Category Archives: Faith Musings

Rethinking Women’s Ministry. Period.

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Last winter, a thought-provoking blog post by author Sarah Bessey laid bare a few flaws of women’s ministry in the church, and it created a buzz around some of my Facebook circles.

Bessey talked about wanting to be part of something more than a safe, cutesy women’s ministry – she was “hungry for authenticity and vulnerability, not churchified life hacks from lady magazines.”

It hit a few nerves. The comments rolled in, but as a newly minted women’s ministry leader at our Christian Missionary Alliance church, I admittedly liked the conversation. It was helpful to hear women finally talk about what they wanted in a church’s women’s ministry, and what they didn’t.

Then, a few months later, I was asked to plan a women’s ministry event for our church missions festival.

*Gulp*

Suddenly, it occurred to me why women’s ministry defaults to what Bessey calls cutesy. Cutesy is easy. We know how to order cookies and lay out napkins. We are masters of coffee pots and tea baskets. Someone always knows someone who can speak in front a group, and the rest of us lean back in our chairs, legs crossed, waiting to receive some catch phrase we can scribble in our journal.

But I now knew my church had a group of women who wanted more. More what, exactly was still 6:00 am fog to me. What could we do that would tangibly be ministry? Was it possible to be true to ministry’s Greek roots and diakoneo – actually serve?

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Because that’s the rub, isn’t it? When we spout off about not wanting cupcake tutorials and the latest and greatest Christian women’s book written anywhere south of Kansas, what we’re really saying is we want a chance to serve. 

Serve others. Each other. Anyone really, except ourselves. We already know how to do that. We know all too well how to do that. 

If we’re really following what Jesus teaches, we’re trying to die to the selfish parts of ourselves, so that we can be ready to meet the needs of others.

Real needs.

That’s where I wanted to start. So I hopped on the computer and emailed Becky and Hedi, our mission workers in Segou, Mali that I partnered with in prayer and fasting this past spring. They had an idea. Had we ever heard of homemade, washable, reusable maxi pads?

Someone had once given them a few to pass out, and they were CRAZY well-received among the women they worked with. These women didn’t have the income or the access to clean, necessary items to accommodate their biological needs.

My response had at least four or five exclamation marks.

Yes!!! Yes!!!! Yes!!!!! The Martha in me was already buying fabric, setting up sewing machines, and cutting thread. (Never mind that I myself have the sewing skills of a sea cucumber.) Here was something our group of women could actually DO together. Age didn’t matter. Skill level didn’t matter. People could cut! Layer! Coordinate! Pin! Sew! Trim! Snap!

SERVE.

The event went beautifully. I say beautifully, because there’s nothing quite like watching a skilled group of women use their talents to help someone else. What wasn’t finished that day is still showing up in the church office, and we’re guessing over a hundred pads will be the final tally. We’ll package two pads with two pairs of underwear in a ziplock bag, which will be given to fifty girls and women in the Hands of Honor and prison ministries that our mission workers head up in Segou.

Amazing. Real. Ministry.

If you’re a gal reading this post on your own phone, computer, or device, chances are you’re part of the 10% of our world’s females who have regular, affordable access to disposable feminine products. That means 90% of women DON’T have that kind of access.

But you have the means to do something about it.

You can start sewing. Or if you can’t sew, you can organize a group of women to sew and help them cut fabric. You can tell your women’s ministry leaders about this idea. My event ran off of donated fabric and people’s sewing machines set up in our church great room – simple stuff, nothing fancy. If you’re interested in partnering with Hands of Honor or want to pick my brain about setting up your own event, please comment below and I’ll connect with you!

Meanwhile, if you’re curious about just what a reusable, washable homemade maxi pad looks like, or how to make one, check out the simple instructions below. (And if you’re a real seamstress, forgive my lack of actually sewing knowledge. If you come up with a better way to do this, by all means, run with it!)

Reusable Washable Homemade Maxi Pad Sewing Instructions

Lay out the fabric

  1. Assemble your fabric. You’ll need: fleece, flannel, and waterproof PUL diaper cover material.
  1. Cut your fabric. You’ll need two different sizes – the square body of the pad, and the rectangles for absorbency. Rotary cutters are great for this, but fabric scissors work too.
    1. 6 ½ x 6 ½ inch squares
    2. 3 x 9 inch rectangles
  1. Layer your squares- Fleece on bottom, flannel on top. Turn it so it looks like a diamond, with points on top and bottom.
  1. Now layer your rectangles from one point of the square to the bottom. (There will be overlap.) Start with the waterproof rectangle, patterned side down. Add the fleece rectangle, and then lay the flannel rectangle on top.
  1. reusable-washable-homemade-maxi-pads 3 (1026x1280)If you’re a pinner, pin the rectangles to the squares. If you are prone to pinning mishap (me) skip this step.
  1. Round the top and bottom of the diamond with a fabric scissors or rotary cutter. This is optional, but does makes the pad fit nicely in the underwear.
  1. Fire up your sewing machine. Keeping all layers together, start with a zig zag stitch and work your way around the inner rectangle. Once you’ve done that, zig zag around the edges. Now do it again, around both the inner and outer pad, to reinforce the stitching.
  1. With a scissors, trim any excess outside of the zig zag stitching.
  1. reusable-washable-homemade-maxi-pads 6 (844x1280)Time for snaps! Lay out your four snap pieces: Two that look like tacks, and two that snap into one another.
  1. Using a snapper tool set, poke a hole ¼ of an inch inside the zig zag edge of the square pad on both sides. Place one snap with the closure side down, and the other side with the closure side up. (When the wings are folded beneath the underwear, the snaps should click into one another.)
  1. Press the snaps into place. The smooth side of the snap goes on the bottom of the snapper, followed by the fabric, then the top side of the snap. Squeeze strongly to secure snap. Repeat on the other side.

Voila. You’re a pad-sewing rockstar with a mission!

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The Amateur Farm Hour series

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A few weeks back, I told you how I realized that sometimes, the only way to start is to START. Meanwhile, I’ve had an idea in my head for a couple of months now. I’ve waffled over the best platform for it, and have learned a couple of things along the way. 1. I belong in the blogging-for-dummies camp, technically speaking. I can talk a little talk, but when it comes to SEO and monetizing and GIMPing up my pictures, I’m too busy sniffing out the culprit of that mysterious stench upstairs (you don’t want to know) and scrubbing crayon off the kitchen floor. And 2. I have about thiiiiiiiiiiiis much time to focus on developing new ideas. See #1.

That was a long, roundabout way to tell you that for now, we’re simply starting a new series around here called Amateur Farm Hour. 

Yep.

Amateur Farm Hour. Because let’s be real.

What I’m doing is all amateur. I’m not trendily clad in buffalo plaid and shooties when I’m cleaning the chicken coop. (Okay. Shooties might not even be a thing anymore. I’m that behind.) I’m wielding a shovel that’s actually dirty, and a pair of worn out garden gloves that barely keep crud off.

My children aren’t always instagram-ready. Half the time, my eldest is in some sort of off brand pajamas. Ponytails are wonky, pants are too short. Shoes are a crap shoot.

What I put on the table is 50% awesome, and 50% overcooked/underdone/fallen/substituted/unpinteresting fare.

And pictures. Let’s talk about pictures. Because you know there’s the crop tool. The lightening, brightening, color temperature filtering options. Yes, good pictures tell a story. But rarely is it the whole truth.

The whole truth is that I could sell you on my attempts at a sustainable family lifestyle. I could talk blithely about our free-range chickens and their glorious golden-yolked eggs. I could probably manage some stunning shots of our heirloom Wealthy and Honeycrisp apple trees. I could show you my freezer full of labeled bags of garden veggie sauce from our raised-bed garden. Hashtag. Hashtag. Hashtag.

Meanwhile, you might think I have it all together, and follow this series because it’s a pretty place to find funny farm stories and fall recipes and to see cute kids.

And we’d both miss the point.

***

Yesterday, I grabbed an extra gallon of milk from the store. (For the record, that made four gallons of milk in my cart. Apparently we need a cow.) My goal was to make yogurt since the girls have been on another one of their crazes, and the new mantra/chant at breakfast is now MORE. BIG. YOGURT. PWEEEEESE.

We got home, and somewhere in the middle of the chaos, I pulled the soup kettle out of the cupboard, dumped a gallon of milk in it, plopped it on a lit burner, and put the lid on. Homemade yogurt is a multi-step process, and since it was already 4:00 pm, I needed to get moving.

And then I glanced out the door. The girls were rolling down the hill in the front yard, busting out peals of laughter.

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My oldest called out for me to come and join them, and it took all of three seconds to abandon kitchen ship, grab my camera, and run outside for the next hour.

We finally all piled back in the door around 6:00 pm, red-faced and covered in grass. I issued an immediate bath edict, but my nose was already starting to smell something else: the odd, semi-sweet fragrance of boiling milk. Boiling. Crap. 

Boiling means the milk is at least twenty degrees over the 180 degree desired warming point. Which means I’d basically annihilated my chance at having the yogurt culture.

Double crap.

I should have dumped the pot and moved on. A trained chef would not have thought twice about starting over. Unfortunately for me (and everyone around me), I’m not a trained chef. I’m a product of frugal parents and depression-era grandparents, and if there’s one thing that irks me, it’s waste.

After all, I could make…. a lot of hot cocoa with that milk. *gulp*

Which is why I added the yogurt starter, agave nectar and vanilla anyway. You know, because instead of wasting one item, it’d be better to waste four. Brilliant, I know.

Three hours into incubation, the yogurt refused to set.

I had also reached max capacity for any task involving real energy (mombie zone) so I haphazardly rearranged a fridge shelf, shoved the entire soup pot of warm yogurt-not-yogurt in, and went to bed kicking myself for ruining the batch.

_20150926_065517The next morning, I opened the fridge and stared at the pot. It was time to start getting creative. What could I use sweet, yogurt-laced milk for? Right. Muffins of some sort. I pulled out the mixer and got started. I made it halfway through the recipe before I took the lid off the pot to grab a cup of milk.

Miracle of small miracles, it had cultured.

I practically danced it to the counter. The yogurt wasn’t thick, but it was rich, creamy, and sweet. And aside from my failure to tend it properly, it still made something good. It was allowed to become something good because I didn’t give up. I waited for another angle. A new idea.

Maybe that’s how it goes in your kitchen, or in your office, or at your table too. Great ideas, good intentions, and then wham. Distraction. Need. Real life headbutts creative life and suddenly everyone’s knocked out on the floor.

Please don’t let that stop you.

Don’t throw away your messes, your failures, your imperfect attempts. You are not defined by these things. I believe you are fluid, and your definition rests in the cupped hands of God – God the creator, God the author, God the perfecter and finisher.

He doesn’t give up on you. He doesn’t see you as failed yogurt. He does not see your bad day at work or your temper with loved ones as who you ARE.

He understands amateur.

He knows sometimes, it’s the best show in town because those folks are having fun. They may not be doing everything right, but they have a good time trying.

That’s what we’re doing around here. Having a good time trying. It’s not always picture perfect or hipster-worthy, and that’s okay.

It’s amateur farm hour. And you’re invited.

In between posts, you can laugh along at my #amateurfarmhour pics on Instagram (@rachelriebe). Like how this series is starting off? Share it with a friend! See you next week!

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Because fashion blogging is slightly hilarious to me… tank top – past season Gap outlet. Pants – worn out Athleta jeggings. Little girl hairband/wrist bracelet – Walmart. Blade of grass kazoo – sustainable product of Riebe Farms.

The (pre)School Transition

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It’s the Tuesday after Labor Day, which means one thing. If life were a musical, summer’s starring role is about to end. Her arms have been wide with bright days and lingering sun. She’s thrown her head back and sung rain storms. She’s dazzled us with gardens and greenery and growth.

But somehow, we’ve reached curtain call.

This morning, buses and carpools are depositing eager children at the front steps of schools. A new round of kids with combed hair and new backpacks will pop up on my news feed (bless you, Minnesota, for starting school after Labor Day.) Parents everywhere will be shocked for a moment by the palpable presence of quiet, the rearrangement of family dynamics.

Tomorrow is our eldest’s first day of preschool. And like most days, I’m sure she’ll run down the sidewalk toward the van, sun-bleached hair swinging, and for a few minutes, it will feel like any other outing. Three sets of buckles. The usual haggling over watching a show. Keys. Air conditioning blasting from the vents. Some sort of phantom squeal from the hood of my van.

And then, somehow, we’ll be at the double doors of school. We’ll navigate the halls and stairs to the preschool room, where I’ll gently nudge my daughter, blinking and tentative, onto a new stage.

Thankfully, preschool is like a year or two of dress rehearsal for the real deal. We’ll practice stepping in and out of a new routine for a couple of afternoon hours, three days a week, but not much else will change. At least in theory.

By this time, I’m sure you’ve read your share of articles and blog posts about this, so I won’t bore you with the nostalgic/sad bits about how I remember my first fall with my infant daughter, how I carried her everywhere in a baby backpack so she could see the wild brilliance of September’s colors firsthand, and how now she’s all grown up and going to school. *Sniff*

What I will tell you is that during that season of transition, I had to fight off darkness every single day. I was on maternity leave and my deadline for going back to work was approaching too fast. And while I tried to make the most of my time with my firstborn, much of it was tinged with sad. With fear of leaving her. Of adjusting to parts of my life without her, and vice versa. It seemed that from the moment she was put in my arms, I had to start practicing how to let go.

But it wasn’t just about letting go. It was about trust. 

I had to trust that I wasn’t the only one that was supposed to raise my child.

That in her lifetime, there would be a series of caregivers, teachers, aides, helpers, leaders, and professors in charge of her well-being. That other people were meant to be a part of her development.

As much as I hated having to accept this new concept in the beginning, I’m now incredibly grateful for it. It’s not about shifting responsibility or shuffling childcare duties.

It’s the widening of my daughter’s knowledge and the deepening of her experience.

It’s faith that she’s meant to be a citizen at large in this world, and that each instance of my letting go is the broadening of her capability. When she walks into that classroom, she will get to practice being a person outside of the context of our family.

And I’ll find (yet another) instance to practice trust. To kiss her and tell her she’s strong, she’s smart, and that she’ll do great. To believe those things enough in my heart to convey them to her with words.

Starting school could be another transition filled with worry and fear, if I let it. I question my daughter’s ability to listen and obey classroom rules the first time, every time. I worry about her strong will and mischievous bent. I wonder how my younger daughters are going to get their full naps in. I already feel constricted by the new schedule that hasn’t even started yet. 

But trust says these things will work themselves out. That it’s no use to worry about tomorrow, or get worked up about what may or may not happen.

Each day has trouble. Each day has grace.

And like any good show, we simply must go on.

The Only Way to Start

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I unlocked the door and pushed the familiar curve of the handle into my old kitchen. I was hoping for good news to share with my husband about our former residence-turned-rental. The former renters had moved out, and a wonderful family was moving in in five days. Meanwhile, I didn’t have huge expectations. Just empty space, wiped down cupboards, maybe even a clean refrigerator.

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Creepy-doll selfie courtesy my four year old

Alas.

Giant black garbage bags squatted in corners, half open, half full of leftover belongings that must not have made the cut. My daughter immediately found a creeptastic purple doll and ran to the bathroom. “She should not be in the garbage. She needs a bath, mama.” I mumbled something incoherent and opened the fridge, appraising the damage of what looked like spilled BBQ sauce. Please let it be BBQ sauce.

I closed the fridge and let my eyes stumble over the entire kitchen. Layers of grime. Dirty woodwork. Spiderwebs draped casually along the walls and in the corners. The rest of the main level was mostly vacant and begging for some serious broom, shop-vac, and window washing love.

I could still hear the water running and my daughter chiding the purple doll. Honey, you have to wash your hair. You have tangles! Hold still! 

I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs, which still creaked and groaned the same song as when we lived there for six years. The second level was only slightly better. One garbage bag, one tube TV that time forgot. Bathroom drawers scattered with broken earrings and crushed bits of blush. A cheap, anise-lavender scented bubble bath gift set still tied in a gaudy gold bow. Broken blinds. Carpet littered with a mysterious miscellany of broken toys, leftover markers, half-sucked candy.

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ALL THE FEELINGS indeed.

I wandered back down to the kitchen. Then back to the dining room. Then back into the kitchen. I picked up a few dusty glasses left on the buffet and put them on the counter. I opened the oven. Coughed. Opened the freezer. Gagged. My arms suddenly felt like hundred pound weights. I was stuck. I stopped and stood there, hostage to ALL THE FEELINGS.

And then I did what any child need of rescue does. I called my mom.

She listened patiently to my list of and this was dirty and that was a mess and this needs to be replaced and there are scratches here and… She gave a few suggestions. We talked through whether or not the oven had a self-cleaning function. Bless it. It did.

But then I started escalating again, whining about how even the screen door was disGUSTING. So start there, she said. Sometimes the best place to start is with what you see first. Then work your way in. That way, the next time you come in from that direction, you won’t be so discouraged.

It made good sense. She promised to pray, and I promised to calm down. My daughter had finally finished washing the doll and was setting up a tea party with some old shot glasses she found in a drawer. I opened the bottom cupboard and found a turkey roasting pan, which paired nicely with a dusty bottle of vinegar left under the sink, some warm water, and a half-used roll of paper towels.

IMG_20150827_084630Because sometimes, the only way to start is to start. 

I’ve seen that saying a hundred times in Instagram and Facebook posts. Usually it’s in block font with a picture of a person running up a path that’s eventually going to lead them up a mountain, or something glorious and motivational like that. It’s never with a background of a dirty door smeared with greasy fingerprints and old ketchup stains. And yet.

The only way to start was really as simple as that.

Start.

Start with what I saw first. With what I knew I could manage. It didn’t matter how bad the whole of it was. The whole was frightening.

But the door? The door was doable. I could handle cleaning a door.

I just had to start.

The House that Love Built

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This is the house. This is the house that love built. Love with all its empty Kleenex boxes and sticky door handles. Love with its scratched table and worn chairs and smudgy windows.  Love with half of a gallon of milk left in the refrigerator and no clean sippee cups.

This is the house for a mama and daddy and three small girls, and even if the arrangement of that shifts from time to time, it is still their home. The wooden floors carry the prints of their toes. The banister bears layer after layer of fingerprinting. The house itself is a failed crime scene – DNA everywhere. Everyone is to blame.

Everyone in this house blames love, and then rolls over laughing. There may be shouting one moment, and hugs the next. Love is a messy creature here, a golden retriever wet with rain, shake, shake, shaking, and the rain becomes blessing and falls like holy water over the whole of the works.

Nothing works in this house. The attempts at air-conditioning, for one. Order, for two. The silverware drawer latch for three. Someday it will all come crashing down, hot and humid, forks and spoons and knives everywhere, silver strewn across the black and white patchwork linoleum, and we will curse under our breath for sake of the girls and warn them, sternly, not to yank on the drawers. Again.

Again happens a lot. This is something we’re still getting used to. Parenting. Over. And Over. The same lessons patiently coming out of our mouths, slightly bitter after months of repetition. Be polite. But not just to be polite. Be kind. Respectful. Respectful means to listen with love. Start with listening. Please.

The littlest ones still say please without the p. Eeease. Eeease. Mulk, eeeese. We smile to ourselves, starting the game all over again. It’s important to be polite. Say please. Just. Say. Please. It’s hard to admit it feels rote.

But rote is routine, and routine is the lifeblood of this house. Routine is safe and healthy and puts everyone quietly in their beds by eight o’clock pm. Routine allows us to clean the kitchen one more time for the day, nesting the pans, wiping the counters. Routine is space, precious small though it may be.

Even routine startles at the computer when little feet shuffle down the stairs, blinking in the dark of the house. It holds loose hands with the four-year-old, ushering her to the bathroom, then carrying her back upstairs, a summer blonde head heavy on the collarbone.

All of this could feel heavy. The imperfect house, the rearranged parents, the sleepless child. Some toy hard and sharp underfoot. Something we kick away because it doesn’t belong in our path. Goodnight, nuisance.

Goodnight. Good morning. Move on. Move on because heaviness is something we are accustomed to, and weight is just something else in our arms. All of these hearts to carry. All of this love.

Braving the Ordinary

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We sat side by side in patio chairs on the lawn, my friend and I, not minding the vacation-length grass rubbing against our ankles. Our sweet kiddos ran back and forth across the yard, checking in occasionally. Warm sun filtered through the leaves, fruity sangria sparkled red in mason jars. Summer spread wide arms around the whole yard.

We talked life and babies-gone-toddlers-gone-school-age, and here and there, we talked words. She had just finished her second book, and I was lamenting my own lack of story. Lack of time. Lack of anything I felt was interesting enough to say.

Because sometimes it feels that way. I am happily caught here, in the American Midwest, a stay at home mom raising my babies and trying to pull zucchini from the garden without getting too many barbs in my hands. Every day is some version of routine. Eggs or cereal or toast for breakfast. Play. Easy lunch. Naps. Making through the long haul of the afternoon. Supper. Baths. Bedtime. Cleanup. Reset. Press start on the dishwasher.

It feels as familiar as summer sun imprinting warmth on my skin. I love it. And yet. Normalcy makes a boring story.

Or does it?

My friend disagreed, saying that the sacred thrives in everyday moments. The ones I often think are too normal, too boring to write about. But the more I thought about it, later folding miniature clothes and setting them in a half moon around me, I had to admit it. She was right.

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Perhaps there’s bravery in living our every day, scheduled out, routine moments. Bravery in holding hands, or pressing our foreheads together, making room for love in the middle of doing the dishes. Bravery in being willing to see double vision – ordinary and extraordinary – when tomatoes turn from flowers into fruit, or the baby who is no longer a baby says eeeeeeeessse as her chubby hands reach for the ice cubes in my water glass.

Miracles in the guise of routine. Seasons. Growth. I could brush them off so easily. After all, tomatoes grow every year. Babies learn to say words. Life is science, all reason and conclusion wrapped into sound bites that embed themselves in our brains.

But bravery says there is also meaning to be made of routine and habit and things that happen both inside and outside of our control.

Bravery says life may be simple and calm, but it is no less worth recording if that’s what it takes to make us hold it up to the light and see the pinpricks of Grace.

We simply have to be willing.

June and the Perfect Imperfection

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June was full of moments. Moments that filled me, steady and constant, like a green water hose in a plastic bucket. I wanted summer every day. I wanted sun and the relaxing drone of the lawnmower cutting fresh tracks across the yard. I wanted little girls bursting out of the front door, ready for play. I wanted LIFE – vibrant greens, newborn kittens curling into my elbow, the violet clematis unfurling wide into every morning.

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I wanted summer legs and bare feet. I wanted trip after trip to the garden to watch the plants coax their growth from dirt. I wanted to hear the satisfying grind and crunch of the pea gravel we hauled in to complete our raised bed garden, bag by fifty pound bag.

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Most of all, I wanted to eat outside. There’s nothing so free and wonderful as laughter and wind and food eaten out of doors. Who cares if the lawn is perfect, the menu is summery enough, or the tablecloths match. It’s the act of eating in the same place the food grew that feels all at once wild and perfect.

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Then there was the other side of June. The side no one photographed. The sad blueness of a sprained ankle. The way my husband’s eyes could barely stay open after surgery. The camera was put away while we coughed and sneezed, and felt our cheeks flush with the pink heat of fever. There was no one taking pictures during the phone call when our renters gave us notice instead of buying the house as formerly planned, and our world fell off kilter as we raced to put our former home back on market.

No cameras. No lenses. And yet, I couldn’t show you all the good things without acknowledging that there are two sides to every coin. That life isn’t always freshly minted, gleaming and perfect in organized rolls. That even in the most perfect of seasons, imperfection is present, and it’s up to us to figure out how to live with them both.

Perfect. Imperfect.

Both hedging in, threatening to glorify or nudge out the other.

And it’s up to us what to make of them. Every time. Every. Single. Time. Because no matter how many things I read or prayers I pour out or conversations I have, the decision of what to dwell on in my mind is as constant as the nagging need for coffee first thing in the morning.

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That whether the moment is picture perfect or camera shy, how I choose to perceive it in terms of the whole is what makes all the difference.

So with that being said, June was wonderful.

Bring on July.

To the Summer Bride

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Dear Summer Brides,

Here’s what Pinterest won’t tell you.bestjpg

You’re probably spending too many hours and too many dollars on things like hair, and those precious little baskets to leave in your reserved block of hotel rooms, and personalized party favors, and centerpieces. These are things no one will remember, unless they are planning their own wedding soon, and in which case they’ll probably rip off from you in friendly good will.

You’ll agonize over the perfect sexy-yet-functional undergarments, only to hurriedly unclasp and peel them down because you can’t breathe after finishing your entire plate at the wedding dinner, and you don’t want to have gas during the best man’s toast.

You’ll love your wedding cake. You might love it so much that you and your husband will refuse to freeze it and will spend the entire honeymoon eating it out of the flimsy, plastic container.

You’ll type in countless searches on unique walk-down-the-aisle music, only to decide on Canon in D because, well, it’s so dang classic.

You’ll stuff your honeymoon suitcase to the brim. You’ll only wear half of it’s contents, half of the time.

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You’ll only think present tense, which means things like going back to work and overdraft fees and having enough money to pay rent that’s due on the 1st seem inconsequential. Let me assure you. They are not.

In fact, dear friend, let me play oracle and talk to you from the future. Let me tell you about the perfect getaway that gets planned for your first anniversary. How good it feels to make it through that first, challenging, finally married year.

Let me tell you how you’ll find a favorite restaurant, and might spend your third, fifth, sixth, and ninth anniversaries ordering the same appetizer, which continues to remain on the menu. How you secretly hope they’ll never take it off.

Let me gently tell you about the other anniversaries. Pregnant ones. Not pregnant ones. Post-pregnant ones. Anniversaries where you don’t quite feel up to the hype, or perhaps don’t have much to celebrate. When you catch him looking at you like Aphrodite, believe him. If he doesn’t, be the one to look at him. Marriage needs give and take.

Let me tell you that on your eleventh anniversary, (yes, it’s still possible to be married eleven years), your husband may schedule a tonsillectomy four days before the sacred anniversary date, and you won’t care a whit. Or that you might spend your anniversary on your in-law’s brown corduroy couch, surrounded by family, celebrating by sharing a half-melted Dairy Queen chocolate malt. And that you might possibly pack said family back in the van for the night, turn around for the diaper bag, and sprain your ankle on a three inch concrete step.

Let me tell you that your love is stronger than any of these things.

Or possibly, that it is stronger because of these things.

Let me tell you that right now, I know you picture your husband-to-be as the STAR of your world. As he should be. Because you are his, and he is yours, and your galaxies are about to collide in brilliance and glory and love has WON, dang it. Your love has WON.

But let me also tell you that while two stars on their own are nice, they don’t make much of a constellation.

That you will need other stars.

That you will be glad you decided to stay closer to family and friends if you have the chance to go anywhere for graduate school, or work. That the seedling friendships you fostered through high school and college can, if they are maintained, grow into one heck of a broad-leafed, oak-strong relationship. The kind that will give up sacred summer Saturday plans to bring you an ankle wrap and make your kids lunch.

Let me assure you that family is always worth fighting for, but not fighting over. Yours, his, and the one you build together.

That you should always live within driving distance of at least one set of grandparents. And that both are even better.

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Dear bride-to-be, don’t forget that while you’re about to become a twosome, the world still needs the very unique personality of you. And that in order to make your marriage do more than float, you’re going to have to agree to paddle. Sometimes upstream. Sometimes alone. Always with the same destination in mind. I pray you’ll make it there together.

Which is something I’ve been able to do for the past eleven years with my best friend, and have never regretted a stroke yet.

Grace and good wishes, dear one.

Bring on the bride.

When Superman takes off his cape

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There’s something about spending time in a hospital. Maybe it’s the way we lock eyes with strangers in the waiting room, or in the hallway, our mutual presence a silent, white flag salute.

We share the ragged moment, because together we, or the ones we love, have learned a terrifying thing.

Image courtesy of thepaperwall.com

We are no longer invincible. Something has stripped the Superman cape from our shoulders, the one that blinds us to the danger of driving a little too fast, climbing too high, reaching for something too far. Failure creeps onto the scene, and suddenly we are shivering like Adam and Eve in the garden, aware of our naked vulnerability for the first time.

No one owes us our lives. Health is not a given. It is a gift.

***

At the beginning of this week, my husband had a tonsillectomy. As he drove us into the Minneapolis cityscape Monday morning, all I could think of was this: if he really wanted to turn the car around and forget this whole thing, he could.

Let’s be real. A tonsillectomy is one of the most painful surgeries an adult can face. But like so many things in life, sometimes we have to remove X to solve for Y. We have to put ourselves in what seems like the way of harm, so that in the aftermath, we find a better way to be strong.

Even if that means choosing to untie our invincibility cape, and agreeing to become weak.

Monday afternoon, as I was about to enter the hospital wing my husband was on, a set of double doors scissored opened and a bed came wheeling through. It took me a second to understand what was happening. There was a doctor in scrubs sitting next to a little boy with wide, dark eyes. The doctor was leaning back on the pillow, arms crossed behind his head, the little boy snuggled into his side. They were riding together on the rolling bed, both dressed in gauzy, puffy blue caps. I can only assume they were on their way to surgery.

The scene caught my breath. I couldn’t stop thinking about what it must have meant to that little boy to have his doctor climb up into his hospital bed and sit next to him.

Or what it would mean if all of us learned how to sit in solidarity with one another’s weakness.

Not try to fix it, right it, vindicate or validate it.

Just sit together.

Feel what one another is feeling.

Encourage one another, and listen without interrupting and interjecting.

To Be together. To sit at the kitchen table, the hospital room, the patch of grass at the park and really, truly hear one another with our hearts. To know that healing craves security, safety, and rest in the face of uncertainty.

To trust that we can supply a measure of that to one another just by being present.

One. More. Day. Homestretch of a 40-day Fast.

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We started at 3:00 am. The blackness at the trail head to Long’s Peak grew even thicker as we left the ranger station and made our way into the section of the trail known as the Goblin’s Forest. The tree branches were beaded with water, and every time we brushed against one of them, miniature showers fell on our heads. Not that we noticed. All attention was focused on the ground, where tree roots lay in a constant tangle, silent, petrified snakes across our path.

Over and over, we banged our toes. Shifted our packs. Squinted ahead into the darkness, wanting to see the ink of night fade to rust, which meant sunrise was approaching. It wasn’t until we hit the switchbacks that dawn started to wash the horizon. We climbed back and forth, a literal zigzag up the mountainside. It’s normally my least favorite part of climbing, but on Long’s Peak, the switchbacks are above treeline, which meant that we had an unobstructed view of the entire progression of the sunrise somewhere around 11,000 feet.

The entire morning was a fight to keep my breath. The air was cold and thin, and my windpipe felt every breath as it warmed on the way into my lungs. The views put words like amazing and spectacular to shame. Light eventually came, and we made it past the major trail milestones: the Boulder Field, the Keyhole, the Trough, the Narrows.

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Photo courtesy http://www.14ers.com. Eleven years ago, we still had a film camera.

And suddenly, I was facing the last section of the trail, the one called the Homestretch.

It was vertical. It required scrambling. I don’t remember if there was a rope, but I do remember the distinct feeling that if I slipped, I would die. I would take out the climbers below me, and I would do a complete and horror-filled free fall off the north face of Long’s Peak.

At that moment, I made what felt like an easy, justifiable decision. I was exhausted, shaking, sore. I was mentally shot. I didn’t need to see the top of the mountain. I was okay with the view from the bottom of the Homestretch.

So I quit.

I crossed my legs, assumed Sitting Bull stubbornness, and reasoned with Jason that I was okay. I wasn’t going to regret not going to the top. Yes, I’d stay right here and wait for him. (Where the stink else would I go?) He gave me about ten minutes to change my mind, and then, with an eye to the clouds and the clock, grabbed the camera, kissed my head, and started climbing.

For the first few minutes, I was content in my decision. I made it this far. It was lovely HERE. I didn’t need to go any further. I talked up my accomplishments to myself, and reclined a little deeper into the rocks behind me.

And then.

An eight year old boy.

Climbed the Homestretch.

In five minutes.

And dang if I was going to be bested by a scrawny-legged-eight-year-old boy.

I attached myself to the next group, and surrounded by their laughter and encouragement and excitement, I climbed the Homestretch. I made it to the summit, which was surprisingly flat. I jumped over prehistoric boulders and surprised my husband with all the stealth of a sixty year old mountain goat with a lame leg. We stood side by side, and stared at the glory of uninhibited landscape views, our eyes traversing miles in milliseconds.

Unforgettable. Truly.

This is the long way of telling you that this has been my last week of the 40-day fast, and yesterday, I told myself I was ready to quit. I listed all the reasons, and I sat by our backyard bonfire and ate pretzels and dip and savored every sweet, sour cream-filled bite.

Except for one thing. Today, (Saturday) is my last day. And when I woke up this morning, all I could think about was Long’s Peak, and a lesson I learned eleven years ago.

Flesh is weak. But weakness can, and should continue, to be overcome.

2 Peter 1:5-9 So don’t lose a minute in building on what you’ve been given, complementing your basic faith with good character, spiritual understanding, alert discipline, passionate patience, reverent wonder, warm friendliness, and generous love, each dimension fitting into and developing the others. With these qualities active and growing in your lives, no grass will grow under your feet, no day will pass without its reward as you mature in your experience of Jesus.

Saying no to the self for the sake of another, growing to understand prayer in a new, more effective way, learning to love lives half way across the world – these things are a priceless experience.

They are worth one more day.