Rick and I celebrated our 20-year wedding anniversary yesterday. We’re grateful and humbled because we know that in our disposable culture, it seems like anything past 10 is a milestone. We got married just out of college so in another year or two we will have been married longer than we haven’t. That just seems crazy to me.

The funny thing is that we celebrated this 20-year milestone in bed. And not the kind of “in bed” you’re thinking of right now. (I wish.) No, this was the kind of “in bed” where you have a pile of used Kleenex and cough drop wrappers on the nightstand where a candle should be. No raging passion in this bedroom. Just two raging head colds.

You know the kind of head cold where it feels like someone is driving a spike into your temple? Yeah. That kind.

So, we took turns making each other hot tea or tending to different things with the kids when needed.  Usually each year on May 16th he gets me a bouquet of roses: one for every year we’ve been married. I asked him not to this time because I knew I wouldn’t be able to smell them. Pathetic, I know.

But, It occurred to us as we sipped tea that, though admittedly a little disappointing,  this whole spend-our-20th-anniversary-sick thing is sort of apropos, in a way. I mean, it’s not like we have life-threatening diseases and there’s some romantic fevered brow to wipe. It’s just a head cold. It’s annoying but we’ll get over it and life will plug along as usual.

And isn’t that a lot of what 20 years is about? It’s not as much about grand romantic gestures as it is about lots of little choices along the way.

It’s 7,300 days of doing life together. Of saying “I do” when every selfish fiber in your body wants to say “I won’t” because darn-it “I don’t want to.” Of making cake once in a while because he likes it even though I don’t. Of getting up in the middle of the night with the puking child so that the other can sleep. Of watching chic flicks some nights and kill-em-dead movies other nights. Of taking risks to make a move or take a new job because you trust his instincts even though it scares the crap out of you. Of getting offline or setting aside your to-do list to sit quiet together in the moonlight. Of choosing to listen instead of yapping away about my own day. Of cooking dinner and mulching the landscape beds. Of freeing each other up to try new hobbies or go out with friends. Of bumping up against each other in our full-size bed because a queen would be too big in our bedroom. Of holding hands as we walk to get the kids from school. Of forgiving and embracing. Of picking up snot rags and making another pot of tea.

It’s 175,200 hours of just living life. It’s 10,512,000 minutes of choice upon choice. Some of them happy. Some of hard-fought. Some of them just plain sad. Some of them over-the-moon romantic. Some of them hurtful. Some of them passionate. Some just boring and regular. But all of them with the underlying commitment that neither of us is going anywhere. Period.

By God’s grace, we’ll have 7,300 more days of doing the same but with the nuances of new seasons of life. I can’t wait.

Unless, of course, Jesus comes back for us before another 20 years pass.

That would be just fine too. {wink}

“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”  ― Aldous Huxley, Music At Night: And Other Essays

Do you ever feel that way? That sometimes music understands the sigh in your soul? Or takes the catch in your throat and communicates words you can’t express?

I love that about good music. Whether it’s telling story about love lost or it’s deep worship from the mouths of quiet monks, good music has power to touch us in the deep places. To take our breath away. To calm the headlong rush that is life in modern-day America.

Do you know what I mean? Have you felt the power of it yourself?

There is one musician who has long captured this for me. The first time I heard him was just instrumental – just him playing a beautiful grand piano out in Colorado in 1993. He immediately became my favorite artist and I think I have bought every one of Fernando Ortega’s CDs ever since.

Sometimes he sings in Spanish about his abuelita. Sometimes he sings in Greek about his Lord. Sometimes he just sings in English about his precious wife, Margee. Here’s my favorite song ever. Maybe ever in all the world. Simple. Beautiful. Soul-changing.

The cool thing is, for my local friends, he’s coming to Hudson, Ohio, this Thursday. I don’t use my blog for advertising much and I know May is a super busy time of the year for parents of school-aged kids. But, if there is any way you can get your fine self over to Christ Community Chapel’s  Hudson campus this Thursday, I promise that you won’t regret it.

You’ll come away with a heart refreshed. I’m not kidding.

Here’s the link for more info:

http://hudson.ccchapel.com/Events/Upcoming-Events/General/Fernando-Ortega-Concert/

Please let me know if you’re planning to come and I’ll look for you!

Please join me as I share a bit more over at The Homemaker’s Challenge. And, I’d love it if you added your own tips about making your home a peaceful place. How do you cultivate refuge in your home?

I didn’t really know how to answer him. I was 24.

That, AND, I’d been a people-pleaser for so long, that I think I mostly got passionate about whatever I thought people wanted me to get passionate about. Not that I couldn’t think for myself… but I just tended to say the things that would make the people around me most impressed with me. (Yes, I was an oldest child and a straight-A student and I rarely got into trouble. Shocker. Being a people pleaser has its downsides. Gross ones. But, that’s for another post.)

Now I’m 40(ish) and I think I’m finally figuring out some of the things that make me pound the table. Ironically some clarity has come as I’ve delved into blogging. In recent months I’ve been considering my goals for this space. What do I want to write about? You probably know that there are fitness blogs and fashion blogs and housekeeping blogs and cooking blogs and getting-organized blogs and money-saving blogs and natural-living blogs and political blogs. I like those blogs. I need those blogs! But, I’m just realizing that those are not the topics I mostly want to write about. I think that’s probably a good clue that those topics aren’t the things that make me pound the table.

What do I want write about? Intentional living. Soul-stirring moments. The hope of the kingdom. Beauty and gratitude in the everyday of life. Snapshots of redemption. Thoughtful ponderings. The danger of staying safe. Reflections on books. Creating refuge in my home. The Bible and the revealing of its Hero. Issues of worldview. Glimpses of grace this side of heaven. Growing kids that are more than well-behaved. The emptiness of just living for the picket fence. Loving people who aren’t just like me. The why behind the what. Justice and mercy where there seems to be none.

I don’t know if anyone wants to read about that stuff.

I hope so. Because if not, we might have a lot of clean floors and a well-ordered filing systems while our thinking is muddy and our deepest affections are scattered all over the place.

And, anyway, at least I’m getting a better sense for what makes the pound the table.

That’s probably what you’ll find as I write in this spruced-up space. It’s so pretty now, isn’t it? I hope my ponderings can do it justice.

Maybe we should have a party or something? Hmmm… a virtual party. I need to think on that idea. (And hope that it doesn’t just get lost in a sea of puttering like some of my other ideas.)

Can I just take this moment to say “thanks” to all of you? Sometimes I can’t believe that I tap on the keyboard, stringing words together that you want to read. Really? That’s just crazy. Crazy-good. But crazy. Thanks for joining me here. You encourage my socks off.

I had risen early to get started on some things in the kitchen for our meal later that day. In the process, I got off in my own little world and kind of abandoned my husband. He’s sort of busy and pre-occupied on a normal Sunday but even more-so on big Christian celebrations like Easter or Christmas. You know, since he’s the Pastor and all. He has a few minor things on his mind and all that. It’s a good time for his wife to help out and field most of the kids’ routine needs so that he can prepare his heart and mind. Maybe even make him breakfast. At the very least, it’s a good time for her to let him in the kitchen so he can make his own breakfast. Ahem. Did I mention that she was a little off in her head? Yes, well. Let’s just say his wife pretty much dropped the ball on that whole thing.

He was hurt and then mad. She was defensive and then snippy. So, yeah, the reconciliation went well too.

Then there was the kid stuff. It might surprise you to know that the Pastor’s kids aren’t perfect angels on Easter morning. They did wake up with greetings of “He is Risen” on their lips. That was pretty cool, actually. But, it wasn’t long before their words turned sour and they started bickering with each other. About something dumb. (Isn’t it always something dumb?) It might also surprise you to know that the Pastor’s wife doesn’t always respond to the Pastor’s children with calm, Spirit-led wisdom when they start bickering. Especially if she’s in a dark cloud because she’s already been selfish and snippy with the Pastor. Ahem.

Then there was the moment when the boy (who, BTW, woke up with a cough/cold thing – ugh!) thought he might try to squeeze in some video game time. On Easter morning. On the only TV in the house. Which happens to sit in the family room. Which is the only family gathering space in the house since we don’t have a rec room or den or other such room. It might surprise you to know that the aforementioned wife/mom didn’t really have video game noise in mind when she thought about Easter morning and celebrating the most important event in all of history. (Bickering and snippy wife comments don’t really fit into her ideal scenario either, if you must know.) She was a little ticked that the boy would even ask such a thing.

It might also surprise you to know that when the Pastor’s wife is already sort of blowing it she doesn’t handle even simple things very well. So, when the Pastor’s mom’s visiting dog comes out and slops her water bowl all over the floor… well, do I really need to go on?

______________

Can I just tell you now pathetic I felt heading to church this past Sunday? Oh, Rick and I had reconciled and God’s grace had softened this silly heart of mine. But, I still had this lingering feeling that maybe we were all just a bunch of hypocrites after-all. I mean we were celebrating Jesus’ victory over sin and death. Shouldn’t we be finished with words and actions and heart motives that reek of death?

But, as I found myself surrounded by my precious spiritual family and singing praise that morning, I was reminded that such mornings are exactly what Easter is all about. Jesus had to come precisely because I am snippy and selfish. I yell at my kids and get bothered by silly things like water puddles in the kitchen. He came because my heart isn’t always pure. My love isn’t always patient and kind and sacrificial.

I don’t need a new set of morals to follow or rules to modify my behavior. I need a whole new heart – one purified by His grace. And the truth is, my new heart fights with the old, gross one sometimes. And I don’t always respond to His gentle promptings. Sometimes, darn it, I even want to be snippy. Oh… how I need Him to make beautiful things out of this dust!

Yes, He is changing me, clothing me in His righteousness, and helping me to love even when things feel like they’re falling apart. But, sometimes I stumble through it or try to take over.

So… it wasn’t my ideal Easter morning. But, perhaps it was actually a perfect Easter morning. Because I came humble and broken… mindful that I really do need the miracle of an empty tomb.

His definition of a picnic was pretty simple: throw a blanket in the trunk and stop at Subway for bottled iced tea and yummy sandwiches. Even the blanket was entirely optional because most parks had benches. For Rick, the essential ingredients were me, him, some food, and nature.

For me, who had just gotten a Longaberger picnic basket and all the trimmings as a wedding shower gift, a picnic meant a red & white checkered blanket with homemade chicken salad (which meant some sort of cooler to keep it from spoiling), fancy crackers (which meant a trip to the grocery because I don’t have them on-hand in the pantry), wine (which meant glasses and a corkscrew), fruit (which meant strawberries, not regular old grapes), a rich dessert (which meant some baking), etc.

I think you get the picture… Suddenly our simple picnic turned into a major production. In time we learned to find a happy medium to our picnic issues.

But my initial approach often serves as a great reminder to me about our tendancy to complicate EVERYTHING. To the point of distraction. By the time I got our picnic packed, I was tired and he was bored. So much for me and him out in nature, right?!?

Maybe you even experienced some of that this weekend as your family celebrated Easter. I know I did. At some point during the week leading up to Easter, I felt the pressure to get on Pinterest and see what sort of tablescape I should create for my Easter dinner table. I was considering all kinds of ideas. The more I looked, the more pressure I felt. I could feel my heart wrestling and my mind drifting from the real purpose of our celebration. (Eventually I toned it down and went with a simpler theme. But, wow!)

I think we do this in all sorts of areas of life – some more important than others. We Christians certainly do it all the time. We make following Christ about all kinds of things. We complicate the simple truths of the Bible, importing our own agendas and standards and opinions. To the point of distraction. It’s no wonder people think we’re all about stuffy religious services and behavior modification.

But, Jesus’ main message was actually pretty simple. It transcends culture and personality and age. I think that sometimes we just need reminded to get back to the simple, uncomplicated calling of Jesus. My Rick worked with the uber-talented video crew from our church to give just such a reminder. I love it because it removes all the layers of religion and gives us a peek at the heart of Christ. Take a look and tell me what you think…

Or, if you want to hear more about one family who embraced the simple in a way that changed their lives, check out more here.

I love teaching from the Bible. I really do. Opening a book penned by the Creator of all things. And offering its timeless truth to a room full of hungry souls. Weary women who are assaulted daily by lies and inconsistencies on every side. Pounded by conflicting media messages. And, yet, standing in the middle of all these messages is a book. A collection of letters from the heart of a Papa. The One who designed men and women has spoken into the swirl of words that envelope us.

What does it mean to be a woman? Can we strip away the cultural norms and the stereotypes? Can we peer into the mystery of God’s design and gain some insight?

I think we can.

It’s been 20 years since I sat in their shoes. As I’ve been alone with my thoughts this week – thinking about my failures and my successes at living out my femininity – I’ve wondered if I really have anything to offer them. What in the world could I possibly bring them? Frail as I am?

Thanks be to God that Truth is timeless. I press into it. And rest.

Perhaps now would be a good time to give it a try again…

How many times have you uttered these very words? The words you swore you’d never utter. And, yet, here we are. Past nostalgia and present reality collides and we realize that it’s true – “the times, they are a-changin’.”

I’m not THAT old but I do remember growing up in the 1970s. I also remember enjoying a fair amount of unstructured time to play outside. My parents didn’t have to create that time. They just sent us outside. To play.

And oh the worlds we discovered. We swung from vines that surely weren’t safe enough to swing from. And discovered spiders that I was positive were scarey Black Widows. And built forts out of sticks. And trudged through poison ivy patches. I remember one summer in which I preferred jeans to shorts – just so my legs wouldn’t get so scratched up and itchy. The main rule was that I had to be back when Dad whistled. (And heaven help us if we were too far away to hear Dad’s whistle.) But, that was it. During the summer, there were days I was gone all day.

I’m not sure that my mom had some well-developed philosophy about nature being good for me. I mean, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that sitting around watching Scooby Doo all day wasn’t going to be good for us. Mostly, I think she just knew being outside would be more fun and she was willing to risk some of the perils that came with outdoor adventures. (I may or may not have come in from outside once with splinters all over my hands and bare feet from trying to climb up the side of our cedar-sided house. And, she might have had to pick briars out of my shoelaces once or twice.)

Things have changed a lot in 40 years. Come join me over at The Better Mom where I’m exploring  letterboxing as one wayto overcome the nature challenges of our modern day…