A Month Abroad

It's officially official that, as of today, we have been abroad for one month.

I would like to take this moment to say that, while I wish ever-so-deeply to be the sort of person who up-and-leaves the country and takes all the challenges in stride, I am not that person every day. And while I'll still claim to be a restless, nomadic sort of spirit, there is nothing like leaving what you know for a perpetual unknown to clarify that the essence of physical stability is really a very great part of mental stability. 

However, with that confession done, I feel obligated to also add that I consider this ever-present and incredibly humbling reminder that hangs over my head every morning and evening, one of the greater privileges I've seen in my life. In the last month, I have felt terrifically small and terrifyingly alive. My mind does little wandering because there is so much to see and be a part of at present; and I can't tell you how much a gift that all feels. On the outside, the privilege appears these experiences we are living--the sightseeing, the experimenting, the freedom--and I will admit there is truth in that. But I know that the most resounding parts of this month, the parts I will carry with me moving forward will be the revealing difficulties, the challenges, and all the grace afforded us in those moments of shortcoming. 

In a way, it's like our climb upon the rocky cliffs that jut out between the harbor and the sea in Collioure (which is a town that, should you ever have the chance to visit, I would readily recommend). The winds are ghastly and the waves seem rougher than usual for the Mediterranean. You look straight down at the whitewater crashing against the sharp stone, and even in its violence, the first thought is, "My goodness, the water is really as blue and clear as all those magazine photographs depict." It was a delicious, honest kernel about a thing that seemed to good to be true. 

Maybe I have learned that about myself. Maybe it was a very big deal for me to come on this adventure and try to be the person I like to fancy myself. For all that wanderlust and yearning for something super-ordinary, I must admit, actually taking the steps to uproot our lives into this exotic experience was one of the scarier things I've done. Of course, there are challenges to this lifestyle, and uncertainty is always a fear factor. But deep down, the truly worrisome part was always that I would fail myself. That all this time, I've been saying I'm a certain sort of person, but when push came to shove, I might not have the follow-through.

The most difficult days have told that lie: I'm not able to stomach the hardship and this weakness speaks to some deep, hidden part of my identity. This is the violence in me. This is the tendency to berate myself with self-doubt, self-hatred. Because the honest kernel about a thing that seemed to good to be true? It's that I'm strong, and I'm up for the challenge. If I wasn't, I wouldn't be here. There will be very, very hard things about all this, because that's the nature of anything good. And really, while hard things expose your weaknesses, it's true, they're a lot more apt to showcase your strength. Those rocky cliff take wave upon wave, and maybe small pieces of them wear way; but they're trustworthy and sound enough to bear bridges and churches and human beings.

I've lost pieces of my heart at different points in life, some rubbed away, some freely given; but the remaining pieces, they've stood strong enough for a well-lived life. 

Autumn 2017

I started this year with my father's brain surgery, quickly followed up with a car accident and my grandmother's death. In the haze of processing one stressful event after another, a box arrived on my doorstep, the contents of which allowed for happy tears instead of sad ones. You see, my friends, knowing the tough time I was having, sent me a care package. They all got together and organized a quick delivery of chocolates and cozy socks and a journal. A travel journal actually, because that is how much they get me.

Who knows why, but at the time, I put the journal away. I thought, "I'll use this for actual travels again some day," not to document our trip to Iowa for my grandmother's funeral. The thing is, I never could have imagined where else the year would take us, and that the pretty, blank travel log burning a hole on my desk shelf would serve a real purpose.

On Monday we left Denver again, not permanently, but still to do a very big thing. It's hard to say so in the face of my own privilege; when even though it's been a challenging year for our family, in the grand scheme of things, we've been able to sort it out. In my heart, I've been toiling with emotions that feel valid and very real, while trying to make them fit into the broader landscape of what's going on in our country and world. 

So here's the honest truth, the baseline from which we're operating: We can't get a mortgage until Wander Unlimited turns two next spring, but we let our lease in Platt Park go anyway. We've got this thing going for us right now, a thing I've been calling "flexible stability", in which we've found a way to survive and be comfortable; but in terms of roots and the "American Dream", we're still quite fluid. That in itself is part of the difficulty of this life phase. We can't really dig in, and the longer the waiting lasts, the tougher it is to live in a perpetual transition.

Our solution was to make the most of it. To focus more on the "flexible" and see where it takes us. I took the travel journal from my desk and we booked some tickets to Spain. We're going to spend the fall touring around the Mediterranean, living and working and having an adventure. I don't know how long we'll be here or how it's all going to look; but if these last few years have taught me anything, it's that you can't ever know what might come up, whether you're in your own backyard or the south of France. When it's a matter of what to do next, the best option is just to say "yes".

(I'll be posting travel galleries and videos when I can, and you can always follow us on Instagram!)

Little Stories

I've been calling my new headphones a metaphor for my life. I do silly things like this. Sometimes I need something to hold on to, and I project all of my worries or musings or stresses onto an inanimate but tangible object. These unimportant possessions take on supreme importance, and for now, my outlook is quite wrapped up in the headphones. I'd wanted something like them for a long time, but they were a luxury I wasn't affording myself. Then, suddenly, I found myself in need of headphones! But rather than rush to buy what I'd had my heart set on, my practical side set out to arguing them away. 

If you know me in person, you're probably very acquainted with my logical side. I can be pragmatic to a fault. I take all of the things that appeal to me on a heart level, and I tuck them into an "imagined self". I realized, in the deepest way, what I call imaginary is more real, just trapped. What I'd put in her place was a version of myself that I'd created based on extraneous expectations, opinions, and a general cultural leaning toward "what is the right thing to do." A few weeks ago, it was headphones; but this thought process has also taken me through some of life's biggest decisions.

Every once in awhile, I fight off the false version, and I tap into my heart's desire. I bought the headphones. I wear them when I take walks around the neighborhood and I feel a little more alive--almost like I'm a bit more who I am supposed to be.

***

I had my wedding rings cleaned recently, and I must admit, they are awfully sparkly, especially if caught under certain lighting. A woman at the salon grabbed my hand as I paid for my haircut four Wednesdays ago. She commented, at first, admiringly; and then, like she thought the stack on my finger ostentatious. Truly, I have small hands, and what I wear on my ring finger now creeps up to my knuckle. I found myself wondering what this woman thought of me in that moment. Did she think us very rich? Or perhaps me demanding? Materialistic? Flashy?

I desperately wanted to tell her the story of each little piece upon my hand. How almost exactly nine years ago now, a young boy scraped together everything he could possibly afford to give to buy a secondhand ring for the girl he loved. How, at the trunk show, the salesperson failed to dazzle them with newer versions of shiny things, and let it go when the girl told the boy, "I don't care what it looks like. I just want to get married." She said she'd never heard a couple exchange that sentiment while ring shopping before.

Just before the wedding, the groom realized there was a mistake with the wedding band, the one he'd meticulously chosen to accompany the ring he'd worked so hard for. He moved heaven and earth to correct the mistake and get the right band to the church on time.

In two years time, the first baby was on the way, and the girl struggled with her pregnancy. As her fingers swelled beyond what those two precious rings could contain, the groom surprised her with a larger band--a replica of her wedding ring--to wear instead. "Wear them all together when you can," he said, because their family was growing and so was the love. 

There was the heartbreak--twice--when the poor setting on the engagement ring failed. She lost two diamonds that way, and then refused to wear the ring anymore for fear of compromising the it again, beyond what the insurance would cover. At that point, the boy offered time and again to upgrade to something new. But she didn't like that idea, couldn't part with the token and what it meant.

So he took it and he had something else made from its pieces. Now what's there is what always was, just reimagined and rearranged a little. Like life.

***

I have tried to have my mind on the heart of things. I have tried to avoid the temptation to make decisions based on only what I can see or what I've heard. Sometimes, the beauty on the face is something toiled over and embedded with much more important meaning. Sometimes the beautiful thing had no thought behind it--but that is freedom, because the heart led, because still at its root is something truer than the labored decisions.

Lately, I have struggled through my affinity for storytelling. In the grand scheme of things, it has felt petty or unnecessary. Not that I have to change the world, but I have often thought, "Who is it helping?" Probably, that's something I will continue to wrestle with; but in appreciating little joys and little lessons, in opening myself up to the connectedness of everything, I am finding that story is what we are built up on.

"There is a reason for everything" is so much more than a substitute for uncertainty. There is a reason for jewelry and pretty headphones, as much as there is a reason a mother stays home laying on the floor with an infant, feeling insignificant and simultaneously like the greatest goddess to grace the earth. From what we feel to what we touch and how we see the world, each interaction holds within it the importance we give it. 

On Stewardship

When I was 18, my dad bought me the cutest little silver sports car. It was a gift of many proportions, being functional--pretty much necessary, as a college student in Indiana; but also fun and a great source of pleasure. It was the perfect gift.

Now, I know nothing about cars. I have a less-than-basic understanding of how they work. I only know the care they require because I've been told. I can't say my college and graduate school years were my richest, and so I tried to gracefully take on the financial responsibilities of owning a car, even when it was hard or not convenient. I also realized that the car would change and would require care; it wouldn't always last, but with a little effort, I could stretch its life, and therefore my enjoyment of it. 

So I took pride in it. I would spring for the middle-grade gas, or put ethanol gas in it when it needed a good cleaning. I made sure to get the oil changed, right on time, every time, even though driving on to those garage things made me nervous and I never understood what the mechanics are saying to me. Once a week, I would visit one of those do-it-yourself car washes, scrub my car clean and vacuum out the insides. I kept every document tucked neatly in an envelope in my glove compartment and the console was always organized. I didn't put trash in the pocket in the door. 

This is what we call stewardship. It's an expression of gratitude, taking care of what we have been given. It's being responsible and thankful. I tried to be those things, even when it was tricky or I didn't understand. You don't have to be all-knowing, or even agree with everything, to have a thankful heart. 

Over the years, I have felt accountable for my behavior on this Earth, which I consider to also be a gift. It is functional--you know, necessary for life, as human beings. And I also derive great pleasure from my time spent here. Splendor abounds. I take pride in it, and because I believe God gave me life to live here, I want how I spend my time here to reflect thankfulness.

I considered this as I dumped vegetable scraps into my trash last night. When we had a house with a garden, I never did that because we used peels to feed the chickens, and we composted the rest. But I don't have a garden here, and composting for the city is expensive and almost impossible right now, so I just don't do it. 

The thing is, there is a lot that I don't understand about the environment and our planet. I've only scratched the surface learning of how interconnected is our health and the quality of the air and the ground and the water. I know plenty of people who don't agree with certain measures taken to protect our resources, probably know even more people who aren't willing to choose the responsible route when it is financially inconvenient. 

I've been thinking a lot about right and wrong lately. I don't think I believe in right and wrong in the way most people perceive those words. I think there is a lot our human minds will never fathom, and that when it comes to ethical codes and the wars we wage against people who don't agree with us, we're missing the big picture almost every time.

But I realized that one way to grasp a greater vision, to think around a situation instead of staring straight at it but not seeing, is to instead think in terms of stewardship. It doesn't have to be about environmental practices. Maybe it's about relationships. Maybe you're not taking pride in the people in your lives and fostering healthy, loving friendship. Maybe it's about parenthood, and instead of seeing yourself as a steward of your children, you seek ways to control or not to control them. Maybe it's your work, and the situation feels so terrible, you take no personal pride in what you do. 

Still, how would your choices change if to live was an expression of gratitude? What if in spite of what you know or what your opinion is or what those around you are doing, you exercised that heart muscle into thankfulness?

That's all I'm trying to do, all I'm trying to be: Thankful.

Real Life

Someone smashed into the back of our Jeep on South Broadway last weekend, which is how I found myself sitting at a stop light in a strange little rental car a couple of nights ago. It's so odd to not have your own car, and almost stranger that such a little thing can alter how you feel about your day; but it's also kind of like being in a game or on a movie set. When I'm in my own car, it feels normal. But that evening, I tried to imagine what I looked like zipping around in this toy-like blue car instead of my own, tried to feel myself as the controller of this foreign object.

Suddenly, I was so aware--of my hands on the wheel, of the way I made a turn, of the new paint on the house at the corner. Tiny things, so commonplace, I live them on autopilot; and now they felt almost jarringly real.

We all have a lazy way of settling into life, and parts of such laziness can be really lovely. They're lovely in the way my cushiony slipper socks are lovely, or how I keep trying to repair that tattered quilt because I cannot bear to part with it. Not that we can expect every moment of life to be grand, but in this comfort, in the routine, we can slide into a numb state. Again, it's not a bad thing--rest must be built into life; but when we complete almost every action without thought or feeling, I think we've gone from resting to sleeping.

Our family likes to be on the move. I can feel that changing more and more as we grow into life; but it's an energy and a lifestyle I'm trying to preserve as long as possible. I didn't always understand why I did this, why I was like this. I didn't always know why to go fed my soul. I just knew that it did. That even when it didn't make sense, something about it made me feel alive.

A person who thought they knew me very well once called this behavior "escapist". She said I would never be happy constantly moving, constantly seeking. She felt sorry for me, not learning to be content with where I was. Now, I could pick apart that assessment from every angle, and I'd find all the things wrong with it. If I'm being honest, there is plenty right with it too; but as I sat at that stop light, awakened by my own hands on a different steering wheel, I found myself finally making the connection. "This is why I go."

Little by little, I have come to accept the nomadic parts of me. I've let go of pieces of a picture we've been told make a life. I've learned that not everyone will understand or approve of the way I see the world. But this is how it feels to me to embrace adventure, to try a new thing, to venture somewhere at the last minute, or to see where "What if?" leads this time. It's like driving a new car, that doesn't belong to me, that I'm just borrowing. It thrills me because, miraculously, I feel real again. The playing, the change, it shocks me back into the most "me" version of myself. It's like taking off the quilt and the slipper socks, waking up from a rest that accidentally turned into a nap.

Over the years of my adult life, when things have been hard or confusing--and especially in this last year--I've questioned all my choices in hindsight. I've reprimanded myself. I've considered what I've given up, what I didn't settle for. I'll pick up all the pieces of the pictures of everyone else's lives, and I'll try to put the puzzle together for myself. Still even if I taped the whole picture together, I don't think I'd find myself in it.

Every Christmas, I host an ladies gift exchange. We play it like a White Elephant game, and participants are allowed to steal gifts from each other. Whenever it reaches my turn, even if my soul covets what the girl next to me has, I can't resist the urge to unwrap a new gift--uncover what's yet to be revealed. That's just how I live life, I suppose. I always want to peek around the corner, imagine the new thing. To not do so is to betray myself. The idea of new adventure awaits and the pull forward is stronger than the current back. We grow out of and we grow into, and anything else just feels like standing still to me.

2016

I never make New Year's resolutions. I find it tedious to write down lists I already mentally review every day. I don't like officially committing myself to something where I cannot guarantee success, don't want to set myself up for a disappointing failure. I don't think that's a great way to start out a year.

Over the years, I have developed practices of reflection and anticipation that eschew the shallow ritual of a resolutions list. I've made goals, toward grace and contentedness. I've asked questions instead. In one way or another, I try to pay attention to all a year has brought me and what a new year might hold. List or not, it's an important awareness--like a death and a birth all at once, a passing that is mourned or welcomed, sometimes both together.

This year, I was at a loss for what to do, and if and how to share it. I feel like one crawling toward a finish line to close out 2016. I am tired. I wasn't sure I had the energy or desire to further reflect over all we've lived this year. 

Don't mistake that for immaturity or ingratitude; rather, I have lived these 12 months in reflection. I have been slapped by the hard lessons; mourned losses of all sorts; and tearfully fallen into the hidden pools of grace that reverently reveal themselves where it seems they should not be. I have felt my faith stretched, felt the fear and the joy in that. I have wallowed in sorrow and battled guilt over such petty sadness. I have laughed so hard I've peed my pants. I have renewed passions, found pleasure in simple things, and laid to rest a few dreams at the high, high price of heartbreak.

Somehow, through all of this, though confused and exhausted, a little unsteady, I also emerge refined. Hopeful. Curious. 

In 2016, I was stripped of all control and all certainty, two things upon which, I admit, I have always relied on. I was forced, sometimes kicking and screaming, to simultaneously hold the excitement and the terror of surrender. In 2016, I have felt smaller than a speck and as fierce as a goddess. I've felt the shame of ignorance and the surge of divine wisdom. I have meagerly existed in the day-to-day and allowed my heart to dream so far beyond where I would have allowed it to go before. I have been stretched to these two contrasting ends of human experience, which, if you think about it, leaves your heart quite vulnerable. And none of this was by choice, it wasn't my own design.

I wrote once, "I like the life that happens to me more than the life I make happen." I grimace a bit, typing that a second time. It's funny, documenting life in reflection, recalling what once seemed like epiphanies with the new benefit of hindsight.

Still, perhaps through this year's events (and non-events), through its unfolding and its inevitable end, I have found what I never have actually had at the start of a new chapter before: A blank slate. It's not that we don't start over again and again; we can be made new daily. That doesn't make it blank, probably most often because we don't let it. But for 2017, I have no expectations. I have no idea what is coming and no power to cast vision toward something specific.

I'm a little afraid of that. Rightly so, I suppose. Experience says, though, that there will be hidden grace too, maybe new surprises or fresh appreciation for how rich in Love we all can be. With that, it came to me: I will make no plans for the year. I will let it come. Come it will, in crashing waves sometimes, and, hopefully, also in a sweetly trickling stream of life. I'll have to hold myself open to that, as best I can, one hand clutching the uncertainty, the other clutching hope, the stance itself bearing my heart first into whatever comes my way.

Motherhood has taught me how tricky it is to wish open-heartedness upon those you love. All the same, may you end this year peacefully and start the next one soft.

Advent

In a season wrought with distraction, I try to keep my heart in check and remember, daily, what Advent really is. It is the day that Love came. 

Each has their own opinion on how this should be celebrated; and I've never been shy about my outrageous affinity (obsession?) for the holiday season. Christmas Sarah is a version of me that comes but once a year; and she comes with a fury of excitement and nostalgia, bundled up in a package of brown paper and fancy bows. 

Every year, I build an Advent activity calendar for the girls. And I'll admit, it can, in many ways, add pressure to an already too-busy season. But at the heart of the practice are, I hope, right intentions. Every day, I want us to remember Love, whether in spending time together, celebrating beauty, considering others above ourselves, or building a tradition of our own. I think the best reminder of Advent is how Love comes in unexpected ways, and we must look for it everywhere--in rolled up scrolls bearing silly things to do; in a poor baby sleeping in hay amongst cows. 

(I do try to share our calendar on Instagram with a #noeladvent hashtag; but I'm not going to hold myself to daily posts. In case you're interested, here is the lineup for this year!

1. Build a gingerbread house.
2. Go on a tree hunt.
3. Deck the halls.
4. Movie night: Frosty the Snowman.
5. Glitter some pinecones.
6. Think of others: Give away toys and clothes.
7. Take to the ice downtown.
8. Important correspondence to the North Pole.
9. Movie night: Polar Express.
10. Create Christmas cards for the grandparents.
11. Spin the Christmas vinyl and cut some snowflakes.
12. Create a reindeer ornament for your tree.
13. Think of others: Provide a meal for someone in need.
14. Visit with Santa Claus!
15. Bake Christmas cookies.
16. Annual sleepover at Grandma's (Mom's gotta party!).
17. Take in a Christmas show.
18. Join with the angels' singing and record a carol.
19. Drive to see the lights.
20. Think of others: Honor your teachers.
21. Deliver candy canes to the neighbors!
22. Movie night: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
23. Read The Night Before Christmas.
24. Read The Christmas Story at family Christmas in Golden.

Old Joy

We hung hand-cut snowflakes on the upstairs window the other day. 

It was 80-degrees and not yet Thanksgiving; but they were leftover from Edith's birthday party, toiled over and far too pretty to bin. 

We taped them to the glass almost like a rain dance, but a song; like a little whisper of a prayer. Our hearts always hope for magic.

I struggled through last Christmas, trying to savor the time of year I love, but desperate to find myself in it, knowing all the change and heartache that would shortly follow. And as this year proved it would stretch to the end of itself, still turning up unexpected obstacles and change, I think I was afraid. I was scared that maybe that part of me was indefinitely lost too. That for as long as life remained uncertain, who I was would be hard to define as well.

Maybe parts of that are true. But today I walked out into the schoolyard after dropping Edith at her class, and the flakes seemed to double in size before my eyes. They whirled around the empty space, in silvery light, through hushed air, almost frozen. I stood in the snow globe with my face to the sky, trying to see where the snow begins. Where the magic happens.

I just got home and I turned on Sufjan Stevens Christmas, even though it's against the rules. I am watching the snow--one of my truest friends, my heart's delight--flutter down outside the old windows of this little house we're calling home for now. It is happy and glittery confetti, calling for celebration.

And now I know how true it is: day by day, old joys come back to me. Let the heart keep hoping for magic.

Eight

It has been eight years since I married the love of my life. When you write out a phrase like "the love of my life," eight years seems very short still. Tack "of my life" at the end of something, and one is reminded of how vast our lifespan has potential to be and therefore gives great weight to whatever thing is marking that lifespan. 

Still, he is the love of my life. 

I'm sure you have a sound enough understanding of life and love to know that when I say he's the love of my life, I still have spent a fair share of days decidedly less sappy than the sentiment suggests. In the full tapestry of a life, eight years is not a lot; but it is a big enough chunk of time for quite a lot to happen. (And a lot has happened.)

That is the point of love. It isn't about how you are feeling, so much as how you are choosing. It's like when Pinterest tells you that choose your happiness. It's the same trick in love: You choose it. Sometimes you are choosing to love, sometimes you are choosing to be loved. And then you honor that you both are making those same choices, day in and day out, even on the days when you or the other is less than lovable. 

Every year, Trevor and I give traditional anniversary gifts. Year eight is the year of bronze, and I, along with all the antique dealers on South Broadway, was hard-pressed to really define what bronze was or is used for. In most cases, bronze is art--a decorative statue, an elaborate sconce on the wall of a restored Victorian. It's not very useful, it's just there to be pretty. The irony here is, of course, this is how we depict love, if you really think about it. I tell you Trevor is the love of my life, and you assume that we have some goopy crushes on each other, decorating each others' lives with sentimentality and romantic pictures.

I searched several websites for companies that promised they could bronze any memento--like bronze baby shoes for your relationship. What a silly practice, casting items into metal, and for what? More decor? But as I scrolled through the shiny baby shoes; a police officer's hat, bronzed next to a medal of honor; sports awards from glory days; I realized that the silly practice was a memorial. It was a choice to remember, to honor, to love, to celebrate. To make tangible the heavy decision of love.

There are a lot of silly practices we humans participate in, in the name of importance or value. Yours look different from mine. Maybe giving traditional gifts is a silly thing. But whatever the means, we make little memorials. We mark the journey that we are on, we honor the steps we took to get there. We choose to go another step further, defining ourselves with the momentous milestones already behind us. 

In terms of life, this year has been such a crazy one for the Noel family. But I will build a shrine to it anyway. I will honor all of the surprises that have come our way, and I will memorialize the most important thing of all: That every step of the way, even on the days when I have been unlovable, the love of my life has been choosing me, has been choosing to do this life with me. 

If I could cast the year in bronze, I would. I love you, Trevor. I still choose you.

Anniversaries 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.

See all of our wedding photos at Lauren Stocker Photography.

On Squeaky Clean Worship

For all my striving toward whatever mysteries lie in the every day; for all my desperate hope to find a place to serve or the work that is mine; I have to say that, yesterday, I was struck with the very real, very clear certainty, while scrubbing my tub with Borax, that it was worship. 

What is the toiling motion, scrubbing until your hands are raw, if not worship? What is choosing the cleaners to use and working them down into the cracks so they do their job, if not worship? What is the choice to care for a cornerstone of the home, a luxury we call a necessity, if not worship?

It's a funny spot in adulthood, motherhood specifically, when you realize the pride you take listing your accomplishments for the day. "Oh yeah, I got the bathroom clean and did all the laundry before school was out, can you believe it?" Honestly, I know many women (and include myself in this group), who use the mundane tasks of housekeeping in the name of something else. Like when you're mad at your husband and so you scrub the kitchen counters with aggression instead of calming down to talk about it. Or when you scurry about before bedtime, straightening the books and the blankets and placing everything just so, because that is how you control life. Or when it's flu season, and you spend hours disinfecting everything because you've no other remedial solutions for the sniffling children. 

What I realized is, cleaning the house in any name other than worship is really just a distraction. It takes my attention away from healthy relationship; or surrendering to the mess of life; or being a present, attentive caregiver. 

But worship looks like waking up on Monday morning, trying to shake off the weekend, making a list of things to do because this is the moment to do them. Monday, October 9, like many other Mondays at this stage of my life, was a day for scrubbing the bathroom and folding the laundry. That was where I was called that day, and it was well with my soul. While I flitted about in rubber gloves, I thought, very seriously, the things we almost never remember to think: "Thank you for a roof over our heads--a house to clean at all!" "Thank you for a body that can bend to wipe this toilet!" "Thank you for the ability and the opportunity to keep my family happy and healthy!"

And this gratitude grew up in me the desire to do chores with excellence, not because I was playing martyr, and not because I felt I needed to control, and not because I was afraid of falling idle.  It was born from a curiosity, really. A word spoken from the stage on Sunday. A call to the divine hidden in the every day. An invitation to seek after it on a Monday when all there was to do was keep house. 

To be honest, it didn't take much searching at all. It was just a little change of heart. A decidedly different approach. A present consciousness that declared all as holy, that holy cannot be formulated or fabricated because Holy has always been.  So to find Holy, I can be. 

And clean. Cleanliness isn't next to godliness, because God is there in the act. Just like He is everywhere else, in everything else. I can find the mysteries in the corners of my bathroom as much as I can from a church pew on Sunday. Perhaps even more so in the everyday.

Oh

Beautiful daughter, I wonder if you've ever looked through your own tears, and caught a sparkle. The light refracted on the wet of your eyelashes, bent and glimmering as though they were diamonds. Your tears are a treasure, falling into the hands of the One who made them.

In the last several years, I have elbowed my way through discontentment. I've tried to find the words to say that, though I'm grateful for the blessings, I thought there would be more. And then my sadness became my shame, because by comparison, I haven't suffered at all. Seemingly endless scrolls could be written of His grace unto me, and so I tried to hold in the tears I felt I didn't deserve. They sparkled more.

I led praise and worship at a women's event a few weekends ago. Mercy had asked me to learn this song, which I agreed to play as part of worship, but I still can't get through without crying. "You know me, oh, oh, oh." Is "Oh" what we say when we don't know what to say? Is "Oh" the word to fill in the gut-feeling for whatever we want that's the "more" in our lives? "Oh" is, I hope, deep calling unto deep. 

Maybe there's a part of me I don't understand yet, and it's that part of me that cries out. The parts of me I can name are ashamed that I don't always feel the peace. But then again, the peace is supposed to surpass all understanding, so maybe it's normal I can't feel it now. And every time the diamonds fall from my eyes, it's scraping some of the disruption out from my soul, smoothing out its edges, transforming it into a treasure that I might one day be able to hand over proudly. "Here is me," and I cast it at His feet.

So much inward focus in our culture now; the importance of self-actualization. Vulnerability, meant to be freeing, turned into a checklist of self-understanding, with no thought or concern for the others passing through our lives. I get it. It's scary to not know yourself all the way; and yet: "You know when I rise and when I fall/When I come or go/You see it all/You hung the stars and you move the seas/And still you know me." I sat in the car on the morning of the worship event, meditating on the words and receiving the balm they were to my heart in that moment. And then a man in torn clothes with ragged hair and a dirty overcoat walked by my window. "You know me," the music played. You know him, I thought. 

In me are unnamed depths. My soul is cavernous, and I will spend a lifetime exploring it. No wonder I am ever in search of more. But He knows all its topography, its surprising and dangerous crevices. This man, I thought, watching him limp down the sidewalk, He knows like that too. And perhaps our sufferings look different on the outside, but for the All-Knowing, it is the same treasure. And our pain and our searching and our pleading can all blend together into the treasure store, a shining, brilliant collection of rare jewels, each one a part of us, like we are each a part of Him.

And we can all say "Oh." My deep calls out, and your deep calls out, and He can sit in our soul caves, where the acoustics are best, and know exactly what the "Oh" means, even when we do not.

Slowly

Each morning, the sun glows into the back bedroom window, a little fainter, a little softer than it did the morning before. It takes me three whole minutes for my eyes to open all the way, and I have to use those moments to assess. I never know how I'm going to wake up. Sometimes I can pinpoint a mood on a dream I just awoke from. Sometimes the feelings are beyond explanation. I've decided it's good to sit in the feeling, whatever it is, so that I can take it on with thoughtfulness and intention. And I've also decided, those three minutes are ones that I won't rush through anymore. It's important to know the status of things, and the rest of the day stretches far beyond 180 seconds of glowing quiet to start. 

It has been nine months since we left New York. Some days the separation is as a paper cut--a small thing, but ever-so painful. Other times, it is one of the greatest exoduses of our lives to-date, and yet a necessary step where big pictures are concerned, and therefore easily manageable. The sensations surrounding such a major life change, one that was decided so suddenly but then took so long to play out, are all blurred together in my heart; yet the journey feels less like that--a journey--and more like a series of events. I got hung-up trying to organize my reactions and emotions accordingly, lining them up in clearly defined spaces just as I unpacked books and the girls' toys. One life here, one life there...now a life here again, but it's not the same one that we had before.

With the start of school, we have infused our life with a sort of routine. It is honestly mostly odd after having lived as free spirits for so much of this year; but it also has reset us a bit. Sure I have to remember that we can't spur-of-the-moment decide to spend an extra day in the mountains; but old joy has also returned in learning the names of my children's new friends and in seeing the same relatively friendly faces walking across the schoolyard each drop-off and pick-up. I stroll home every day after lunch, having just dropped Edith off for her afternoon class, and I pass the threshold into silence that is equally delicious and haunting. I have spent five years sorting out life, just like those books and toys, creating schedules and inventing activities and arranging social gatherings on behalf of my children, and with the shrill ring of a school bell, there is now a hole of time where I don't do that. It is a new phase of life, with its own time constraints, but also time freedoms, and that's something I have to grow into. It will take me more than three minutes to hold my eyes open.

As back-to-school approached, I tried to prepare myself, mentally and emotionally, for what those gaps of time would mean. I felt the inevitable sadness of relinquishing those early stages into new excitement, and a little nervousness too, knowing well enough now that the time had come to again redefine myself. This identity declaration is less cut-and-dry. Before, I was a certain sort of person; and then I was mother, who maybe did other things; with this phase I shall be mother and...and what? Having been blessed with the opportunity to work some while at home with children, I naturally assumed that it would continue to be mother and writer, just on a grander scale. I would pitch the article that's been swirling in my brain for months; I would no longer chip away at edits, but plow through them in bulldozer proportions; and I would dream-up new ideas to reclaim that other piece of me. 

I'm sure you see where this is going: it hasn't gone like that. I've wept over little ones spending more time with others now than me, even though it feels silly to cry over something that every child does. I've wasted away full afternoons, and I have no idea doing what, just that I had a few hours, and then the hours were over. I haven't finished my stack of books; I only just pitched the article; I have 350 printed pages left basically untouched on my desk. And woven into this list of things that I haven't done, haven't done, haven't done, is the thread of "Why the heck not?" It's a pressure cooker: the more time you have, the more guilty you'll feel for not using it wisely. We've been cooking ourselves, and we've been cooking the greater culture, insisting that it must be done now because, if not now, then when? Mothers are especially baited and hooked with, "It goes by so fast," and other such nonsense that is of course true, but not in the least bit helpful. Time will slip like water, so whether you're clutching or spreading your fingers wide, it passes through your hands at the same rate. 

These rather bohemian nine months aside, I am forced to admit my "A" leaning personality type, the biggest parts of me always certain that I can gain control of most any situation. Of course, time is one of those allusive things--a thing which I cannot bend or manipulate, stop or rewind, pause or slow down, or even speed up. Everyone knows this, and so the exhortation to the control freaks has instead been to "Seize the day!" You can't stop time, but you sure can be present and make the most of every opportunity. (Can't you see these notions scrawled into loopy penmanship on some driftwood plank hanging over your entryway door?) 

School has been in session for four weeks now, and perhaps I don't have much to show for it. Perhaps life still doesn't look as I imagined it should by now. Perhaps I'm still exhausted and need time to rest. I need at least three minutes to open my eyes in the morning, for heaven's sake. And maybe I'm supposed to carpe diem; and maybe I'm supposed to live every day like it's my last; and maybe there's a whole contingent who worships those who peaked and vanished before the age of 27; but what I am focusing on today is this: There is time. There is so much glorious time stretching on from here. Life will change again and again and again, but each change is not the end of life as we know it. 

Maybe it is just a sign of maturity, gaining years, and hopefully wisdom. Maybe youth propels us at reckless speeds far longer than we realize. Maybe it is the changes we've encountered these last few years, from one life to the next and then on to another. Whatever the cause, or even without, I find myself stepping slowly, cautiously. At first I called it timidity, though I'm not sure it's that. Certainly I can name my anxieties; and really, that's one of the few things I've come to count on as certain. But I'm not afraid. I wouldn't say I'm hesitant or reluctant. I'm just slower. I'm screaming from inside the pressure cooker that says all must be done, with excellence, and immediately. I've reconciled it in this way: If I've been put on this earth to do it, then it will be done. And rather than force it, I will instead meander through what I have at such a time as this, ready and waiting to uncover the seconds that might someday lend themselves to the next great things. I've stepped into the long play, and I'm practicing patience as best I can.

When runners run; when cyclists cycle; when speed-skaters skate (these are getting funny), they will pull themselves inward, take up as little space as possible, making themselves like an arrow to achieve their speeds. But if I am slower, then I can be open. I can unclench my fists, to feel the running water that will escape my hands anyway. And after the fists, comes the arms and the heart. Unfurled arms and open hearts lend themselves to widened eyes and heads held higher. Open is soft and maybe less productive, but so aware and feeling. The glorious part about it it all is how slowing down builds upon itself. When I open up, I'll be aware of love--and I'll be aware of pain, to be transparent--and these observations will slow me down even more. It's time to think. It's time to assess the state of things. It's time to act with an attitude of thoughtfulness and intention.

It takes three whole minutes for my eyes to open all the way.

Things That Move Me to Tears But I Can't Say Why

1. Our curtains blowing into the living room, shadowy from the light outside.

2. A baby crying.

3. A child laughing.

4. The curve of his shoulder and the hair at his temples.

5. Lush green ivy.

6. Wordless music.

7. A stream rushing over rocks.

8. Hearing the games they play on their own.

9. Remembering Norway.

10. Remembering being young.

11. The smell of an old bookstore.

12. A stranger's smile.

13. Morning sunshine and that first sip of coffee.

14. A real hug.

Good

I can't remember the last time I made something in the blink of an eye, then stepped back, really looked at it, and loved it. I can't remember ever having created and said instantly, "It is good." I can't remember having created, edited through several drafts, and then called it good.

But that is what the Creator did.

Took a breath.

Blew it out.

Took one look at you and said, "It is good."

What a magnificent creation you are.

Metaphors

Last week, a big truck arrived from New York. Save for what fit in our Jeep, when we left Brooklyn, all of our worldly possessions stayed behind in some icy cold storage unit in Queens. (I imagine, considering New York, there were worse environmental considerations than just the cold, but let's just not.)

I hadn't expected to be upset about it--having our stuff shipped out to us--but I was. Up until last week, there were still some pieces of me in New York, and now there are none. (Except for maybe this hat.)

"My life is drenched in metaphor," I texted a friend. 

Ironically, she texted me back about not wanting to "adult" either, not knowing what do do with herself, which I realized was the root of my problem as well.

Adulthood is not as one might imagine. I spent much of my adolescence waiting to be an adult. No, waiting implies that I was idle. I was working to be an adult. That was the essence of my younger self--striving toward something, expecting some finality with the result.

That is what is opposite about actual adulthood. You don't so much work toward something as you learn to be in whatever is. This is not existence without goals: I have a more clearly defined picture of who I'd like to be and what I'd like to do than I ever have (and that part about being grown-up is nice). It is figuring out how to stretch for those things with your mind, your heart, your physicality all in the present, in whatever that present looks like.

Faced with the complications of maturity (which, by the way, I am now convinced I'm not at all mature), I've been nostalgic for my childhood. It's not so much about revisiting people, places, or things left in the past as it is capturing that feeling of [premeditated] [and also carefree] "adventure around every corner" I'm so certain was the gemstone of youth. Then I remembered that I spent childhood working toward being an adult. Childhood was striving.

Probably adulthood is the real adventure because you're finally set free from that. I don't know what's next because I'm just not as in control of the future any more. I'm not devising a life for only myself, and my days don't consist of writing papers and taking pictures for social clubs, gallivanting the globe, and reading books. When I do those things now, that's part of my joy, not a job. It's building life in a different way, a way that is far less calculated and focused on formulas, and instead enriched in experience and the excitement of not knowing. 

It doesn't always feel exciting though, and last week, it felt sad. (Sometimes I still fight with the dark, a remnant of younger days.)

The same friend had given me a vile of essential oils marked "Cheer" when I was visiting in New York. Last week, the bottle slipped from my hand and splintered apart on the bathroom tile.

"I shattered my cheer," I told her. "It's leaked out and gone."

My life is drenched in metaphor.

"Your cheer is being released," my mom said, because mostly, it's about perspective.

And once again I was struck by how much growing up has nothing to do with accomplishing anything and absolutely everything to do with letting go. 

Nester

I have always been a bit of a nester. As a child, I was constantly redesigning, rearranging, and reorganizing my bedroom. When it came time for college apartments, I was most concerned with purchasing kitchen utensils. Little has thrilled me more than to shoot that little scanner gun at all my dreams incarnate in Crate & Barrel before Trevor and I got married.

And as a stay-at-home mom, especially now that we're out of baby stages, it's safe to say that 50 percent of my job could be classified as nesting. It's homemaking, is what it is, which is maybe a term I once cringed at a bit? I didn't want that to define me. But now, I place ownership on it. It is my job, my life, to make a home for my family.

I used to write a lot about natural living in our old home. We had a garden and a clothes line in the backyard, I would bake bread every week, and make my own cleaners. For so many reasons, it was hard for me to hang on to this when we were living in New York. It wasn't that I stopped striving for a natural household, I just went about it like a city girl living in an apartment instead of a young mother moonlighting as an urban homesteader. But since returning to Colorado, I've felt all of that well up inside of me again, and last week, my mom and I rolled up our sleeves and got to work. 

These days I've shied away from traditional blogging and life sharing, but I posted the above photos on Instagram and I had a few requests to share recipes. It was fun to have that connection with people. I'm not an expert or a scientist or even an oils dealer. I have been incorporating most of these recipes or methods into our family's lifestyle for years, so I'm happy to share what works for us. 

Laundry Detergent: By far the easiest recipe on the list. 1 cup Borax, 1 cup washing soda, 1 bar grated Ivory soap. I normally triple this recipe and it fits fine in a gallon glass air tight jar. Also, if you can't find washing soda, you can chemically convert baking soda by spreading it on a cookie sheet and popping it in the oven at 425 for about 30 minutes. You only need one tablespoon of detergent per load, so this lasts forever.

Surface Cleaner: This recipe can be as easy as equal parts white distilled vinegar and distilled water. I also add an immunity boosting essential oil (like Thieves or OnGuard) and a citrus essential oil (like lemon or grapefruit). I keep mine in a 16-ounce amber glass sprayer bottle and use about 30 drops of each oil. I honestly use this cleaner everywhere, from my kitchen to bathroom surfaces, with the addition of a little Borax and baking soda to scrub my tub and the toilet bowl.

Face/Body Cleanser: I have recently been using a new recipe that I love. It is basically this, slightly modified and quadrupled to fit my 16-ounce amber glass pump bottle. I don't put essential oil in this because I use my face wash to remove my makeup and don't want it near my eyes; and I definitely use the Vitamin E oil, about 12-15 drops. After I wash my face, I follow up with rose petal witch hazel as a toner. And as a moisturizer, I order 100% Argan oil in an amber glass dropper jar and add several drops of frankincense, which is so great for your skin.

Body Lotion: I love to make my body lotion because it's so easy and so cool! I use about half of a large jar of unrefined Dr. Bronner's coconut oil (it has to be unrefined to work) and melt it to completely liquid. Use an electric mixer to fold in 45 drops of desired essential oil (I do about half frankincense, half sandalwood). Place bowl in the fridge for 20-30 minutes. Once oil begins to thicken (but not yet solidified) pull it out and whip it with the mixer for about 2-3 minutes. Put it back in the fridge for another 15-20 minutes, waiting for it to begin to solidify. Then whip it again and it will become a beautiful, white, fluffy consistency. I store mine in an amber glass jar with an air tight lid. 

Sprays: I have recently begun experimenting with distilled water and witch hazel sprays. The witch hazel emulsifies whatever essential oils you use. I refer to Mama Watters' recipes on her Homesong blog, and am currently loving the calming spray (we use it as part of our bedtime routine) and the ouchie spray (because it skeezes me out to think about the chemicals in first aid salves). 

Waves: I also use a sea salt spray on my hair, which is completely stick straight. I only wash about once a week and use a natural dry shampoo about every other night. On my wash day, I'll spray down my hair with the sea salt spray and, after it is mostly dry, throw it up in a loose French braid to sleep on. This combo gives me some good volume, that only gets better as the week goes on and my hair gets dirtier. (Gross, right?!) I will scrunch in some more sea salt spray every three days or so for a boost. I use a 2-ounce amber glass spray bottle and fill the bottom third with equal parts Epsom salt and sea salt. Then I add a few drops of Vitamin E oil and pure aloe vera. I drop in just a touch of lemon oil and then fill the bottle up with hot water. 

Dry Shampoo: I have tried lots of options for dry shampoo, and if I'm being honest, I haven't found the perfect solution yet. I made a shampoo of oatmeal flour and baking soda which was effective, but I felt the baking soda dried my hair. Baby powder works too, but there are a lot of concerns with even pure talcum powder. I have a friend who swears by cocoa powder and arrowroot, but her hair is much darker than mine. My mom spoiled me on my birthday and sprung for the Lulu Organics recipe, so I'm using (and loving) that for the time being. Much of this is going to depend on your hair type and color, so it's really about trial and error.

Rollers: We do use a few rollers regularly on the bottoms of our feet. Rolling essential oils takes practically religious commitment to be effective, but I see really positive results from our use. My go-to roller is for seasonal allergies, a blend of fractionated coconut oil with added lemon, peppermint, and lavender. (The amounts you use will depend on the size of your roller, so please make sure that you are mixing safe proportions!) We also use another made from fractionated coconut oil and an immunity-booster (like Thieves or OnGuard, depending on what brand of oils you're using). I have a roller that comes in handy around that time of the month when rolled right over the ovaries made from fractionated coconut oil and then a mass of essential oils: ylang ylang, tangerine, orange, patchouli, chamomile, lavender, bergamot, cedarwood, and fennel.

It's a Jungle In Here

I sat down to write something today. Because it's a foggy day in the mountains. Because I had just made myself coffee. Because it felt like, certainly by now, I should have words to assign to all of my recent feelings. Or that, at the very least, after such a hiatus I could set my mind to wander and it would find something to say with such meandering. 

My knee-jerk reaction was to call this wordless lapse "blank." And maybe the frustration was that, with such vastness, I should be able to put something down. Was I intimidated by the blankness? Uninspired by it? Overwhelmed that a nothing could actually stretch so far?

Then it occurred to me, my mind isn't blank at all. It's a swirling mess of tortured considerations and what ifs and actual, real ideas that take time to craft, not to mention the stuff of life that we've walked through in the last few months. So rather than crossing some barren mental state, I'm actually trying to work my way through a jungle of imagination. I'm not blind by the brilliancy that comes with desert territory. It's quite the opposite in this thick mass, and I'm cutting down the shrubs and vines and aged trees that have rooted themselves into my brain. It's dark here, little light gets in. But the more I cut down, the more I press on, I know I'll stumble upon places where the light pools in. It will be a breakthrough in the canopy overhead, and then clarity spilling from it. 

Dark though it may be, and difficult to see, the beauty of a jungle is how alive it is. It is alive and life-giving in its humid and lush secrecy. It is rich here, and deep, unexplored, therefore exhilarating. All the best adventures always incorporate a little fear, definitely uncertainty, otherwise where is the rush? Where is the sense of conquering, the irreplaceable surge of new experience? 

I have come to terms with my nomadic spirit, which is to say, though I will continue to work toward appreciation and contentedness, it's time to admit that I'm never very settled. I think stagnancy is what I need, but I'm never satisfied with it. What's next? What's new? What's out there? These have always been my driving questions, even when it's hard and exhausting. Even now, wanting something certain, waiting for answers to questions we asked months ago, there's a tinge of excitement for the things I can't yet see. 

Maybe this is why I have the tendency to turn inward at the times when others admonish, "Reach out." Because my body is still, but my mind is not. My mind is chopping a path through hearty leaves of daydreaming and tangled vines of wondering. My mind is on an expedition, the internal nature being solitary. But when I stumble on those patches of light and that leg of the journey is suddenly made clear, then I promise to let you know.

Outgrowing

I have decided recently that this business of growing up, whether you're in your twenties or in your sixties, has much less to do with what we are growing into than it does with what we are outgrowing.

Who knows what we are growing into? My ideas are evolving. My heart is newly softened. My soul finds connections in new and unexpected places. All in all, I think it's safe to say that, if we are open to it, we never stop learning, never stop growing--or at least should aspire to never stop. There is nothing I'm growing into because all definitions expand as I am growing.

There is plenty to outgrow, however. This is the nature of growing pains. We hold fast to an idea that is suddenly rendered impossible in the face of new information. Our heart endeavors its loyalty to the new and lasting loves, releasing the older ones that turned out to be temporary. What once moved us to tears, maybe feels shallow now upon revisiting.

To be clear, it doesn't make those things less real. Who can discount the power of youthful passions? The formativeness of first friendships? The stirring of nostalgia each time you hear a favorite song or smell baking bread or return to a special place?

Still, these are also the things we leave behind in the name of something else. I don't believe I was made to remain. I was created to expand, to seek, to discover. So by nature, we will outgrow. As surely as my girls will need new pants by the fall, I will need to shed the skin that no longer fits to make way for what is new.

Seven

This weekend marked seven years of marriage to the love of my life. And of course there is always some sort of indication as to why a particular anniversary feels like a milestone, seven being no exception when you consider it's a number of completion. Not to say our marriage is perfect, but that we've made it to an "us-ness" maybe, for lack of the right word. We have found our rhythm. We are more us than we are any longer just a boy and a girl who got married. 

In keeping with tradition, I researched the historical and modern gifts for a seventh wedding anniversary. I almost laughed out loud when I saw the results: copper, wool, and for the modern-couple, desk sets. I thought, "These are a few of my favorite things..." (And in all fairness, I had a rather difficult time determining how I could possibly choose what to gift Trevor too.) 

A list of my favorites for a year that, though circumstantially difficult, has been one of my favorites with him. Seven years is not a lot, really. I guess we technically have ten under our belts. But it doesn't feel too silly to come out on this side of seven and declare it a favorite. Cliche maybe, but it also doesn't seem silly to reiterate that he is my favorite. 

This year of marriage has felt particularly steadfast, always coming back to that truth: That the stuff of life is just goings-on. There are decisions to be made and some of them we'll choose rightly, others, not so much. There are people to walk across our path, perhaps in or out of our lives for good. There are hardships and joys, rushes of emotions on opposite ends of the spectrum. All of this, I do with him. We do as "us." And none of it matters beyond that: That it's us. That in the mess of it all, I can turn to my side, and there he is--my favorite person in all the world, and the one that I need the most. I couldn't possibly choose to do this with anyone else.

An anniversary just marks the passage of time, but I like ceremony and celebration. I think the passage of time deserves to be honored. Of course, this year, we embarked on an incredible trip to the other side of the world to note our day; but our actual anniversary was a rather normal and jet-lagged day. Trevor made dinner and we tried to keep our eyes open long enough to eat it. We watched Modern Family on the couch in sweatpants and clinked glasses of red wine that would surely push us over the edge to sleep. And when I laid my head on his shoulder, all I could think was, "This is my favorite."

Anniversaries 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.

See all of our wedding photos at Lauren Stocker Photography.

Six

Tomorrow will be our sixth wedding anniversary, and Trevor is whisking me and the girls away to Connecticut for a weekend of leaves and pumpkins [and pumpkin-spiced things] and a cute little inn that I am deliriously excited about. And he knew I would be, which is why he picked it, because he was good at knowing those things even before we became an old married couple of six years.

This year is the year of iron. Our marriage is now the manifestation of Proverbs 21:17, I suppose. "As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another."

The Proverb is completely accurate, and it is accurate for a lot of reasons. We have lived together, and we have become better for it. We have challenged each other, and we have become better for it. We have hurt or mourned together, and we have become better for it. We have learned together, and we are better. We have struggled together (thankfully more than we have struggled against), and we are far better for it. Most importantly, we have continued to love one another, and we are our best selves because of that. (And what's more, we still love even when we are not that.)

It goes without saying that iron is strong. It is the stuff of skyscrapers and mammoth bridges. Our modern life is dependent on its sturdiness and endurance. And not that marriage ever stops being work, but something about becoming iron speaks to powerful and reliable longevity. Here is something that will stand the test of time.

For all its uses and good qualities, the thing about iron is that it's a refined substance. It can be changed and moldedand be strong. It can be mixed with other substances for a new and reinforced material. It offers up its best and still lends itself to other ways that it might be used or needed. And in six years, while I know that I can count on a bettering partner and a strong relationship, I am learning to notice how we change too. Six years is exciting! Because maybe we are on our way to being that "old married couple," but baby, how we've changed in six years. I've changed, he's changed, we've changed. "Us" is still made of that good strong stuff, but we have been willing and excited to grow and adventure and to become what we needed for each other and for this family.

So in some ways, six years is a our strong and sturdy anniversary, and it's our soft and tender one. Did you know that Hallmark says six years is also the candy anniversary? (Bless you, Hallmark!) The tough, powerful anniversary is counterbalanced by something sweet and simple and delicious. 

I think that sums it up, my love--where you are strong, I am soft; where I am tough, you are tender. Here we are tall and proud and sturdy, and in some of the sweetest moments we've had yet.

Happy six years to the most wonderful man in the world.

Anniversaries 2, 3, 4, 5.

See all of our wedding photos at Lauren Stocker Photography.