other person in the world around her (seemingly) getting pregnant… which then lead to giving up the trying and then winding up pregnant (of course). I haven’t actually finished the book. It was at this point in the story where I needed to put it down for a minute.

Because I don’t want kids.
And I do.
And I don’t know how to deal with those very opposite realities.
I don’t know how to deal with the relief and the disappointment that occurs simultaneously each month.

I don’t know how to talk to people about it. I don’t know how to talk to moms who have their own world of mom language and mom needs– because I’m not one and, a lot of the time, I don’t want to ever be one.  I don’t know how to talk to women who are trying to have children and are crushed by their infertility– because I’m still on this fence of relief and gratitude when I discover I’m not pregnant. I don’t know how to talk to women who just don’t want children– because while I can carry this torch more fully than the others, I still don’t know if I buy it. I still can’t shake the thought that I’m just coping with this all in way that plays out in defensiveness and apathy.

I don’t know how to talk to my husband about it either.
Because it’s crazy.
It’s back and forth, in an instant.
It’s tears of disappointment coupled with sighs of relief.
It’s applause of celebration and stabs of heartache.
It’s the pleading that I might trust the Lord with all of this, no matter what, with the constant question of if we should seek further medical advice before it’s “too late” or start pursuing adoption.

So I guess if you were to ask me today how I feel about this pregnancy thing?
I think I might tell you that I feel pretty alone in it.
Not because I don’t have people around me who support and love me, or a husband who I’m continually thankful for… but because I don’t know know what I want.

And, for maybe one of the first times in my life, I feel like I’m the only one in the world who feels like this. For any other situation or instance in my life, I knew there were people who could relate to what I was going through and how I was feeling about it.

But this?
This feels foreign. This isn’t something I hear about or read about.
And maybe I feel like something is wrong with me. Because how can you not know if you do or don’t want children?

But I’m torn.
Wanting.
Not wanting.
Torn because I see what other people have and I’m thankful I don’t have it.
Torn because I see what they have, and my heart hurts because I don’t.

And so I’ll do the only thing I know I can do… and take it to the Lord. Because as crazy as I am, there’s true comfort in the fact that the Lord knows me and the desires of my heart better than I do. My husband actually reminded me of that recently- that the Lord knows us. And He is good. So while I am torn, He is taking care of me. He is taking care of this.

And probably because of that (and that alone), I am still overwhelmingly content.
Content, yet pushed to abide in Him more fully each day.

Strangely, there’s enough hope in that for me right now. It’s enough to override all the other tumultuous, crazy emotions this last year+ has been for me. It’s enough to remind me that there’s other things that matter more. It’s enough that this doesn’t have to be all-consuming or defining for me.

And, maybe even more strangely, I know that the Lord is being good to me in this entire process- even if I don’t know how I feel about all of it.

So today… today, I’ll eat my chowder, talk to my dogs, wait for my husband to come home, and be thankful for all that I do have.

I give myself permission a lot.

Permission to eat more.
Permission to sleep in.
Permission to watch another television show.
Permission to not shower (I know, I’m gross).
Permission to not say something I know I should say.
Permission to say something I know I shouldn’t say.

Permission.

Permission to be a worse version of myself, essentially.
It’s the slippery slope of one’s demise. The one where you convince yourself that if you just do this one thing it doesn’t really matter much. But then you find yourself allowing it more and more steadily and then one day you wake up and none of your clothes fit again. Or you realize you haven’t read your Bible in a long time. Or your hair is a greaseball because you were too lazy to shower again. Or you sat in a coma for hours watching a television series you don’t even really care about.

I’ve been spending a good bit a time with people on our staff the past few weeks asking them a series of questions. It’s been interesting, especially as similar themes begin to surface among them.

What is inhibiting your success? 

Believe it or not, the answer I most often get is: myself.
And, on some level, I know that answer has to be true for almost all of us.
We’re, too often, our own worst enemies.
We’re enablers of our own laziness, selfishness, gluttony, pride, lust, fear (shall I go on…?).

It’s a pretty interesting phenomenon… yet, it’s nothing new. It’s been an issue with humanity from the beginning.

It usually starts as an internal conversation- and my most recent battles have been with food consumption. Because I lost a decent amount of weight a few years ago and then, with a pat on the back for all my hard work, I slowly eased up on my concern with what went in my body and with my activity level. So, naturally, the balloon started inflating. When I went home for Christmas last year, I brought back some of my “fat” pants, determined not to spend money on clothes again.

But then I realized it was kind of the worst. Being scared of the scale, knowing I was just getting larger, feeling constantly insecure and, honestly, pretty disgusted with myself. Where was the self-discipline that I had acquired? And so, I began again. Slowly, but surely, attempting to care about what I ate and care about my physicality.

And so the conversations continue. The battle resumes.
It’s only one donut. It’s not like you eat them every day. It won’t make a big difference. 
The devil on my shoulder convinces me.
I give myself permission.
I pick up the donut and, usually, enjoy every bite.

It’s crazy how often I convince myself to do the very thing I have told myself I won’t do. It’s crazy how easy it is to defeat my own resolve with the slightest permission to just give myself a break from the commitment once or twice. In fact, the more I think about it, the angrier I am that I’m such a pushover.

And so lately, I’ve been fighting a little harder with myself.
Lately I feel more determined to not give in so easily.
Just being aware of the conversation, of my willingness to give myself permission, has allowed me to walk in discipline a little more steadfastly. Because when I can identify what’s going on, I can tell myself to get lost and remind myself of what I’m committed to and why I chose to commit to it in the first place.

It’s pretty cool to see what happens when I can walk more resolved in one area of my life, too. It begins to transform the other areas.

And really there’s a lot of begging and pleading with the Lord that I might truly be more like Him, that I might seek His face more readily and that I might live a life that glorifies Him. And that part is necessary- that part can’t be forgotten. That part is where the resolve comes from, that part is what changes everything. That part, I’ll never be good enough in.

Thankfully there’s grace, second chances and, because of that, an ability to not be entirely defeated when I give myself permission once in a while.

Okay, let’s get serious.
Now that we’re past all the mushy, gushy obligatory anniversary posts, I can tell you how our day really went. Because as much as all the things about our wedding day are true and as much as I still think our marriage is really wonderful and that I’m incredibly blessed… it ain’t perfect.

So let’s back up a few days.
September 27, 2016

We had decided on only one thing for our anniversary- a fancy dinner. Not because either of us really love fancy dinners (however he definitely does more than me), but because the Retreats team at camp had given us a gift card for Christmas that we hadn’t used yet. Their goal? To give us something that would make us do something we would normally never do. Tricksters.

So 10 months later, this seemed like a perfect opportunity to put their generosity to use. A two year anniversary celebrated with a fancy dinner. What else can you do on a random Tuesday in September?

I’m not entirely sure what I was expecting when I woke up on September 27, 2016- but I think I may have anticipated more than what actually happened. Eager to continue my new routine of early morning moments with the Lord, I hopped out of bed and sat down at the kitchen island- Bible and journal in hand. Because on your anniversary, you have to write about your marriage (although, when I skimmed backward, I definitely hadn’t done it for our one year).

And so I wrote and I read, like all diligent wives do… somewhere, somehow not even realizing that I might be expecting that this day might be different than any other.

Cuing the dog to wake my sleeping beau so we could scurry off to work, I soon found myself in the company of a sleepy, incoherent man. A man complaining about not having pants while wearing a pair of pants. No pants?! You have pants, I assured him. The khaki pair, remember the khaki pair? They’re missing! They can’t be missing… that doesn’t make any sense.

Eventually the pants were discovered in the Goodwill pile…discarded too soon due to a missing button. Buttons are easy. Buttons are cheaper than pants. Don’t you know?

And off to work we went.

The thing about working at the same place and working in the same building and, then, having your husband also work for you, is that sometimes work and home mix. Only sometimes, of course. And on this particular day, our anniversary day, we had a scheduled meeting together. A one-on-one. A boss checking in on their employee type of meeting. The type of meetings we don’t have enough because we’re married and see each other often. The type of meetings he can resent me for not having with him often enough. And so we met. And after the first fifteen minutes of figuring out how to actually talk to each other without being defensive or annoyed, we survived.

But today’s our anniversary, I thought.
It’s supposed to be special. Different. Better. Best. Isn’t it?

My husband suggested us leaving work early to catch a movie before our fancy dinner reservations at 6:30pm. Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s play hooky and go see a movie. I scrolled through Fandango, dismayed by our options but determined to find one that fit our interests and our timeframe. With less than 15 minutes to get ready for our fancy dinner, we both laughed at how dressed up we were having to get for a movie. A dress, wedges, make-up… his wedding shoes, a button up, a suit jacket.

So we went to the mall (of course). We bought our tickets, our large popcorn (with butter) and our giant Mr. Pibb. It’s by far the sleaziest theatre in town, but it had the movie we wanted at the time we needed. With only one other couple in the theatre, I sank down into my seat, my feet already hurting in the wedges. Why didn’t I think to bring flip flops? 

As we listened to Florence Foster Jenkins (or rather, Meryl Streep) belt too highly and off-key, I had a moment of dissatisfaction. What are we doing? We could go to a movie any day…? Today is our anniversary… it’s supposed to be special. Why didn’t we go hiking, catch the sunset and eat a delicious picnic? And why am I still wearing these stupid shoes? 

The shoes came off.
We laughed. He cried.
The shoes came back on, the lights came back on. An hour to kill until dinner.
Fortunately we needed a shower curtain rod (ours had fallen off in the middle of the night onto our dog a few days prior) so we took off across town to hit up Lowe’s.

It’s always in rides across town that everything goes wrong, isn’t it?
It’s always on your anniversary where things are supposed to be special when you ask your husband a question that automatically traps him. We came to a stop at a stop sign, I showed him a picture of us that had been taken months earlier and I ask (deep sigh): I don’t look as fat anymore, right? 

It wasn’t what he said that made me mad, but it was the tone.
And immediately I brought up the pants, the meeting, and his response to my picture. You just don’t seem like you even like me today. 

When what I really wanted to say was, today was supposed to be special. I expected today to be special. Couldn’t you read my mind? 
Eventually, through clinched teeth, I admitted to him that I had probably had some expectations that I didn’t even know I had that weren’t being met. And, eventually, after a few more misunderstandings, I even apologized for it.

One (too long) shower curtain rod and a few light bulbs later and we were on our way to the fancy dinner. The type of fancy dinner that immediately makes someone like me feel out of place, angry at the absurdity of the prices and ignorant about food and wine. But we survived. We even drank good wine and ate delicious (small portions) of food.

The thing about the fancy dinner was that it gave us more time to talk. We had quickly moved on from our misunderstandings and had reached a place of common ground. It wasn’t long before we found ourselves reminiscing, laughing and enjoying each other’s company in this funny, expensive restaurant (the type of restaurant where they fold your napkin again if you leave it on your table when you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom).

We talked about the lessons we had learned over the last year in our marriage and the things we wanted to accomplish in the upcoming one. We dreamed about the possibilities and the ways that we might be better reflections of Christ in all aspects of our lives. We talked about tackling new adventures and being more intentional with the people in our lives.

It was a great fancy dinner.
And, in some ways, it was a perfect anniversary. Not because our relationship is perfect, but because our anniversary reflected exactly that: imperfection. Imperfection, confession, getting over ourselves and still making the most of a delightful evening.

In fact, it’s potentially one of my favorite parts about our marriage.
We somehow manage to weed our way through this messiness and find each other… and ultimately remind each other that we’re on the same team. We’re in this together. Our intentions are good, even if they aren’t always executed perfectly or received well.

And it’s good.
Super imperfect, but good.
And a crazy, challenging, beautiful, life-changing adventure.

I felt naked today.

For the first time in our two years of marriage, I forgot to put my wedding ring on. It’s actually rare that I ever take it off, but last night I was dealing with pizza dough and who really wants dough caught between a ring and a finger? So, I took it off… and completely forgot about it until this morning when I sat down at my desk.

I remember putting the ring on for the first time. The new spacer in between my fingers felt unnatural and weird, and I wondered if I’d ever get used to it. I’m not really a jewelry person, so anything foreign (earrings, bracelets, rings) bothers me. But, as everyone assured me, I got used to it. The ring became my normal, my every day. It’s less sparkly than it was, and it’s definitely dirty… but it’s always on.

Ironically enough, on the very (only) day I forgot to put my ring back on, my husband and I reached our 2 year anniversary mark. Anniversaries are a funny thing… probably filled with expectations and anticipations. Mostly I just like to remember.

I like to remember our wedding day and all the people that bent over backwards to make it exceptional. The people who drove hundreds of miles, the people who spent way too much money, the people who gave up their time and their sleep and their energy. The ladies who made hay bales look pretty, the guys who moved giant stumps, the millions of other tiny details that caused many people to sweat it out in the too hot of a September day that it was.

I like to remember the go-karts and the batting cages, in my bridesmaids attempts at making sure my wedding day didn’t solely consist of make-up and hair spray. I like to remember my sister-in-laws join effort in doing my hair because my hair plans fell through. I like to remember the bridesmaid dress that couldn’t quite zip up minutes before walking out the door and the panic that then ensued. I like to remember the prayers that they prayed over me, moments before I was to walk down the aisle.

My husband and I saw each other before the wedding, choosing to take pictures prior to the event….choosing to allow our first glance of each other to be in private. I like to remember the moment when he first saw me and the moment when I first saw him. The moment when you realize: this is really happening. I like to remember all the picturesque locations, the giant mosquitos that got caught in my veil (which had to inevitably be edited out of a few pictures), and the heels that sank into the loose soil. The heels that I would forgo for bare feet for the actual ceremony.

Not long after, I clutched my father’s arm to walk down the slope to greet my groom. I like to remember the faces that beamed at me as I made my way down. Faces from all over the country, faces I had seen just that day and faces I hadn’t seen in many years. Faces of people who were cheering for me, for us. Faces of people who had prayed and pleaded with me for this very moment. Faces of people who had cried with me in the heartaches, faces of people who had loved me through my entire life. Faces of people who I didn’t know well yet, but who were graciously welcoming me into their family with kind, open arms.

I like to remember the instruments (not real, of course) that orchestrated the verses that pierced my heart deeply with each step. In Christ alone, my hope is found…He is my light, my strength, my sound.

© Catherine Rhodes Photography 2014

I like to remember standing there, hands clasped with the man I was to marry, in front of our friends and family and listening to the words my oldest brother spoke to us as he officiated our wedding. His words were sincere, passionate, compelling – reminding us of the commitment we were making to each other.  I like to remember the way the sun began to set and the lyrics we sung as we came before the Lord in worship together. Jesus Paid it All…. all to Him I owe.. 

And while everything after those moments are a blur, I like to remember getting in a canoe in my wedding dress for a silhouetted lake shot, the toasts that were made, the crazy dancing, the friends and family that I finally got to talk to and laugh with (for too short of a time), and the fireworks that exploded as we made our way to the ‘getaway’ car.

It was literally a night to remember.
The best night.
And while it was just another night to almost every other person there, it was a night that changed my life forever. A night where the Lord swung me around happily in His arms, gently telling me: See?!!? This is what I’ve had in store for you! I’ve been waiting to show you for so long, and now it’s here! Isn’t delightful? Aren’t you so glad you waited?

It was a night where I wept much, as I realized again and again how much He loves me. He was willing to give more than what I needed, more than what He promised… and He was willing to give it to me: impatient, selfish, demanding, entirely too human.

I wish I could do our wedding over again.
I wish I could have all those same people back in one place, for more time.

My ring is back on again, and life feels a bit more normal.
The ring reminds me- not only that I’m married and that I have to learn day in and day out how to live more selflessly, but it reminds me that the Lord is just who He says He is: faithful. In all things. In all seasons. And His faithfulness doesn’t have to look a certain way for Him to actually be faithful. It can be slow, it can even seem painful…but it is real and it is good.

Because God is good.
All the time.
I hope I never forget it.