Diners, drive-ins, and diapers.

“Why does my newborn dislike me?”

“What should a baby’s poop look like?”

“Are you sure that the poop should look like that?”

“Why is there so much poop?”

“Are you sure my newborn doesn’t like me?”

My Google search has been ridiculous these past two months. Not only do they send you home after an anatomical trainwreck with a child whose language you do not speak, have never spoken, and will have to learn immediately, but the nurses and doctors prepare you for nothing at the hospital when it comes to parenthood.

“Can I bring you breakfast?”

“Would you like me to refill your water?”

“She’s crying….how about I take her to the nursery so you can get some rest?”

DO YOU KNOW THIS DOES NOT HAPPEN WHEN YOU GO HOME? MY WATER WENT UNREFILLED FOR 72 HOURS BEFORE I REALIZED THIS.

Then, there’s this adorable little torture expert. She believes that the moment she enters the world, her job is to sleep deprive you, Guatanamo Bay style, as well as sleep deprive the husband, the dog, and anyone within a 50-foot radius of her living quarters for at least the first week. My sweet angel went from sleeping soundly to a pterodactyl’s cry within 2 seconds. My hearing still hasn’t fully returned.

But then there’s this moment where you look at this kid and you are overwhelmed by the fact that you would all of the sudden risk your life, risk everyone else’s life, jump off a building, hijack an airplane, not sleep for days or weeks in order to protect this little eating, sleeping, pooping human. This human that coos at daddy, grandma, and grandpa, but takes one look at you and all of the sudden she’s this hangry beast who is consumed by a voracious lust for formula, despite having a stomach the size of a Jelly Belly.

I’m so grateful, every day, for this creature. A newborn makes the beauty of having a Creator come alive, while at the same time stirring within a new mom the desire to curse like an inappropriately eloquent sailor 20 hours out of the day. I love it, it’s frustrating, it’s awesome. It feels amazing! It hurts.

I was talking to a friend a few weeks ago about the insanity of my birth story, and she said something I won’t forget—

“Wow! It was not at all like you planned! Have you had time to grieve?”

What? What does she mean grieve? I’m a new mom, I’m supposed to be singing on a mountain like Julie Andrews before the Nazis come!

“Grieving that your birth story wasn’t like you had in mind. It’s still a beautiful thing, but it’s hard when you had this amazing expectation and it becomes a traumatic moment, even though the end result is your awesome baby.”

I loved that.

That’s not something to be ashamed of.

I’m not talking about a “snowflake” grief, where everything is a sob story and I need some “safe space” to give my emotions a gentle pat on the back because “life is hard and people are mean,” but grieving moments in your life, making sure you take the time to grieve those situations and indulge in a profound loss in order to embrace what came from the agony.

I don’t think Christians, or people in general, discuss grief, or dare I say, accept it.

Our view is often that it is a short time in our lives following a tragedy…where you wake up after no more than 6 hours of grief and everything is fixed and better because time heals all wounds and life goes on, and you are completely done with the sadness, with that “chapter” in your life.

Yeah right.

I have talked to so many people who have experienced tragedy or hardship in some way:

The loss of a parent.

The loss of a child.

The loss of a spouse.

Facing unemployment.

Domestic abuse.

Sexual abuse.

Be it present or be it past, these people have expressed the pressure to “put it all behind them” and “move on.” It’s not that easy, and it shouldn’t be shameful.

I miscarried last year.

I haven’t told a lot of people the story about my miscarriage. In my head I pushed it away because so many other women have experienced it. Or worse. I didn’t want to wallow in something when other people have suffered what I have or more than I have. So I tried to move on quickly.

We found out we were pregnant (for the first time, ahhhhhh!) shortly after Thanksgiving. It was early,  and we knew people recommend waiting until the first trimester is over, but we were shocked and ecstatic. It was Christmastime, and it was the perfect time to tell our families for Christmas. The greatest gift! 

Christmas was exceptional. Every surprise was perfection, the grandparents, the aunts, the uncles, they were all excited for us. This child came at the perfect time, and its due date was our anniversary. God did this. Perfect timing, as always.

Our first ultrasound, I remember little one popping up on the screen. My stomach dropped. There was no movement, just this tiny floating being in darkness. My husband squeezed my hand, I could feel him crying tears of joy. I knew what this meant, he did not. I cursed my medical background in my head. I couldn’t look at him. I knew what was coming. I let a tear slip down my cheek….my baby! Our first baby.

The tech was gracious and kind. She brought the radiologist into the room, who explained that no movement and no signs of life were there. Our baby was not alive.

My OB was empathetic. He said she was probably a girl as her heart did not fully develop, which statistically happens to females more, and he thought we should name her. So we did. Lillianna. I loved the name. I said it over and over and over in my head. Lillianna, my sweet baby that left us here with so small a memory of her.

I couldn’t do the procedure. I couldn’t. Doesn’t make it wrong, doesn’t make me right, I just couldn’t. I told my OB that I would pass her naturally. He told me what I already knew- Ibuprofen for pain, it can happen in a week, it can happen in four, we just don’t know, just try and go about things normally, but “rest in my distress.” Sure. Whatever you say.

My grandma passed away the following week. I drove out to Danville for her funeral. I sat there in my seat with my husband next to me, overwhelmed with shock. I just couldn’t stop the thoughts from flooding my head and breaking my heart-my grandmother lay dead in front of me, and my baby lay dead inside of me. I didn’t know how to express it, I didn’t want anyone to know that I was trying my best not to feel anything.

A few weeks later I went into labor on a Sunday morning. It was just as I’d imagined, the painful contractions. They lasted all day. I sat in church, in my Lifegroup, timing them. Tears occasionally slipping down my cheek. I went home. Tried to eat. The contractions grew strong and I passed what I was supposed to. When they ended, I went to bed. Woke up, went to work. You’ve got to move on, you can’t grieve someone you didn’t even know.

Tuesday afternoon, I got off of work, went home. I was standing in my kitchen when I felt a downward pressure. I ran to the bathroom and it happened.

I thought I had passed her on Sunday.

But there she was.

This tiny little creature.

To anyone else, she might’ve looked like an alien. To me, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I was devastated. She lay there on a tissue, and I just sat there. My husband was upstairs working, having no idea what was taking place down below. I just held her. I couldn’t stop holding her. The tiles of the bathroom floor were so cold. I wanted to get up, but I couldn’t. At the same time I never wanted to move, because I knew I would have to stop holding her forever.

The months that followed were hard. I threw myself back into work, picking up overtime. I didn’t want to talk about it with my husband. I was desperate for friendship or for someone to reach out, but anytime someone did I told them I was fine. Why would I grieve something that happens to so many women? Why would my heart ache when my friends have had stillbirths, or have buried their child at a young age? My tragedy is mild compared to some, therefore my grief must be as well. God has a plan, yada yada yada…He knows our future, blah blah blah…I continued to tell myself these beautiful truths, but in a way that caused them to mask my aching heart.

How sad that we deprive ourselves of an emotion so important! This depth of our grief depicts the very depth of our love. It is not a feeling to run from, but to hasten towards! As a hospice nurse I made the unfortunate mistake of not following my own advice- to allow myself to embrace that death, for this grief accompanies the unfathomable bond of a relationship, and its complexity that is not easily consumed or left behind is a sign of strength therein.

There is nothing that can withhold our healing or bolster the joy that comes alongside of it than denying ourselves the opportunity to mourn something or someone. You are not weak, you are not wrong, you don’t have to be ok. Grieve.

I encourage you to embrace grief in your life. Yes, the Lord has brought me beauty from ashes. I love my child whom I held when I lost her, I love my child now whom I smile at when I hold her. One depicts a sorrow, the other depicts a miracle, but both have made me a mom. 

Up, up, and, uh.....down.

“LET’S DO IT!”

You know that moment in a movie where someone makes a daring statement and then there’s this long moment where you know that the writer of this film planned on building up this incredible hype that either something awesome or disastrous is going to happen after that frozen millisecond?

That happened.

Then the ceiling fell on top of me.

The whole ceiling.

All of the tiles.

All of the things.

Boards.

Dust.

Spiders.

Asbestos.

My husband and I had been discussing caving in (ironically) and getting a large flat screen TV. After looking desperately for a projector set-up that would have the mounting ability in our basement (DESPITE THE STRANGE LAYOUT OF THE CEILING, HARDY HAR HAR) we decided that not only would it be cheaper, but also a lot less stress to purchase instead a glorious Smart TV, because people who do that are just that: SMART.

When I say we decided, I don’t mean at the same time.

As usual my husband responded with a large purchase with his familiar “THE TRIBE HAS SPOKEN LET US DO THIS THING WHILST HENCE THE LORD HAS BLEST US THIS THINE CHILDREN OF THE KINGDOM” while I sat in the background with eighteen calculators, our W-2’s, the Wall Street Journal, and a bowl of cereal (cereal is not relevant here, but you need to understand how I work) to make sure everything in the budget lined up A-ok.

After weeks, nay, MONTHS of mulling over numbers, discussing pros, cons, benefits, repercussions, endless Netflix and Hulu Plus possibilities, I came to the epiphanous conclusion that if the time to do it was near, then the time to do it was NOW. This moment happened right before that magical millisecond, and to be even more detailed, the moment happened as I had a full plate of baked fajitas and a glass of tea and had just plopped down on the couch in our basement.

“LET’S DO IT!”

There’s always a creak. A creak happens in films, books, life-changing moments when everything you love, the foundation of the building in which you sit/stand, is about to self-annihilate.

<CREAK>

I had barely that millisecond to look up as 35 12x12 inch tiles came crashing from the ceiling and on my head.

It was sad that the moment following was me wondering how much drywall I could consume with my fajitas that didn’t require a hospitalization.

“You ok?” -My husband, so sweet, calls from upstairs.

“Oh yes….though the Lord has spoken my dear.”

It took a few hours of my husband drilling those tiles back into our ceiling fixtures while convincing me that this was not a sign from our dear Lord and Saviour that we should not get a television because Jesus doesn’t do that and Jesus probably likes video streaming and I need to not make every instance such as this spiritual because the decision to trot to Wal-Mart or Best Buy for our next electronic escapade is not priority under the hand of our Father.

It was hard for me to separate. I always try to look for a sign. A huge, ceiling explosion kind of sign for the Lord to tell me what is a good idea and what is a bad idea. If I can blame it on God anyway, then I really haven’t made a good or bad decision either way, right? Responsibility is off of me, what could be better?

That’s unfair, expecting God to come through the clouds and point us in the direction of our next Amazon purchase, instead of assuming rightfully that we were given the discernment and critical thinking we need for our day to day decisions…..or do we just not want that responsibility?

The Lord guides our paths, speaks to us in ways we don’t expect, but don’t blame Him for your lack of discernment or for your forgetfulness that sometimes He is just a still, small voice.

He doesn’t always fall through the ceiling, and we shouldn’t expect Him too.

Puppy Love....

“Look! There’s a Great Dane!”

“What?”

“The humane society. They just got a Great Dane mix! His name is Hershel! Oh he is SOOO cute! Wanna check him out???”

“Yes please.”

The conversation that changed our lives.

We stumbled into the humane society, ignorantly blissful as we awaited the presence of the world’s most photogenic Great Dane mutt. He pranced into the waiting room we were sitting in and jumped on my lap. It hurt….he was huge….but how sweet! He held onto me in a canine embrace for almost twenty minutes. Wow….WHAT A BLESSING FROM THE LORD THIS MUST BE….he was beginning hospice therapy dog training…..I’m a hospice nurse….he’s house trained…..hooray for that…..he’s a Great Dane mix…..we wanted ANOTHER Great Dane mix….he’s wonderful with children and other dogs….we wanted a playmate for Tank! This must be God! This must be Jesus! He has led us here! He has given us this gift!

“WE’LL TAKE HIM.”

The single solitary action that changed our lives.

Hershel collided with our home life like a mad hurricane with a vengeance. We thought he was about to turn three. The vet told us in fact HE HAD JUST TURNED ONE AND WAS ALREADY SEVENTY POUNDS. “He’s going to get bigger!” Yay! Also, Hershel likes to jump fences. Any fences! Even fences you thought he couldn’t hurdle over! He also likes to tear things apart! Rugs! Shoes! Toys! Clothing! Door mats! And guess what??? He’s not house trained! Hershel seemed to have an underdeveloped, overexcited, highly anxious, miniature bladder that lets out small liquid explosions during times of stress, duress, happiness, when a walk was mentioned, when a walk was NOT mentioned, while he was eating, while he was sleeping, while we were eating, while WE were sleeping and anytime in between! He also is unable to urinate outside without the help of one of my plants being underneath him! We now have beautiful yellowish-brown shrubbery in our front yard! In two weeks I had 54 pounds of dog poop to pooper scoop! 54 pounds! Did I mention Hershel has gas that made me wish I was born in Chernobyl??? DID I? I should! Because he does!

Hershel loves to cuddle. What he also loves is to springboard off the person he’s cuddling if he’s done! My abdomen and thighs look like I’m part of Fight Club!

Did I mention he’s crate trained? And by that I mean he wales like an Irish siren when he’s cooped in his cage, until he figures out how to use his tongue to unhinge the cage and let himself out! What a blessing! This must be God! This must be Jesus! He has led us here! He has given us this gift!

The biggest problem with Hershel is he is the most adorable creature I have ever laid eyes upon secondary to my husband and also to Tank, our dear furry, white best friend who now shines as the greatest, most behaved dog this side of the Mississippi, and is now spoiled because of it. Hershel however is gentle, plays well with Tank, he’s now a part of the family.

I have said every night to Jeremey, “It’s time to Old Yeller him or sell him for parts.”

Jeremey has been patient and loving with Hershel. “He’s just a puppy, we’ll take him to training, he’s going to be ok, we just have to be patient.”

His kindness frustrated, nay MADE ME VEHEMENTLY INFURIATED at the fact that my husband continued to show compassion as the Devil’s advocate…UNTIL that glorious moment whilst I was having an emotional breakdown from him urinating on my favorite comforter that it happened.

He did it.

He crossed that line.

He overstepped his boundaries.

He peed in Jeremey’s peanut butter milkshake from Sonic.

Even with my prodding, Jeremey wouldn’t finish the milkshake.

HE HAD TO THROW IT AWAY.

YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO JUST THROW SONIC MILKSHAKES AWAY.

IT IS ILLEGAL IN THREE OUT OF FIFTY STATES.

Jeremey cracked at that moment. The color drained from his face. His vision blurred, his blood pressure rose, his heart rate dropped. Hatred stirred in his eyes.

“We’re going to take him back.”

I replied with,

“I CANNOT HEAR WHAT YOU ARE SAYING. I’M SHOWERING WITH MY CLOTHES ON BECAUSE HE PEED ON MY YOGA PANTS.”

We still have him.

Hershel’s still here.

He’s actually in his kennel right now, because he just ate an Xbox One controller.

Hershel had been giving me a rough time for awhile, Jeremey knew that, but it was only when it became personal that Jeremey saw the problem and dealt with it, waiting until the problem (aka the adorable mutt) had spilled over into his realm, into his life, that he wanted to deal with it.

Sin is kind of the same way. We let it happen all around us, we bask in its environment, we thrive in its atmosphere, but we only wait until it’s infiltrated in our personal lives that we decide we need to get rid of it.

By that time, it’s become a part of your family.

It’s a lot harder to get rid of.

Yeah, I did it. I equated my dog to sin. Idolatry. Gluttony. Lust.

Maybe we should have named him Seven.

Anyway, think about it kids. Nip that junk in the butt before it takes over.

We’re gonna keep him. Calm the heck down.

Let’s take a moment of silence for the things that have lost their lives under the grasp of the urinating beast: (Starting with most recent)

-The $60 Xbox One Controller

-My welcome mat

-My guest room comforter

-Jeremey’s Milkshake that didn’t bring all the boys, just a bladder-ridden dog, to the yard

-That pair of shoes

-That other pair of shoes

-The pair of shoes that were remotely close to that other pair of shoes

-Those slippers

-That dog bowl

-Anything we’ve ever loved

Peace out, my friends.

Matrimonial mischief.

If only people could hear…

“Kendra, are you in there?”

“OF COURSE I AM THERE ARE ONLY TWO OF US IN THE HOUSE WHO DO YOU THINK IS VACATING THE BATHROOM RIGHT NOW???”

:silence:

…

…

…

“Are you sitting squatty potty style? ‘Cause I saw you watching that Facebook video!”

End scene.

“I think I could’ve done better on the smoked chicken…I was going to add a barbecue glaze to it  and-“

“NO. NO. NO. STOP EVERYTHING YOU ARE SAYING.”

“What?”

“You don’t put barbecue sauce on chicken EVER. That’s offensive. You need to have a more sensitive pallet. You always add something sweet and savory like mango salsa or—“

“Says the woman who covered her chicken in ketchup.”

“It’s the golden brick of all things condiment. Shut your male mouth.”

End scene.

I feel if people heard our “marriage banter” they may worry for the mental safety of both of us as individuals. But it’s entertaining at best.

“Dang it! I forgot my ring.”

“Oh wow….I remembered a certain “til death us do part” in the wedding vows that APPARENTLY is probably going to go out the window when some Home Depot chickie starts to hit on whom she THINKS is a single dude walking around with his homely sister.”

“Babe you don’t have your ring on either.”

“Yes I do.” :covers naked ring finger:

“Now you’re just covering it and saying you have it on when you don’t.”

“I do have it on, I’m just holding it tightly because I am so in love with the visualization of our marriage that it looks like I’m covering it up but I’m not so focus on the road and stop judging your sweet wife.”

Then we grab each other by the hand and drive in sweet silence as we quietly judge the other for not grabbing the single simple significant piece of wearable equipment in the house symbolizing our unity.

End scene.

I always forget my wedding ring.

In the mornings, I wake up, and drink a pot of coffee.

It’s a small pot, so hush up and just listen to me for heaven’s sake.

Then I stare at the sink. If there’s anything in the sink, I do not rinse it, I take my ring off and throw it in the spatula holder and proceed to throw everything in the sink into the dishwasher after I let the dogs lick the plates clean.

ARE YOU STILL WITH ME? Because I’m just kidding. That’s disgusting.

I don’t put my ring in a spatula holder.

Haha! Again just kidding. I don’t eat on the same plates as the dogs. I know where they’ve been. I know what else they lick.

And then! I walk away with pride in knowing that I have accomplished one single wifely duty for the day.

And I leave the ring.

E’ertime.

E’er.

Time.

I love my ring, I just have attention deficit disorder and can never REMEMBER IT.

My husband is a genius and bought me a silicone ring that can withstand dishwater and is great for putting on gloves during nurse time.

It was fantastic. 

Wore it for several days straight.

When I took it off though, the skin underneath the ring looked like hamburger meat.

Not my finest hour.

Gotta space it out now.

At the beginning of our marriage, this was a big topic of conversation. I didn’t understand why it was so important to my husband when I forgot my ring, when he was lucky enough that I remembered to put pants on before leaving the house.

“It’s not about the ring or the cost, it’s what it signifies. How are people going to know if you don’t show it? If there’s not something they can see, then to those who don’t know you, it’s like it doesn’t even exist.”

Wow. Great thought.

See where I’m going? 

Of course you do.

This is Not-So-Single, Nursing, and Jesus blog now.

There’s got to be some of the Jesus in there.

My ring means a lot to me. What it stands for means everything to me. But he was right, if there isn’t something that people can visually see, to them it’s like that marriage doesn’t exist, unless I tell them about it.

The same is true for knowing Christ. I think most of us who have been in church have heard some type of analogy of the wedding ring signifying marriage and other things signifying our relationship with Christ, but let’s just talk about what people see in us, on a day to day basis, whether they be friends, acquaintances, or absolute strangers. If they can’t see anything in us, it’s like it doesn’t even exist my friends.

We’re missing out on a great opportunity.

Don’t leave Jesus in the spatula holder. :)

Judge not lest you want a poker table.

So.

I have this awesome basement.

My husband and I have been working tirelessly to create a movie room, bar area (calm it down, it's crammed with soda and popcorn and possibly crystal meth) and a gamer/game area. It's a beautiful place where you can watch The Notebook, have a root beer float, and play Pac-Mac all at the same time. Talk about a glass case of emotions.

We finished this awesome project....with one exception.


I wanted a poker table.


Wait, what?


Kendra, are you a poker champion?


Well sure, I throw down them hands of clubs and hearts and stuff.

Heck no! I wanted a game table...for all games. Which I don't understand why, I'm overly competitive and usually end up attempting to murder the banker in every Monopoly game or somehow the cards and game pieces all end up on the floor....

So where do I go to find it? Well why not with all of the new murder stories and 48-Hours episodes focusing on on-line purchases turn to Craigslist?

Well my husband was nice enough to tag with me along on this journey, so we searched on-line for some poker tables.


The first guy was nice enough to not even WANT money for his poker table, just a few pictures of my feet! We decided to skip that one. Still, so nice!

Second guy posted a beautiful table for $400. Wow! He said he missed a zero, so oops! $4,000. That's sweet, but I have student loans.

The third gentlemen had a warehouse FILLED with tables. I didn't see many serial numbers on the equipment and he kept talking about his connections, told us we could get some flat-screens too for real cheap! WHAT A BLESSING! But that didn't work out. Thanks anyway, Al. My uncle Vinnie will help us out with flat screens some other time.

But lo and behold! I found a beautiful, CHEAP table. A kind human named MJ e-mailed me back and forth. "Thanks, MJ! I'd love to see it in person!" "Let me send you my cell number, MJ!" "I'll see you Sunday, MJ!" Oh that MJ. Such a nice dude.


After church that morning we headed out! "Turn left there, he said, go past the vineyard." WHAT? Why are we at a vineyard? Why does this area look like the wealthy regions of Italy???? Oh here we go....past the cattle farm he said. "He said he kind of lived off the grid, sweetie. I'm sure we won't die. Just keep driving." Jeremey's knuckles were turning white and he kept mumbling something about Lifetime movies, but we pressed on, for we were on a mission. A mission of materialism.

"Ok, we go past this orchard, over this bridge, and then he said his house should be....HOLY SHNIKEYS BABE LOOK AT THIS MANSION." This house was huge! There was an inground pool overlooking a serene picturesque lake behind. Yeah, there was a boat, of course there was a boat. Why wouldn't MJ have a boat?

MJ met us at his garage area. He welcomed us in, and we were like children, staring at the wonder of the gorgeousness before us, trying not to gawk and definitely not asking who he was or who his father was or who he was married to or if he knows Obama or anything. I just assumed he had won the Powerball. He was seriously the nicest, most down-to-earth human, and that's when I knew it....MJ was going to take us to the basement and kill me and my husband.

"We'll take it!" The table was great, it was in our price range, and I wanted to buy something from this dude to have some lasting connection to Mr. MJ. (He ended up letting us live.) "Great! I'll help your husband put it in your car."

Well it didn't fit in the car. Jeremey and I attempted to Tetris the table into the backseat, it wasn't happening. What am I going to do? I can't disappoint my friend MJ. He let Jeremey and I remain alive.

"You can take my truck."

WHAT?!?!

"Here's the keys. Just bring it back when you're done."

This can't be right. This is a trick. Jeremey looked like it was a no-go...I could see where he was coming from. This was a stranger's car, we probably shouldn't be borrowing it without knowing anything about this---

"Sure! Thanks!" I grabbed the keys.

Jeremey looked right through me, basically to say, "Ain't no way I'm driving that, woman. You are."

That was fine, I'll drive. "Hey MJ, are you sure you are ok with strangers just taking your truck?"

He chuckled, "Kendra, I'm the chief district judge of southern Illinois, I don't think you'll be stealing from me."

:cue dry heaves:



I watched the blood flow directed to my husband's face stop, instead he became pale ghastly white and suddenly very sweaty.

"Yes, sir. Sure thing sir. We'll have it right back sir." Suddenly I didn't want to call him MJ.



And then we were off!


I mean it.


We were OFF.


My poor husband.


"Sweetie.....sweetie.....slow down. Slow dow---SLOW DOWN! That's a yellow light, aaaaaaaaaand now it's red aaaaaaaand you just ran through it. Babe seriously we're going to get pulled over by the police."


"NO WE ARE NOT BABE! Don't you get it?!?! What's gonna happen is they are gonna run the plates and be like, 'Oh heck no I ain't pulling this one over' SOOOOO we are INVINCIBLE, WOOHOOOOOOO!"

That was the greatest drive of my life.....and the worst drive of my husband's life. Hahaha!

I felt free. I felt awesome. I felt untouchable.


Now I didn't do anything too crazy, but because of who the truck belonged to, it changed my perception of my freedom on the road. I didn't necessarily feel reckless, but the fear of the law wasn't exactly, well....there. However Jeremey was a different story....now knowing who the truck belonged to, he wanted to protect it with everything he had in him and follow the laws anyway.


We got the truck back safe and sound, no worries, and now we have a lovely story of a date afternoon gone weird for Jeremey and I to tell people as we play on our game table.

Jeremey and I's perception of the truck ride after realizing whom the truck belonged to really made me think about our Christian life and our walk with Christ. Thinking I was invincible, I threw the law behind me and did what I wanted, assuming that because of whose truck I was in, no one would touch me. Jeremey respected the law, he didn't have to follow it, but he cared enough after realizing what we had and who it belonged to that this was a special opportunity and we shouldn't blow it.

That's a lot like Christians, huh? We realize Who we belong to and we either take it, pretend we're invincible, and believe that because we now belong to Christ nothing that we do is wrong and everything we do will be forgiven under the Creator of the law, or! We wise up, and knowing that we don't have to follow the law, respect the privilege of being in the presence of the One Who created it.

We take a lot for granted.

You're not invincible.

You're loved, though. :)

Drive on.

Ode to the sugar haven.....

The first year of marriage is the longest.

Oh my gosh.

SO. LONG.

Sometimes I just sit and stare at my Bacon Calendar 2014……2015……

HOW IS IT ONLY JANUARY?!?!

‘Kendra….what’s wrong with you?’

‘Aren’t you happily married?’

‘Didn’t you just get married at the end of the summer?’

Yeah, yeah, yeah….I can hear you judgers being all judgey now.

But you don’t get it.

Why is it the longest?

Because at the end….

There.

Is.

CAKE! 

Glorious cake!

Wondrous strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting!

I stare at it more than the calendar.

It’s in the freezer. In a cardboard box. Sealed. Ish. Well, was sealed.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Everyone knows that ridiculous tradition where you save the BEST PART OF THE WEDDING——I.E. THE CAKE—IN A STUPID BOX AND WAIT A STUPID YEAR TO EAT THE STUPID CAKE AND CELEBRATE WAITING TO EAT SOMETHING THAT’S BETTER WHEN IT ISN’T A YEAR OLD.

Cake is not a fine wine people.

Cake does not get better with age.

Cake is delicious goodness the day it’s made. AT BEST THE DAY IT IS MADE.

I didn’t get to eat my own cake at my own wedding. I barely was able to sit down at all, and the only precious bite I could’ve had was shoved IN MY NOSE by my PRECIOUS husband.

So August 16th…..maybe 11:59 p.m. on August 15th. I will get my cake.

Jeremey doesn’t even care. He sees that cardboard box as much as I do. I don’t even think he’s ever mentioned it. Unless I bring it up.

“CAN WE PLEASE PRETEND IT’S OUR ONE YEAR?!?! I WANT THAT CAKE?!?! HOW DO YOU HAVE SUCH SELF CONTROL!?!?! YOU ARE NOT THE MAN THAT I MARRIED!”

Then he sighs….closes the freezer door, and wishes to God he had not chosen to get ice from the freezer right at the moment I was walking by.

My husband is patient. He gets a letter in the mail, he slowly slices open the seal and opens said letter appropriately.

I receive a letter and it explodes in my hands as if I have a 0.4 second timer that will go off if I don’t get that stinking letter open fast enough.

He gets a gifts and he slowly unwraps the paper carefully making sure the the tape is gently removed and the wrapping paper remains unharmed.

I pretend a puppy is suffocating inside and I need to shred all evidence of the wrapping paper in order to save its life. It usually works.

If the microwave directions on the popcorn says 2 minutes and thirty seconds for perfect cook time, Jeremey puts it at 2:30 on the little timer. I put it at 2:29…because I put the popcorn in the microwave because I want popcorn. I mean, I REALLY want popcorn….ain’t nobody got time for a full 2:30.

Waiting is half the battle.  You’ve heard the phrase, I’ve heard the phrase.

I spend a lot of time hurrying time along to gain something ridiculous often so much that I miss the important moments that happen during the waiting period.

The first year of marriage should be spent breathing in the honeymoon phase, getting to know one another, building on each other’s strengths and laughing at each other’s weakness (no, we aren’t perfect….we don’t laugh the whole time, but I have to make it seem that way on social media, ya know)…..instead, sometimes I waste those precious moments waiting on year-old cake.

Waiting for the popcorn, I usually share how my day’s been with my hubs and he returns the favor by sharing with me the ups and downs of his day. Sticking my face to the microwave not only exposes me to crippling radiation but also steals away from that extra second I get to spend with someone I love.

What are you waiting for? What are you missing out on because you’re focused on the ridiculous?

Truth be told? I’ve taken bites of the cake.

There’s only 3/4 of it left.

Sometimes I think about how sad that is….hoping the cake is not completely gone by the time the one-year mark hits so my husband and I can appropriately celebrate as tradition declares we must!

Don’t ruin the best of your life because you hurry along to the ridiculous parts of it.

The best is in-between, kids.