Moving on (again)

In a little over a month, my husband and I are moving. We bought a house (!) with two staircases, and a yard, and a porch, and a clawfoot tub (!!).

Yes, I’m really excited about the tub. As soon as I saw it, I knew this house was perfect for us–which may be a slight exaggeration, but in all reality it probably comprises at least 60% percent of the reason I’m so excited to move in.

Once we got inside, it took about ten minutes for us to decide we wanted to buy the house, with its original wood floors and french doors and attic suite bedroom. To some that probably seems a bit fast, especially since it was only the third house we’d seen in our search. But we’d been praying about finding a home for months–and if I know anything about prayer, it’s that it builds confidence. We were confident God had led us to this house.

And, as Zac and I have been saying for the last couple months of looking, almost anything would be a step up from our current situation.

For the past year we’ve been living in a tiny studio apartment. Tiny isn’t the bad part–in fact I think it’s been pretty cozy (although working from home here has started to feel a little like being trapped belowdecks in a fairly spacious pirate ship cabin).

There are no windows, just a sliding glass door through which the sunlight occasionally finds its way.

The kitchen has about two feet of counter space. The one time I’ve baked a non-batter bread in this apartment, I had to knead it on my kitchen table. There are no drawers in which to put silverware, like a sane person–instead, we’ve spend a year snatching our utensils out of a small and overworked caddie that I bought at Walmart four years ago. The sink is crammed between the counter and the wall, with barely space enough for one person and their elbows.

And, two of four burners on our ancient stove absolutely refuse to produce any heat.

My frustrations with the kitchen have been manageable, but it’s time to spread out. I want room to dance in my kitchen, because dancing is sometimes the only thing that makes the tedious task of baking bearable.

And I want burners that work!

I want my own walls to put nails in, and finally hang up the art that’s been collecting dust in my very accommodating mother’s office closet. I want a toilet seat lid that’s made of ceramic, not flimsy plastic. I want three–no, four–storage closets,and space for an extra bookshelf (or six). I want to be able to walk into my bathroom without worrying about stepping on cat litter.

More than anything, though, I am so ready to be free of this apartment and the strange, ever-changing smells it greets us with every day. Soon we will leave all the accumulated fumes of thirty neighbors behind, and simply live among stenches we have created ourselves–or can at least identify.

I will not miss this apartment, though I am grateful for the time I’ve shared here with people I love. This tiny, half-functioning kitchen is where I learned to cook brashly and without regard for consequences. This bathroom is where I watched my kitten grow up, by measuring her against the size of the sink. This table is where we’ve shared dinner and board games with lovely friends. This is the place where I packed a suitcase for our honeymoon. This is the home where our marriage began.

Thinking about moving on from this apartment reminds me of all the times I’ve moved on in the past five years. Some of those places I miss, like the suite-style dorm I shared with three friends my sophomore year. That suite had the best windows of any place I’ve lived, besides my parents’ house.

Other places I was happy to leave. I even wrote a joyful good-riddance ode to my freshman dorm, which happened to be in the basement (worst windows of all), for this very blog. It felt so good to leave and never want to come back to that bug-filled place. Like a much-needed haircut.

Neither I nor my husband have stayed in the same place for more than nine months during the last several years. But now we’re looking forward to being in a new place–one we can fit more than five people into, where we can put down some tentative roots, and hope to stay awhile, rather than looking for the next waystation.

Will our new home be quiet, devoid of humming machinery and strange thumping sounds, the source of which we’ve never been able to deduce? I may actually miss the air conditioner here and its lively buzz that comes to interrupt my thoughts. But then again, maybe not.

Our new home will not be perfect, but it will be ours, and that’s what makes this change so exciting. New challenges of home-ownership– like having two toilets to clean, and yard work, and wooden siding–await. It’s time to move on.

All the bad things

Fear does interesting things to people.

I don’t think I have to elaborate for you to know exactly what I’m talking about. Our lives are filled with reasons to be afraid–not just right now, but always. Though we seem, at this moment in history, to be in a season when fear is taking hold in bigger sweeps.

I am, and have always been, a fearful person. My imagination tends to run away with my thoughts and hold them hostage in the dark aloneness of night. As a child, I struggled some nights to sleep, because the shadows conjured thoughts of lurking beasts, abduction and abandonment, and what small traumas I had experienced at that point in my small life. Fear would take hold of me. I would awake with sobs from nightmares whose realness crossed the border from dreams to waking.

Many times after such night terrors I would turn on the light in my room. Familiar colors and shapes comforted me. Sometimes I would creep into my parents’ bedroom, just to hear their breathing and know they were still alive, their presence a protective force around me. My mother would come and sing me the words to Psalm 23 when I called out from my bed in panic. I slept with the blanket she’d made me as a baby until I moved away to college–and whenever it was in the laundry I couldn’t force myself to sleep.

I’d read stories that would anchor me to reality–stories so fantastical they could never be real, like The BFG, or so real they brought me out of the imaginary darkness, like Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Stories that brought me hope, that even those seemingly small and powerless could overcome darkness. And, many times, a book of Garfield comics–in fact, I perused its pages so often I could recite each comic from memory.

Strange to think how I spend so many of my formative hours huddled in my blankets, surrounded by loving teddy bears, warding off the evil I feared so much with the words of people I had never met. Maybe that is partly the reason why, for so many years, I’ve found comfort and delight in being surrounded by books, why every surface in our apartment is laden with stories, why it feels wrong to me when I enter someone else’s home and there’s not a book in sight. It’s certainly at least part of the reason why I now feel compelled to share my own words, my own stories, with the world.

As I got older, my fears turned to other things, things more real and sometimes scarier. In high school I began to hunt through the Bible for words of comfort, courage, and peace, and I stuck them on sticky notes to my door. In the middle of the night I would recite these verses to myself. Something in me understood the power of words, without being able to explain it–that these words, these truths, when uttered into the darkness, bring light and life and hope.

Since that time, have I experienced fear? Definitely. Many times. But all the while I knew that God had me, that He was and is bigger than any of my fears, and He never leaves His children. That assurance is my strength, my courage. It shields me from the lie of darkness. I call on Him in my fear, and He holds me in His arms, singing words of comfort to me.

This past weekend was Easter weekend, and to some that didn’t really matter and never has, but for those of us who call Jesus our Savior, the weeks leading up to this joyous day have been filled with the unfamiliar and uncomfortable–change, and certainly loneliness. And fear. The fear is real right now, for many of us.

But I am not afraid–with Christ as my assurance, fear can’t hold me anymore. Because on Easter morning, Jesus defeated fear. He defeated evil, and darkness, and death. He rose from the grave in glorious triumph, and we can be risen alongside Him, never again to be conquered–instead, through Him, made conquerers of all the bad things.

Psalm 91:

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
    will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
    my God, in whom I trust.”

Surely he will save you
    from the fowler’s snare
    and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his feathers,
    and under his wings you will find refuge;
    his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
You will not fear the terror of night,
    nor the arrow that flies by day,
nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
    nor the plague that destroys at midday.
A thousand may fall at your side,
    ten thousand at your right hand,
    but it will not come near you.
You will only observe with your eyes
    and see the punishment of the wicked.

If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,”
    and you make the Most High your dwelling,
no harm will overtake you,
    no disaster will come near your tent.
For he will command his angels concerning you
    to guard you in all your ways;
they will lift you up in their hands,
    so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
    you will trample the great lion and the serpent.

“Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him;
    I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
He will call on me, and I will answer him;
    I will be with him in trouble,
    I will deliver him and honor him.
With long life I will satisfy him
    and show him my salvation.”

The Best Day Ever

There’s a lot of cynicism about weddings and marriage out there, and sometimes for good reason. People sometimes behave terribly. It only makes sense that in some cases, people would make marriage look like a terrible idea. Or like it takes all the fun and flavor out of life.

I haven’t been married all that long (8 months last Saturday, actually), and I’m sure there will be many days in the future that I mark as significantly good days. But the memory of my wedding day will always be one of the most purely happy and tranquil memories I have. I definitely have no scruples at this moment about saying it was the best day of my life.

Not only because I achieved a lifelong dream and married my favorite person, but because the entire day I was surrounded by my best friends, and I genuinely can’t remember a time I ever felt less stressed. Which, if you know me, is a pretty big deal.

Most of my wedding day was spent preparing for the actual wedding. We had an evening ceremony–7pm, to be exact, which was our coy way of refuting any responsibility for serving our guests dinner. Instead, there was a dessert bar, replete with every good kind of sweet (and some rice pudding, which I guess some people like).

The chocolate-covered strawberries, decorated in white sheaths and smart tuxedos, had been picked up the day before, the chocolate swan was awaiting its place of honor right next to the 3-tiered, lemon-curd-filled cake, everything had been baked and packed neatly into various cute little candy dishes.

All the decorations–the jars which would hold the floating candles for the centerpieces, the greenery, the tablecloths, the pew bows, bouquets and boutonnieres, were set aside far in advance, most having been hand-picked and arranged by my mother, sister, and me over the last 3 months. Mom’s dress from her wedding 26 years ago had been altered, the princess sleeves removed, the train trimmed, and was hanging, freshly steamed, on my bedroom door, ready to be worn once again.

Having the whole day before the ceremony meant that even with all the preparations, we could still take it easy. I woke up that morning at 7:30, after a surprisingly good night’s sleep, and spent some silent time praying. My friend Mimi and I met for tea and donuts at Lamar’s (the best), and from there she came to my house, where I set about steaming her light gray bridesmaid’s dress. Not something I would generally do for fun, but any moment spent with Mimi that weekend was a treasure, because I hadn’t seen her since we walked at graduation together, and she had plans to spend the next year studying abroad in England.

She had flown to Omaha from Mackinac Island, probably the second most beautiful place in the world, just to be in my wedding.

Early in the afternoon we headed to the church to get everything ready. All my bridesmaids were there to help. Taylor brought her bluetooth speaker for the necessary tunes, Sarah–in true Sarah fashion–arrived with arms and purse overflowing with every imaginable party snack, Emily (honorary interior decorator of my life) gladly took charge of any decoration that needed her attention. My sister Julia did most everything else (she, along with Mom, deserves much of the credit for making this wedding happen).

We had so much fun together, prepping and snacking and taking weird photos of each other. I’m so blessed to have shared my wedding day with those women, who make me feel supported and loved and witty and like I deserve to be happy. They are the friends that got me through the tough days, the long studying sessions, the endless bus rides, the event-less summers, the monotony of muggle life.

Julia, Emily, Taylor, Sarah, Mimi–you are the reason (besides my husband) that August 4th, 2019 was the best day ever. And I can’t wait to be there with each of you on your most special of days.

(Everyone except Emily, that is, because you found and married your true love years ago, you old lady. But here’s to the special day you’re anticipating now–I’m so happy for you.)

Cheers to you all, my lovelies. I love you