A Fresh Start

We parked the car and immediately unbuckled seat belts in our haste to get inside the church building. Caleb bounded out of the van exclaiming, “I can’t wait to go to school tomorrow!” Matt and I laughed at his enthusiasm, a new kindergartener not yet disgruntled by the institution of school.

That night as I ironed new uniform shirts, I was surprised at the familiar smell of the hot iron meeting the shirt fabric. Seven years ago I stood ironing a navy Polo shirt to wear on the weekends of Officer Training School. After so many weeks, we could earn privileges to go off base, but not without donning that navy Polo with the letters O-T-S spelled below the shoulder.

Seven years ago.

It’s unbelievable how quickly time escapes us, unbelievable that I have a child starting school. It feels like yesterday that I was starting my own adventure, but, instead, Caleb was starting his.

Leading up to this day, I wondered how I would feel. Would I cry, feeling sad because my oldest would no longer spend his days home with me, or would I rejoice, feeling relief that summer was over and a few hours of freedom for me were in sight? Surprisingly, I felt neither. Instead, I felt excitement.

Five a.m. did not come easy for me that morning, or at all, for that matter, mostly due to the fact that all three kids had managed to worm their way into our bed at some point during the night. I slept later than I should have, so I didn’t get to write my blog that morning as I planned or spend time with the kids over a leisurely breakfast. They had trouble waking up, too.

But the excitement kept me moving forward.

Caleb was starting school. My little boy with a fountain of constant questions pouring from his mouth, holding an innocent curiosity, would start his journey of learning within the walls of the cozy classroom, full of books and bulletin boards and crayons.

That Sunday morning when Caleb bounded out of the car expressing his excitement at starting school, I sat in the cushioned chair at church reading from 2 Chronicles 14. Our church’s word for the year is ‘gumption,’ the character to commit and complete, so we looked at the life of King Asa. King Asa was an Israelite king who started his reign doing what was good in the eyes of the Lord. He turned the nation back to God and away from idols and trusted God for military success when surrounded by enemies.

However, later in his reign he sent Israel’s gold and silver to the king of Aram, requesting a treaty with him, showing he no longer trusted in God to protect Israel. And from that point on, his reign took an unfortunate turn, as he forgot who was the source of his blessing and protection. King Asa lost his gumption–he didn’t complete the plans God had for him.

My pastor asked us to evaluate our own lives and search our hearts for those areas where we have lost our gumption. I thought of a few spiritual disciplines, but the focus of my mind was on my kids. I haven’t lost my gumption–I am committed–but I want to complete and complete well.

God recently reminded me of what I signed on to do when I left my career in the Air Force to take on the career of ‘mom,’ and because of that renewed purpose, I can look to Caleb’s first big step into independence with excitement. I’m not sending him to school to wash my hands of the job–this decision came with a lot of prayer as we weighed homeschool, private, and public school options–but instead to work alongside his teacher as he embarks on this journey.

I look forward to volunteering every week and pouring myself into his education. I can’t wait to take him to a museum when I hear that an exhibit correlates with a unit he is studying. And I’ll gladly wear his school colors when we cheer on the sports teams together.

Perhaps part of this excitement stems from the realization that I have a fresh start as we begin a new phase of life. For many reasons, Caleb’s preschool years were tough for me. When other kids his age may have had a sibling come along and join the mix, Caleb already had two by the time he was three. Because most days for me were about survival, I never really felt like I could sit and treasure that time the way older moms always advised that I should.

But I won’t waste time on regret. I’ll treasure this stage and the next and the next for the different joys that they bring.

That morning when Matt and the girls and I kissed Caleb goodbye, I didn’t leave with tears but a smile. Caleb eagerly entered his classroom and barely looked at us as we walked out the door. But that’s okay. He had looked forward to this moment since he turned five, five months ago.

I can’t believe how quickly five months has flown by…or five years…so I best not get caught looking behind me. We’ve got new sight words to learn.

Caleb, I love you so much, and I’m so excited for you! Because you’re my firstborn, every new experience for you is a new experience for me, too. I’m glad we get to take this journey together. And even though I sent you to school on that first day with a smile, I felt a pang of sadness when I read “Sarah, Plain and Tall” to your sister that afternoon without you. You’re my buddy, and you make me proud.

I started this post three days ago, but I’m still figuring out our new schedule and how to squeeze in time to write. Nevertheless, I’m linking up (albeit late) with Michelle for her “Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday.” What emotions ran through you during your last transition from one stage of life to the next? Did you long for the past, or were you excited for the future?

Beauty

I’m constantly amazed at the work of God’s hands to take the ugly, jagged pieces of our broken lives and make a beautiful mosaic. Where we once saw pain and death, we see a new masterpiece where God has used all those experiences to shape us into something stronger, better.

Over the last few months I’ve witnessed some of these pieces. I saw God’s hands hold the sharp piece holding death, and He painted soft colors through the middle where friends brought comfort. I saw pieces containing disappointment over lost jobs and an end to one phase of life only for God to draw a new picture for the future in its place.

And I saw the small, insignificant pieces become part of the masterpiece, the pieces of messes on the kitchen floor when a little girl wants to feel like a woman. The pieces where banana pudding recipes contain thyme and honey and pepper and are joined to a new piece, one with the opportunity for a mother to help clean up the mess and make something beautiful. I saw the beauty of the new piece, a memory of creating something new and good out of the misguided intentions of an almost four-year-old.

Just the way God does with our messes when He comes alongside to gently clean away the spills and create a work of art in its place.

Joining up with the Gypsy Mama for her ‘5 Minute Friday’ on ‘Beauty.’ In an attempt at full disclosure, today was more like a 10 minute Friday for me due to a brain freeze in the middle of writing, but I did not edit my work per the rules. Where do you find beauty?

I Can’t Make This Stuff Up

I tend to put pressure on myself to create memory-worthy opportunities in my family. However, I’m realizing that the planned events might not be those that stick out in my children’s memories but the random that leave an impression. I know the following conversation found an immediate home in the recesses of my mind….

For whatever reason, Hannah Grace and I have our heart-to-heart moments amidst moving shoes and clothes off her floor to their correct homes. Such was the case yesterday when Hannah Grace startled me with her question:

“When you married Daddy, were you a maid?”

“What?”

“When you got married, were you a maid?” she asked, as if this question were any clearer to me the second time.

“What are you talking about?” Her question was not making any sense to me, especially since my life after marriage not before more closely mirrors that occupation.

“When you got married…what were you called? The maid?

“Oh. No, Hannah Grace,” I replied, somewhat relieved that she wasn’t conveying how she viewed me. “I was the bride.”

“Oh. And did the bride ride the broom?”

“What?!”

Now I was completely horrified. My four-year-old had managed to imply that I was akin to the Wicked Witch of the West and use a sexual euphemism in the same sentence.

wicked_witch_west — image courtesy of photobucket.com

“What was Daddy called?”

“The groom. Yes, I married the groom.”

She giggled a little and continued.

“Oh. Why do they call the princes that funny name?”

“I don’t know, Hannah Grace, I don’t know.”

But I did know, as I ushered her out of the room, that one day she would have her fairy tale wedding, complete with princes and wicked witches and maids. Either that, or her gaffes would pave the way for an interesting career in politics.

So Nothing Is Wasted

Wednesday night I pulled clean sheets out of the dryer only to put them back in the wash on Thursday morning, two out of my three kids having wet their beds sometime during the night. And as I sat on the floor in Chloe’s room, unrolling the t-shirts she had made into ‘hot dogs’ (I have no idea, but it’s one of Hannah Grace’s and her favorite pastimes) I acknowledged how much of each day is spent redoing tasks I had just completed. Many days I have complained to Matt that I feel like my efforts are for nothing, wasted since it is inevitable that the day I mop, one of the kids will immediately spill a glass of milk, smush a strawberry, or pee all over the kitchen floor (we have issues with pee in this family). And often, I have looked to the day when I can engage in more meaningful activities.

But as I sat on the floor turning hot dogs into t-shirts again on this particular morning, I did so without the normal level of frustration that I’m apt to feel. Instead, I recognized a thought not original to me: Cleaning up hotdogs and pee is my ministry.

I’m not sure anyone has ever written that thought precisely as I just wrote it, but I’ve encountered the sentiment many times. How I handle all the gross and mundane tasks, the chores that I do and then redo, is not wasted effort. Raising my children, complete with the tasks that accompany this role, is my meaningful activity.

I get frustrated when the activities director at the nursing home says I can volunteer, but my children are too young; I long for the day when I can travel with my church group to Mozambique to help build wells; and I sigh deeply when the baby who wouldn’t go to sleep last night wakes up early when I’m trying to write. But I have forgotten one important fact: Volunteering, building wells, and my blog are not my job.

But they are.

God gave me my passion to serve and to write, so I’m not dismissing my desires. When I can, I should pursue these passions, but I should not allow myself to fall into the trap of thinking that building wells is a more important job than washing wet sheets. I have to admit that even as I write those words they sit a bit funny. For too long I’ve allowed myself to gloss over the positive impact I can make on my children, that just as clean water brings life to a community my efforts at home bring life to my family.

When I make my children clean up the spilled milk on the newly mopped floor, they learn responsibility and the importance of caring for those possessions with which we have been blessed. When my children see me make a meal for a neighbor, they witness compassion and will hopefully embody a spirit who looks outside themselves to the needs of others. And when I fail them and don’t demonstrate love as I should, they understand that even family will disappoint, but there is One who will never fail.

The challenge for me is to recognize my every day as a chance to make a difference, not just those days that I have deemed more important. This challenge remains for everyone. Whether stuck in a crappy job or lamenting the one we recently lost, we each have a purpose. We can look to ‘better’ days when we fulfill all our dreams and desires, or we can embrace the life in front of us now.

I plan to do a better job of embracing my children and all the crap that I have to do over and over. Because, truly, my actions will speak louder than my words. One day my children will look back, and I hope they remember a mother who found honor and privilege in her ministry as their mother. And when they look back at their times of making hot dogs and peeing on the floor, I hope they remember how weird they truly were and what a saint I was for dealing with them.

The ‘What If’ Game

balancebeamfeet — image via photobucket.com

I’ve decided God wants to keep me humble, as I’ve seen the limelight shine in other directions. Normally, I’m okay with others having their moments of glory instead of me because I wasn’t doing my task for recognition in the first place, but one time was the exception. For ten years I had trained as a gymnast and sacrificed a ‘normal’ childhood. When other kids went out to play or spent their teenage years on the phone, I was spending my time at the gym. So I had a hard time fighting back tears when the announcer skipped over my name. When the six other girls from Region 8 competing at Nationals stepped forward after hearing their names and raised their arms in a salute, I stood back awkwardly, not sure what I should do.

Perhaps this moment set the tone for the competition. Even though I was overlooked, I was determined to have one outstanding meet. Our team started on floor, and I gave a solid performance. The rest of the team looked good, and we established early that Region 8 was here to win. We then moved to the vault. I had two chances to perform my handspring front, and I landed each successfully with a small step.

By this point in the competition, I was having fun. I cheered for girls on my team whom I normally competed against, and those few hours as teammates formed a bond and, in same cases, a friendship that would continue after the floor music and flashing scores had stopped.

As we moved to the bars, my excitement moved to a nervous energy. Bars had always been my worst event, but this particular season I showed consistency that had been lacking previously. I wanted to keep that consistency going, help my team with a high score and my own chances for a personal best all-around score.

And as I gripped those bars, muscle memory took over. I swung with grace and ease from one skill to the next. I felt my legs squeeze tightly together during my release move–I kept perfect form–and when I let go of the bar one final time to dismount, I landed without a movement. I was rewarded with a 9.625, the highest score on my team and enough to put me in the finals for the uneven bars.

But the meet was not over. Region 8 still needed to compete on the balance beam, and everyone in the auditorium knew it. As gymnasts from the other teams finished their final event, they found their way over to the balance beam area to send their wishes of wobbles and falls our way. I didn’t notice them, however. I was too busy staring at the judges, wondering why they still hadn’t signaled for me to begin my routine.

I was up first in my group, and I stood nervously awaiting to complete my last event. But the judges weren’t ready. Other teams were finishing their events, but the group of judges were conversing over a score inquiry from the last team on beam. I had waited so long to begin my routine that my coach finally came up to me and whispered in my ear to go ahead and sit down. And it was at that moment, as I had begun to go to my seat, that the judge raised her arm, letting me know it was time to begin my routine.

I don’t dwell on this event or hold regret, but I have often wondered what if I had taken a couple seconds to regain my composure and focus before returning my salute to the judge. If I had taken that time instead of immediately acknowledging the judge who had kept us all waiting, would I have stuck my routine?

From the first move of my beam series, I knew I was off. I threw my back-handspring to the right, and I couldn’t pull the rest of the series over to avoid the fall. And with that fall fell all the energy and excitement we had carried with us through the other three events. The girl after me fell. Others as well. And we and the crowd knew the moment in the limelight was no longer ours.

After my routine, my coach came over to let me know that before beam I was second in the nation all-around. I remember thinking if he had told me that before my routine, would it have made a difference? If I had known how close I was to standing atop that podium, would I have nailed beam as well? And if I hit my beam routine and kept going the positive momentum, would the other girls have followed suit?

Of course, there’s no way to know and no reason to dwell on the event. But every so often my mind’s eye replays that fall on the beam, and I cringe. And every so often, I recall the announcer skipping over my name at the beginning of the meet, and I realize it just wasn’t my time to shine in the limelight.

I actually started this post last week for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop and decided I needed to finish it. I’m glad to be back today after a few days away to Dollywood and a couple days after that recouping! I look forward to catching up on all your blogs and comments. I’d love to read below if you have a sports/performance memory that occasionally replays in your mind? Do you ever get caught up in the ‘what if’ game?

Sweating and Swimming: Repost

As a mother of three kids very close together in age, I’m constantly facing the internal struggle of whether or not to leave the house with my children. I want them to enjoy their childhood and experience story time at the library, free summer movies, and play dates, but I also don’t want to kill them.

So as I left the house today with lunches made, towels and sunscreen packed, three children dressed in swimsuits, I also left with a mild sense of dread, for based on past experience, this day at my friend’s pool would be anything but relaxing. For me, that is.

Getting there is half the battle, and boy that battle was a tough one today! For children who were excited about swimming, they sure didn’t get ready with much enthusiasm. And Chloe–does her body have a little sensor that indicates when her mommy has just put a new (cloth) diaper on her, allowing her to release the effects of her iron medicine plus prune juice? The bathing suit that took ten minutes to get on the wiggly baby now had to come off. Ten more minutes to wipe a squirmy heiny and put a bathing suit back on, and we were on our way (again).

Once we arrived, the other half of the battle could begin. Before I had even finished setting out the kids’ lunch on their towels, Caleb and Hannah Grace had each taken a turn pulling the valve from the lemonade pitcher, releasing a wonderful mess all over the table and floor of the screened-in porch. I was so happy I got to clean up those messes twice, and apparently, so was Chloe. While I was cleaning, she was eating everyone else’s lunch. Peanut butter sandwiches, whole grapes–everything this mommy had restricted from this one-year-old she put in her mouth. Of course the cut grapes and cracker pieces I set out for her remained untouched.

The pool is a wonderful, refreshing idea for combatting this horrid Georgia heat, yet the pool only works if one gets in it. Hannah Grace won’t get in the pool, Caleb won’t get out of it, and Chloe won’t stay put. She wants in the pool, and less than 30 seconds later she wants out. I felt like a jack-in-the-box climbing in and out and in and out, chasing after the baby one minute, and yelling at Hannah Grace the next to leave the lemonade alone. It’s near impossible to watch three children when they’re all in different places. And when it’s 96 degrees outside and probably that percentage humidity, if I’m not soaking in a pool, I want to be inside–not chasing after children!

And so, I’d like to apologize to the group of mothers who sat beneath the umbrella, enjoying their lunch and adult conversation, jumping in the pool to cool themselves, and then resuming social time: I would’ve loved to socialize, as well. In fact, I am a pretty pleasant person, but seeing as my baby won’t stay in a float for two minutes before climbing out, my middle child wants to be pushed on the swing–the only child, by the way, who wants to swing instead of swim–and my oldest child insists on spraying every kid in the face with the water gun but then cries when anyone sprays him back (sorry about that, too), I think embracing my role as antisocial, crazy mother is best.

And while I’m apologizing, I’d also like to apologize to any mothers of only girls. My son doesn’t understand the concept of dropping his pants out-of-view before peeing behind the shed. We are working on modesty in my home, but that lesson hasn’t stuck, yet. I am pleased that at least Hannah Grace did not take her bathing suit off this time as she did at a previous swimming engagement.

And to the woman who brought the 100-calorie snack bag–no, you didn’t finish your snack, but my children did. While I was putting Hannah Grace in time-out for taking your food, Caleb came out of the pool and ate the rest. Think of it this way–now you only had a 50-calorie snack.

So to my dear friend, I always appreciate your invitations to come swim, but I don’t think I can bring my children when there is a large group. That, and the fact that I don’t think you’re going to invite us again since my daughter peed on your carpet.

This picture's not from the pool, but I'm sure you understand why.

As we get ready to head out of town with my family for a few days, I thought this post from last year would serve to remind me that the craziness always leads to a funny story! I hope your summer is filling up with memories that you will treasure, if not now, at least in a year! What’s a memory that you have that, at the time, brought you frustration but now brings you laughter?

Payback

They thwarted my plans. I wanted us to get ready quickly and head out the door, but they wanted to play beauty shop. I’m always amazed at how quickly their little attention spans can get diverted, like a dog on a walk seeing a squirrel. I thought the instructions were clear enough–Go upstairs, and put on your shoes–but I realize now that I should have taped red arrows on the carpet leading up the stairs, into their bedrooms, and stopping at their closets.

But I didn’t. Instead, I buckled their sister in her car seat, and when I came back in the house to find that they were still upstairs, I knew the quest to find shoes had turned into another adventure.

I walked into my bathroom, and there Caleb was applying eyeshadow to his sister’s face, reminiscent of Tammy Faye. I ushered them downstairs, keeping my cool, and sent Caleb to the van where his sister was waiting.

And that’s how I found myself alone with Hannah Grace in the kitchen.

I had wet a paper towel and was doing my best to gently remove the pastel colors from her eyelids and cheeks, explaining to her again that little girls shouldn’t wear make-up. Hannah Grace countered with the natural follow-up question:

“When I grow up, will you be dead?”

I sighed as I swept the paper towel across her forehead. This was not the first time she had asked this question.

“I hope not, Hannah Grace. Only God knows when we’re going to die.”

And then she looked up at me and smiled her smile that makes her eyes twinkle.

“When I grow up, then I’ll take care of you!” she laughed.

I paused for a moment.

I thought of my thwarted plans and realized one day, in fact, it might be my turn to thwart plans. Yes, one day Hannah Grace would have to wipe off a too heavily applied rouge from my cheeks.

She would care for me, and it would be my turn to drive her crazy.

A slight smile formed on my lips as I finished cleaning up Hannah Grace. One day it would be my turn to pee on her kitchen floor. And that thought brought me great comfort.

Taking Out the Trash Is More Important Than You Think

It was Wednesday morning, and the four of us were in the midst of our lazy, summer wake-up routine. I was casually helping the youngest get dressed for the day when I heard the groan of a large truck trying to find the energy to accelerate down the street. It took me a moment to realize that that sound belonged to the garbage truck, and I ran to my son’s window to see if Matt had taken down the trash cans.

No.

I rushed down the stairs, slipped on some flip-flops and headed out the back door toward the pails parked by the fence. I pushed open the gate and drug the full recycling container down to the front just in time to see the truck turning out of my neighborhood. I wasn’t sure if that was the garbage truck or recycling truck, though, so I sprinted back up the driveway and repeated the same routine with the full trash can.

And then I ran inside. I knew better.

I was gone for at least five minutes, and five minutes was plenty of time for the gates of hell to swing wide open.

I sprinted up the stairs, for I heard quiet, a sound I’ve grown to fear. Panicked, I made my way down the angular hallway to the very last room upstairs–our bathroom. Sitting on the floor in a pillow of eyeshadow and powder dust was my daughter, daintily painting her face with the mascara wand she was rhythmically dipping in my bottle of foundation.

Scooping her and the make-up up in giant swoop, I took to cleaning her face and hands. I plugged in the vacuum and sucked up the evidence of how she spent her last five minutes and then headed downstairs to search for the other two. After all, it had now been ten minutes since we had had meaningful interaction.

Downstairs Chloe and I went to find Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum scaling the shelves of the pantry. Every box of cereal was opened, paper cups lined up and half full with the contents of the boxes. Chocolate smiles gave away that they had dessert first. After a quick reprimand, I ordered the kids to their chairs for breakfast, not sure if the oldest two have any room left for this meal, and I strapped Chloe in her booster seat, thankful that at least she can’t get down and wreak any more havoc at the moment.

Or so I thought.

Distracted by the first three episodes of the morning, I didn’t think through what I needed to do before strapping Chloe into her seat. As I poured the milk into the cereal bowl, the jarring sounds of I go pee-pee! echoed throughout the house.

Unstrapped the two-year-old tornado, reminded her the warning works better if she tells me before she pees all over the floor, took off the soaked underpants, and handed her paper towels to help clean up the mess.

It was closer to brunch than breakfast, and I was chomping on Zoloft like they’re Skittles in between each bite of organic cereal. You know, the healthy choice to start off my day right.

And through each bite of cereal, I began to think What could I have done better?

But of course, the answer is nothing. But I could think of something that my husband should’ve done before he left for work.

No, taking out the trash isn’t a life or death issue, but it is a mental health issue. Husbands, remember that fact.

Disclaimer: For the record, none of the events following the make-up ordeal actually happened on that day, but they totally could’ve–we just had a good day. I am writing from experience, so, husbands, heed my words!

Holden Caulfield and Me

It’s funny how a seemingly insignificant event can trigger memories that just won’t leave, memories that come back to visit over the course of weeks, perhaps months, with no particular reason why. For me, it all started with lemon pepper shrimp.

We first visited P.F. Chang’s when a cousin sent my mom coupons in the mail. One visit, and we were in love. Over the course of our marriage, Matt and I counted this restaurant as one of our favorites, and since it is located in front of the mall and movie theater, half of our dinner and a movie choice was always easy to make.

But while it was our favorite, we didn’t frequent the restaurant regularly. For a long stretch, date nights were rare, going out to eat an occasional treat, so when we did walk past the giant horse statues and pull open the large doors of P.F.Chang’s, I knew before we sat down what I would order for my meal: Lemon Pepper Shrimp

Who knew when I would get to come back, so why would I risk ordering a dish that I didn’t love, a dish that might sour my experience? I rarely deviated from my plan. In the spirit of compromise, I would agree to another dish if Matt and I wanted to share an entree, but nothing ever tasted as good as that shrimp.

And then we visited a few weeks ago. The hostess placed a menu in front of me with which I was not familiar. The layout was different. The prices were higher. And the shrimp was missing. I thought, perhaps, I overlooked my dish in the midst of new menu items and different fonts, but after inquiring, my fear was confirmed–no lemon pepper shrimp. In fact, all of the lemon dishes had been removed.

As ridiculous as it sounds, I sighed and hung my head low as I held onto that menu, searching for another dish that I’d even want to try. And a sadness crept into my belly.

I thought about that first dinner with a table full of food, sharing with my parents and sister, tasting a bite of Matt’s food, and the smiles and laughter on all of our faces. I thought about the celebratory meal Matt and I shared in our power suits, enjoying an early dinner on our way back from successful Air Force interviews. And I thought about our meal at the corner table with a new baby boy asleep in his car seat. I looked over the menu, the new look, and I thought to myself this isn’t the same place as it was then.

And then I thought of Holden Caulfield and the book I’ve read at least three or four times. Over the years, I’ve found so many truths from that depressed, rebellious boy in The Catcher in the Rye:

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. (Salinger, 121)

I understand him. I understand the comfort he found from that museum. And I understand that perhaps I disliked the Laser Show this year, not so much because they took out Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA,” but because it was different. After 25 years of nothing major being different except for me, the show had changed.

And after ten years of enjoying lemon pepper shrimp, I had to find a new favorite. But I really don’t want to. Perhaps I don’t like change–sure, I’ve moved across the country for a drastic career change and had my share of adventure–but there’s comfort in having those places in which to return that will always look the same, smell the same, taste the same. There’s comfort in knowing that I won’t be disappointed.

Maybe that’s why a different menu brought to mind so many memories. Maybe that’s why a different menu brought a tinge of sadness. I don’t want to be disappointed. I want comfort. (And, truthfully, I just really wanted that shrimp)

The First Date

I knew him from church. I was 16; he was older, and one day he walked up to me and asked if I’d like to go to the laser show with him. I don’t remember why I had to drive (I think his mom didn’t feel comfortable with him driving me in their open-aired vehicle), but I remember pulling down his driveway and feeling a little nervous as he got into my car.

But off we went. We spread out a blanket on the lawn of Stone Mountain and had a picnic over easy conversation. And it was easy. In fact, I have never been on a first date where the conversation flowed so easily. We talked and laughed until the light of day faded away and the giant lasers could be see on the side of the dark mountain. I’m sure mosquitos had their fill on our skin during that hot Georgia evening, but I don’t remember minding.

After the show was over, we stopped for ice cream and managed to stretch our date a little longer until it was time to return to our parents who were checking their clocks on their nightstands. He gave me the cd of Garth Brooks he had brought along for the ride since I mentioned he was the only country singer I could tolerate. And then he smiled and said, “I had a really good time.” “I did, too” I answered.

And I did.

The nervousness returned as I silently prayed that he wouldn’t kiss me (and he didn’t), and then I drove home.

I had a lot of fun with this young man, and I had no complaints about the date–he was polite, he paid, and we had meaningful conversation in the midst of fun–but I knew right then and there that I did not want to date him.

I didn’t have any feelings for him beyond friendship, and I didn’t want to lead him to believe that I felt otherwise. So as my over-analytical self is apt to do, I instantly began worrying over how to turn him down for another date. I knew he would ask for another–we had had a great time–and how does one tell another I had a wonderful time, probably the best I’ve ever had on a date, but I don’t want to go out with you again. When I think about you kissing me, I feel weird.

Luckily, I got grounded. I went to see the USA baseball team in the Olympics with my friend and her family, and even though I was with her family the whole time, my dad didn’t like that we came home from the Olympics late. Even though the Olympics are a rare sporting event to visit one’s city. Even though I rode with my friend and her parents and couldn’t come home until they came home. But I digress.

So when he called and asked if I’d like to go to the Olympics with him, I answered a little too perky “I’m actually grounded because of them.” “You’re grounded because of the Olympics?” he asked, clearly questioning my story.

And I briefly explained how an ill-fated trip to see Olympic baseball had me grounded for the week. I didn’t act like I was upset. I didn’t offer an alternative date for once my punishment was lifted. I simply said I couldn’t, and that was the end of the conversation.

He was hurt, and I’m sure he didn’t understand because I didn’t really understand, and then his hurt turned to anger. He never spoke to me again until a chance meeting in a parking lot where he mentioned that he thought all Christians were hypocrites.

A few years went by; we had gone our separate ways to college and met once again at our home church. He apologized for what he had said previously, and I forgave him. No hard feelings. And then, once again, he gave it another try, contacting me at school.

I thought I had been upfront and honest. I told him I didn’t want to start dating, but he asked for one date, and I agreed. I can’t remember the details of the date, but I remember him driving me back to my dorm after a nice evening. I told him “thank you,” and then I ended the date. I couldn’t ask him up to my room–my roommate was in there sleeping, I was sure, and I thought that gesture would imply something I didn’t want to imply. I could’ve asked him into the lobby, but I guess I didn’t see the point. And he didn’t see the point in continuing a friendship since a friendship wasn’t what he wanted.

I don’t know why I wasn’t interested in a person with whom I always had a good time. I don’t know why I didn’t feel any attraction. It had nothing to do with looks, but he didn’t give me that tingle in my stomach when we were together.

He didn’t cause me to get giddy when I thought about him. He didn’t bring a smile to my face at the mere mention of his name. He didn’t inspire me to stay up until crazy hours of the night because I wanted to hold onto one more minute before we finally said ‘goodnight.’

But one man did.

I can rattle off a hundred reasons why I love this man, but I can’t explain why the attraction grew when it did. Some things are a mystery…

…but perhaps part of the mystery of attraction is that I instinctively knew with whom I wanted to weather my toughest storms. I knew the man with whom I wanted to share my ‘in sickness and in health.’ And I knew the man with whom I would create some gorgeous children.

Or maybe I didn’t.

But someone else looking out for us did.

Regardless of the reason for the attraction, I am thankful. Thankful for the man with whom I have spent nine years. Thankful to Him who guides us and for each additional day together He gives. And thankful that some dates didn’t go past the first.

Flowers Matt gave for our anniversary last week. He remembered I had stargazer lilies in my wedding bouquet.

Linking up with Mama Kat for her Writer’s Workshop.