Thinner than ever, hair halfway down my back & fixed every day, with a year-round tan.
Dating a hunk of a man, roaming our college campus, playing sports and traveling together. Eating out whenever we pleased, buying extravagant gifts for each other & dreaming of the someday.
Dating looked good on me.
Over the moon.
The ring shone like nothing I’d ever worn before. Princess cut, just like I asked for. He knew me so well. He even asked my Dad for his blessing- and got it. Starry eyed.
We planned our house, picked and registered for just the right colors and went to marriage counseling which we just knew we were too prepared to learn anything from.
We couldn’t wait for that ONE day.
Engagement looked good on us.
Nothing prepares you for that first morning of waking up next to the man of your dreams. It was literally the stuff of dreams… We booked our own hotel room, came and went when we chose, and asked no one’s opinion but our own.
We were finally living that day.
Marriage felt right to us.
Then we came home from our honeymoon to an oil-heated house…without oil.
I cried. This wasn’t the “life.” The life that I signed up for was the honeymoon mountain cabin…the warm one with a crackling turned-on-by-a-button fireplace, 2 huge flatscreen TV’s, and sparkling grape juice on mountain-view balconies.
Our dish soap had congealed, the toilet seat would’ve made a polar bear squirm, and there may have been an occasion where milk (forgotten atop the counter overnight) didn’t go bad…or even get warm.
These days, the house is warm, and the dish soap remains liquid, but I don’t feel quite so glamorous. Our goings and comings aren’t quite as carefree as they once were, and my stylishness has all but disappeared – replaced by some pounds I can’t seem to lose, a stained t-shirt from trying to wrangle a PBJ schmeared toddler, hair pulled back for lack of time that morning to fix it, and jeans that could have been washed that week.
I begin to think, “This life…it doesn’t look good on me, or feel good to me.”
Then my toddler looks at me and says “Debu lub you Nana!” Or my husband, who is every bit the hunk he once was, wraps his arms around me and tells me thank you for fixing him dinner.
It’s not elegant, and it may not be the tune I once dreamed of dancing to, but I am thankful for it. Thankful that God has blessed me with this life… Thankful that,
7 1/2 years after meeting my man, I am still so in love with him.
5 years of marriage haven’t changed my mind.
2 1/2 years with our son, and my heart still swells with love every time I think of how blessed I am to have those little PBJ hands dirtying my shirts…
So if I… no scratch that, I’m human after all… When I act like I’m not thankful for it, remind me that I am.
You are my God, and I will give you thanks; you are my God, and I will exalt you.