They've never drove through Indiana...

There's a "For Sale" sign in front of my house.

In front of my first home. The first time I walked through the rooms and the hall, I had an engagement ring on my finger and I was never so excited to scrub out cabinets and a stove and a refrigerator. It was going to be ours. It was May and come October I would live here, with him, and we would be a family.

Him and me. A new family. Our own family.

We've been living in a small town in Southern Indiana, nestled neatly twenty miles or so from my parents and the town I was born and raised in. I've never lived further than an hour and a half from my family and even then, I returned every weekend. We're a close family and have always lived close. My husband is from Northern Indiana originally, but even though he has always wanted to move back to his own familiar turf, family, friends and hunting grounds, he surmised that he fell in love with and married a girl from the south end of the State and so that's where we'd stay. Love never wants to pull you away from whom and what you love and know.

Love always wants your happiness more.

When we get married, we promise all these things. We promise to forsake all others, for instance. And typically you may think that forsaking has to do with turning away from those who would try to come between you and your spouse, maybe for a night. You make a commitment to love one person, to be faithful, to not go down that road. But what happens when the "forsaking all others" has to do with holding tight to the hand that you pledged to hang onto until breath leaves you... and go with them?

We also promise and believe in things like believing in the dreams of the person we love. We want all of their hopes and wishes to come true. We love them so much that we'd do anything to insure that their desires for life come true. Loving someone has so much to do with anything that maybe I thought it had to do with in the very beginning.

And here we are... hedging into our fourth year of marriage and mere weeks away from welcoming our second son into this world. And did I mention the "For Sale" sign in the front lawn? We're looking for houses and having strangers move through ours. An opportunity that was unplanned and unimagined presented itself and we weighed the pros and cons, talking late into the night, debating, weighing, prioritizing... and then it came down to that one decision: Do we go or do we stay?

Popular reality shows seem to like to have hopefully-falling-in-love couples jump off cliffs together or rappel down the face of a stone wall. And they all say things like, "If we can do this together, we can do anything!" Somehow bungee jumping into an abyss prepares you for all the challenges life has to offer. It's kind of funny, because how many times do you jump off of anything together? And yet, maybe that's it... maybe sometimes we need to.

"You and me together,

we could do

anything, baby, yes, yes..."

~ D a v e M a t t h e w s B a n d

Maybe sometimes it needs to be just the two of you, standing hand in hand, looking into the face of something deep and dark and unknown and you say, "You know what, let's just try this. I'm with you, you're with me." It's more than having love on your side and hearts in your eyes. It's about commitment. Standing tall even when you want to crumble. Putting on the safety helmets and learning the ropes and going for it. And it's not just the initial jump you have to get through - it's what happens after. When your feet touch earth, again or you plummet into water... Then what? Where do you go after you leap? And is the hand you're holding enough of a reason to stay? To depend on?

What I have learned so far in this new journey for us is that I really, really love my husband. It's not that I didn't already know that, but I don't think I realized how powerfully I love him. When I say I want his happiness and his dreams to come true, I mean it. And it doesn't mean that I disregard my own wishes or hopes, but the truth of the matter is that the more I love him the more his joy matters to me than my own. And I know that the more he loves me, the more my joy matters to him. It's why we spent so many nights hashing this thing out and weighing pros and cons until we wanted to hand it all to someone else to make the decision for us.

But it was our decision to make and we had to make it. Together. And when one opportunity was refused, I actually sat in our living room and cried. I wanted it so badly for him and by that time, I had come to want it for our family, too. A move that initially was an, "I'll go if we have to - if that's what you feel is best for us.", a submissive kind of response and good, turned into something deep and personal that made me want what he wanted because of how I love this guy. It was baffling how I had gone from being open to change, to wanting it so personally and deeply that I would sit on the couch and cry when the door closed tight.

And then in something that seems so like God... here's that cliche about one door closing and a window being flung open... there was something else. Something bright and possible and blessed. And then it was even more serious than it was the first time. Do we really, really want to jump? Do I want this as much for me, genuinely, as I do for him? What about what we have to give up? What about what we gain? What about moving right now and trying to sell our house and gearing up to have another baby? Are we out of our minds?

The assurance says, "No." We're not crazy, we're not drowning. We're stronger than ever and more peaceful than ever. There has been more change in the past few weeks than there has been in the entire time we've been together. We're selling a house and looking at buying a house and preparing to move as soon as baby arrives and I'm going to have a toddler and a newborn and I don't even know how to get to the grocery store right now and we don't have doctors lined up and the list can go on and on. And it could make me too terrified to budge.

But love? Love makes me shrug my shoulders and smile and say, "Let's just go."

He never asked me to do this for him. He never asked me to sacrifice what is familiar and comfortable for me and to embrace change for him. But what he did ask me was if I'd be his wife. He promised to cherish me and to look out for me and to provide for me. And I promised to care for him in all aspects of life and to go where he goes. When I was standing up there in that white dress, maybe I didn't really think I'd have to go anywhere. But that doesn't change the fact that I promised and that I loved him enough to do just that.

For kicks, I pulled down a box of keepsakes from our wedding and dug around until I found the small book that my Pastor and his wife had so cleverly made for us, including every aspect and word from our wedding ceremony. Tears burned my eyes tonight as I read what I had been charged with on that gorgeous day in October...

"Laura, as you seek to take this man

as your husband, you must always

remember that as his wife it is your duty

to love him, respect him,

and follow him,

finding your joy in him as the Church does

her savior, Jesus Christ. It is you who shall

create and sustain a healthy,

happy home, so that you both may have

a haven in which to retreat and grow as one,

undivided by the hands of men..."

And so we're moving. And while we're not moving to the other side of the world, we won't be just up the road anymore. The changes that all that implies is inevitable. But in all of this, I am finding not only a tremendous peace and joy about the next pages of our story together... but I am blown away by the blessing of loving and being loved. I feel so secure.

I sense so much new growth and maturity in us as a husband and a wife just by standing on the edge and saying we'd go ahead and give this a shot. We're doing something big with each other, for each other. When we exchanged rings and words and I traded my name of almost twenty-eight years for his, I swore I'd go wherever he went and stay wherever he stayed and sleep wherever he sleeps.

This is really not anything so crazy or shocking. It's something I already said I'd do.

"If you're asking if

I love you

this much... I do."

~ M a r k W i l l s

Everywhere is honey...

I've only been a parent now for nearly two years, unless you consider the nine months I carried, stressed, prayed and ate boxes of powdered donuts and bags of oranges while waiting on Joel's arrival. I guess all of that is parenting in a way, too (except for maybe the donuts and citrus).

So, okay, nearly three years.

And it didn't take me long at all to assume I knew what was best for my kid.

Early on, for starters, I was convinced I knew when he was adequately full. I would try everything under the sun to calm or amuse him, aside from additional feeding, and I would even say to his little face, "You can't possibly be hungry again!" When I would finally be at my wit's end and sought to fill his belly, he was happy. The same thing would happen when I would insist he couldn't be tired or have another dirty diaper. He proved me wrong 99.9% of the time.

A few weeks ago he was fighting a small cold and a hacking cough that would rustle him out of his deep toddler sleep at 2 a.m. (and 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. and 5 a.m.....) and so I was adamant about getting whatever medication and/or pain relief down him that I could. The problem was that he was incredibly resistant. He has a mind of his own at 23 months and seemed to think I was trying to pull a fast one on him. Oh, it tastes like grapes, you say? Lies all lies!

One evening I tried and tried, unsuccessfully, to get his evening dose down his throat and into his system before bed. I just wanted him to have a restful night of sleep (and admittedly it would be nice if I could sleep for more than 45 minutes, too.) But he flailed his hands and the medicine landed everywhere but on his tongue. It was on the counter, on his jammies. I finally gave up, put him to bed, kicked on the humidifier and let it be what it would be.

When I turned into bed, listening to his nasally breathing and his occasional coughs, I felt so stressed out. What if I had just been able to get something into him? Wouldn't he be breathing better? Should I have taken him into the doctor earlier in the day and now I was stuck, it was the weekend. Had I not done everything I could have, should have done? He was going to be sick and miserable and it was all my fault. I should have done more!

I began praying that God would help Joel to rest. And the more I prayed, the more embarrassed I felt. Did I really believe that the ingredients in Tylenol or Children's Dimetapp was greater than God? I shook my tired head against my pillow, resisting. No, of course not. Of course I know that God is strong and mighty and capable and aware and present. But if I really trusted my Joel with Him, why was I stressing in the middle of the night about an over the counter remedy? Was God mightier than a barking cough? Was He able to ease a fever better than a dropper-full of Tylenol?

Before I was a wife and a mother, I was someone's little girl. And they worried and fussed over me, too. Because they loved me so much. Aaron and I often talk of the dreaded day when Joel will possibly turn on us and doubt us and fight for his independence and identity separate from Mom and Dad. We all probably go through that phase in some way - some more dramatic and fierce and defiant than others. But in the end we find, even if our parents happened to be wrong about this or that, their intentions were always, always out of desperate love for us. You figure this out when you grow up. The control and the guarding and the long talks when you wanted to be left alone all make sense when the parenting shoes are on your feet and the tiny hands are in yours now.

As parents we always mean well. We only want the best for what we love the most.

What I learned that night, laying in bed pregnant with one brother and listening to a cold rage on the bigger brother in the room across the hall, is that God is supreme. Over anything I may want or desire for Joel - from a fever being reduced to a life full of blessing and more than that, a heart that is aware and grateful - whatever the "more" is that we may dream for our boys and any future children, the truth is that God's plans for them may very well be different than what we have imagined. The path He may have in mind for them may take them where we'd rather not have them go... or where we never even considered. We might think of colleges or sports or specific careers or the perfect spouse: the ideal life situation... but what if the world God has placed in our boys' hearts isn't what we plotted and planned? No matter how good and loving those ideas of our own?

Faith-based greeting cards often boast Jeremiah 29:11... that God knows the plans He has for you and that they are ultimately for your good and for your future, to give you hope and joy. That assurance that even though the future may seem so great and unknown, stuffed with possibility, that ultimately God knows what He has in mind and it's going to be good. When times are hard and we can't explain them, we say that God knows what He is doing, even though we're left scratching our heads or wiping tears on our sleeves.

But what about when you're convinced you know what is best and you can't reason with them? What about the toddler who refuses the medicine that will help? Do you insist, do you coax, do you hold them down and pour it into their bellies? What lengths do you go to in order to "make them better" before you choose to let God be God in the lives of your babies and husbands and friends and family? When do you stop Googling and self-treating before you just give it up and pray and trust the Healer to heal or the Provider to provide?

I have, blessedly, many years of parenting left. And I do desire to do my best for my kids. I do hope and pray that I make the right choices for them while I have the responsibility to make them. But I know I need to learn in their lives and even in my own, that my best intentions may not be God's best. No matter what I would prefer they or myself avoid or what I wish I could prevent or protect them from - the truth remains that as great as my love is, greater is His love for me and my babies.

And I have to trust and believe that in all the spaces... in the long nights when I'm sure all he needs is Tylenol and when I'm convinced only this or that will do for him or for me or for us... I have to trust that God is supreme over all. This world is broken and messy and not our ultimate space. I have to do what I can while I can do it, but I also need to remember Who is on the throne... and who isn't.

The truth is that only God knows the hearts and all the plans and all the paths. His ways have never been less than our own blueprints, His arm has never been too short. As a mother who can fuss and worry about the littlest and the greatest, it's really, really nice to be reminded that God doesn't stop being God just because I'm the one who carries and grows a baby for months on end and gives birth. I may have my children, but God ultimately has them: in His sights and in His hands.

As much as I love, He loves more.

"When you did awesome things

that we did not look for,

you came down,

the mountains quaked at your presence.

From of old no one has heard

or perceived by the ear,

no eye has seen a God besides you,

who acts for those who wait for Him..."

~ I s a i a h 6 4 : 3 - 4

In our favorite rocket ship...

It was our third date. It was at the base of July. I was twenty-six and even though just a few weeks earlier I had been completely, totally, unequivocally done with men and dating and dreaming and all that, I was rapidly falling in love. I had spent the previous decade entrenched in the ups and downs of relationship; the breakups, the blind dates, the awkward first dates, the even more awkward, "Sorry, but I'm not interested." conversations. The rejections from both them and me. I was so bone, heart and marrow weary of it all.

And then, suddenly, here I was with a guy that a friend had met at a local county fair. What?!

I'm not a big fan of Valentine's Day. Prior to Aaron, there was very little reason to get excited about it. I was always between relationships when February arrived. And the one time I actually had a boyfriend during this seemingly magical day, it was a complete flop. In all those years of dating, all those guys, not one good Valentine's Day? It seems impossible, but it was true. I told myself it didn't matter, but on some level it did.

It had been an impromptu date. I had just arrived home from a weekend away with my best friends and while on the phone once I returned, he stopped mid-sentence and said, "Do you want me to just come see you?" And so he drove the hour+ to do just that. I'm telling you, this guy is smooth. Somehow we ended up discussing Valentine's Day on our second date as I sat on top of a picnic table in the summer afternoon. I remember I wore a tank top, pink, with hearts all over it that day. And we held hands and talked and Aaron joked about how he wanted a wife who would stay home, barefoot and pregnant (he got his wish!).

And over the next week he told me that we had something to celebrate that coming weekend. We typically only saw each other on the weekends due to work schedules and distance and so I was anticipating Friday night regardless. But now that he was hinting at all this celebratory greatness, I was intrigued. Plus, as I said, I was worn out from all the other guys and this guy was different and focused and intent on, it seemed, proving to me I was worth some sort of pursuit and adoration. It was thrilling.

That night he picked me up at my parent's house and I had on a new sundress and I floated on air it seemed as I nearly skipped to his truck for our date night. He opened the door and told me he had surprises for me. First, flowers. And then a card. And chocolate. And a gift. This man, this guy who I assumed at the start was nothing but a "good ol' country boy" had created Valentine's Day for me.

In J-u-l-y.

I know. It's no real wonder I married him, huh?!

At some point in our relationship, maybe it was that night, I don't remember, but he told me that, "every day was Valentine's Day for us." And okay, that's totally cheesy and something you tell a girl you're just first dating and trying to get that first kiss from (ha!) - but now - now that we've been together nearly four years, I have to see some profound truth in that.

There's a Hallmark commercial rolling around this year that drives me up. the. wall. Every time it comes on, I want to scream. Instead I roll my eyes, because screaming randomly is a great way to strike serious terror into the heart of your sensitive toddler. Not the best idea. But the commercial flashes multiple individuals, all making requests such as, "Tell me you love me!' or "Tell me you miss me!", etc. Right. Okay. So, that makes things really meaningful when you demand a certain response or expression from someone. Yeah. That's real special.

A few days ago I watched the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy that I had missed and recorded on our DVR. It was their Valentine's Day edition and a florist ends up in the hospital. He's as cynical as they come and he says how people treat his flowers as though they're magic. And he went on to say how ridiculous it is that somehow receiving an expensive bouquet of flowers one day a year is going to make someone forget how you treat them like crap the other 364 days of the year.

Seriously! Seriously.

Maybe my husband doesn't focus on showering me with ridiculous stuffed animals and red hearts and over-priced roses on February 14th every year. Maybe I tell him not to (I frequently do, including this year). And I think - how sad would it be to get so worked up over Valentine's Day, because it's that "one day a year" when you're supposed to think about each other? And how sad if I had to trust and lean on that one, inconsequential day to assure myself of my husband's love? How wrong if I had to say, "Tell me you love me!" Right. Like one day that includes a card in a red envelope is going to make up for days and days of neglect.

Maybe my husband's "Every day is Valentine's Day for us" statement of a few years ago was silly and flirtatious and simply born from those early dating days when every day really does feel like a romantic holiday. And I smile and laugh about it in a sense.... but in another I don't. Because whether he meant or intended that phrase to be a promise those few years ago, that's what it has become.

Because every day he shows his love.

Whether it's because he simply comes home every night after a hard day at work or how he plays "airplane" with Joel just one more time because he simply can't refuse that precious, "Again!" from our firstborn. Or how he sleeps in the spare bed night after night so I can have our comfy queen bed for myself and my growing belly and all the pillows comfort requires. The way he'll bring home Wendy's whenever that cheeseburger craving hits. Or how he'll stop for milk when it's just too cold out and I'd rather not leave the warmth of our home.

There are tons and tons and tons of ways that he shows me love and kindness. I don't focus on when Valentine's Day rolls around because I don't need a mandatory day with which to require my husband to prove himself. Even our anniversary every year is relatively simple and we are usually just happy to end up at the local China Buffet, because hey, that's where we went the night we got engaged. It's really, really not about anything other than the person you're with.

My Mom has offered to babysit for us tomorrow so we can have a rare date night. Yes, it happens to be on the evening of Valentine's Day 2012, but that's not why we're going out. Aaron even commented that we'll probably go to Chicago's Pizza because he has a gift card. I mean, that's real life. And it's okay! It's perfect! Does it matter if there aren't any candles? Does it matter if we use a gift card and he doesn't fork over a majority of his salary to pay for an elaborate meal or flowers or something sparkly? Do I care if we end up at a yummy but non-dressy pizza place for our romantic Valentine's Day evening out? Is it about dressing up or is it about spending time with my husband?

I'm ecstatic. I get to spend time with the man I love! (and who loves me!) And that's all I'm thinking about. Flowers, chocolate, diamonds - none of it has entered my mind. And that's because I am loved, provided for and gosh-darn-treasured every day of the year, in some way, no matter how simple. I am so thankful that I don't have to rely on one day a year to feel truly precious by the person in my life who is supposed to love me the best.

No matter what the calendar says, tomorrow is just another Tuesday. What you do with it - how you love - is up to you. And then there is Wednesday and Thursday and Friday.... and those days are up to you, too. The flowers of tomorrow are going to wilt and die. They aren't going to make it very far. They aren't going to sustain you much longer than a week or so. Build and foster and invest in something that is about more than a panicked rush the night before to buy something special or find a $5 card that says all the right things.

Love is focused. Love is daily. Love is not a big box of chocolate. I hope your Valentine's Day is just plain more...

"And I need you more than want you...

And I want you for all time..."

~ G l e n C a m p b e l l

As long as I love, I will love you...

She was always better at finding them than I was. It seemed as though every Sunday morning, on our exiting from church, they'd just fall into her little palm. Four leaf clovers. My sister frequently found them. Spied them out. I, on the other hand, never found a one. And I did look, but maybe I wasn't as diligent.

I thought of this recently as I kept my eyes low to the ground, not because I was seeking out special clovers, but because I was watching the steps of my little boy. Following his lead. And I was thinking about love and luck and how the two have nothing to do with the other and how yeah, maybe you do seek out a plant with an extra leaf, but how with love, you have to be just as aware. You have to keep your eyes on the prize. Maintain the focus. Count the steps. Have the hand ready to catch or brush off. You stop watching and you stop seeing.

When I was single there seemed to be some themes running through books and the like. A lot of it came down to the fact that, "Until you are content being just you and God..." or "Be the kind of person you want to meet!" Which puts all this pressure to be perfect, to be pleasing, to be a great catch. And why aren't we content to be who we are before God and to allow someone else to love those pieces - the imperfect and impatient and unlovely on a Friday night parts? There's nothing wrong with preparing for the future and working on your foibles. But there is also something beautiful about learning to love the incomplete and the unsatisfactory in ourselves and in others - because let's be honest - happily ever exists but fairy tale living doesn't.

You are never, ever really ready to die to your self. You're just not. It's an unnatural, uneasy thing. But sacrifice comes with love. The body that I worked so hard on to be bikini ready for my honeymoon to the man I love? Just before our first anniversary, the reality of my beach body got shoved to the back burner as I focused on another body: the little one growing inside of me. It was a blessing and it was a struggle. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. Suddenly I had someone 100% dependent on me and I couldn't focus on myself when I wanted (or many times at all). I wasn't prepared to give up as much as I did. But love demanded it.

A week or so ago, I stretched out in bed, ready, so ready, for sleep. And my spine readjusted and the weight of our new baby, this Little Brother, shifted and rested. And I thought, "Man, my body is so tired." But I wasn't physically tired from a long day... I felt blessed and the smile curled and I thought, "I am weighed down with love, with life." Literally. The life within, growing and kicking and keeping me up at 3 a.m... and the life of my day, chasing the toddler, cutting up chicken nuggets and grapes and saying, "Yes, that's blue! Yes, that's a chicken! Yes, that was a truck!" And then him in his recliner at the end of a long work day and me on the couch at the end of mine. Life and love. Together, peaceful; baby asleep in the crib.

I want to be weighed down, anchored by love. By life.

I stretch moments and expand time when I watch. When I take note of how he laughs or the adorable way he says "leaf" ("weef"). I won't remember everything. A photograph won't capture every expression, every hilarious event. But when I take note of how soft and small his hand is in mine, or how surprising his young obedience is when I say, "Wait for Mommy" and he stops, reaches back for my hand before going further - when my awareness causes my heart to lift with thanks - then I remember. Not only do I remember how heavy and important loving is, but it makes my eyes shine as I think about the love I have for the man that my little boy looks just like... and beyond that: a reminder that it's all been given and even when a little body falls headlong into a mud puddle - it's all a moment that I might not have had.

I want to be tired at the end of the day. I want my spine to protest a little as I straighten out, complaining at me for putting another life out in front and forcing internal organs and muscles to shift and stretch. To change. Go ahead, body. Whine at me for loving. Wear me out with living. Make my arms tired from holding and swaying a toddler in the middle of the night when he's feverish and can't sleep. Make me waddle up and down the aisles of Walmart and when I finally get to my van, let me be out of breath because of the life and love within that demands all of me for all of them.

Sometimes I can crawl into bed stressed. Worried about the dust I didn't get to (for the second or third week in a row!) or how I can't remember the last time I vacuumed the entire house. I think over my to-do lists and my day, wondering what I should have done differently, how I should have streamlined, how I shouldn't have wasted. And there's some truth in all of that.

But if I can crawl in bed and remember how my little boy laughed when I tickled his fingers with the duster (when I was supposed to be dusting the piano) or how intent he was on feeding me his apple slices (never mind the fact that I nearly chopped my thumb off cutting it in the first place)... If I can throw something together and call it dinner and have my husband hold my hand as we give thanks for whatever it is and he calls it good... Didn't I do good work on that day? Hard work, even? Even if there are still dishes or windows to be shinier. My family will, I hope, remember the care I took of them - including not becoming a hoarder and having our home be a safe, lovely haven to grow and to learn and to chase each other and hide in the closets. And cooking and cleaning is part of that.

But growing life and love is more than my daily to-do lists. It's about more than whether or not the dishwasher got emptied or that sticky spot on the counter got rubbed away or how fast I can get back into my pre-baby jeans. There's a weight to love that I just plain love. I want to take such thoughtful steps and pay attention to the small in front of me so that by dark I am heavy and weighed down with the living of the day. With the gathering of blessings. I may lay down and think of what I didn't get to... but I won't lay down and think about the cheeks I didn't take time to kiss or the time I spent just watching football with him and not asking dumb girly questions.

"I will shed the sins and struggles

I have carried all these years.

I will leave my heart wide open,

I will love and have no fear..."

~ Brad Paisley

I don't care about gathering luck. But I really care about gathering love and being able to walk around with the stem in hand, knowing it was because of love, because of a more important Life that I'm able to pay attention at all. Because God was weighed down with love for me. And now I'm weighed down by the love He has dumped on my often ungrateful, unfocused, complaining head. And when I pay attention, I notice Him. In all of the daily, in all of the simple, in all of the diapers and the dirt... I gather love.

I'm anchored by blessings. It all weighs down my days, drags time slow. Gives life. And I give back when I notice. That's how love grows. You give it one way and get it back another and give it out yet again. The road stretches long, but not always hard. It doesn't always have to be so tough and tired.

It's just one little step, one little thank-you, over and over again...

"Then King David went in and sat

before the LORD and said,

"Who am I, O Lord God,

and what is my house, that you have

brought me thus far?

And yet this was a small thing

in your eyes, O Lord God,

Because of your promise, and

according to your own heart,

you have brought about all this

greatness, to make your

servant know it.

Therefore you are great, O Lord God.

For there is none like you.."

~ II Samuel 7:18-19a, 21-22, ESV

Let's grab 'em and go...

You know those days?

The ones where you go to bed anticipating all you will accomplish, how awesome you will feel, how little you will rely on caffeine, how you'll wake up early and care for your spirit and have a shower and joyfully make a roast beef sandwich for your husband's lunch. You anticipate the productivity. The blessing of another not-yet-promised day.

And then it rushes in too early, when it's still dark, by the demands of a toddler who doesn't see the need to sleep until the sun is ready to bloom. You wake with your to-do list nearly in your hands and a headache already ricocheting through what feels like your entire body even though it's isolated, you know, in your skull.

It's one of those days where I felt the tiny beginnings of a stranglehold of despair. That feeling where you know that today you're going to have to fight if you want to keep grasp of your joy. Those moments when you know it's all going to end up in a dark pit if you don't grasp for straws, grasp for something to give thanks for. Those days that feel like bad days before they even have a chance to prove themselves.

Sometimes we need to give the bad days a fighting chance.

I did the only thing I knew to do. I kissed my toddler and gave him his breakfast. I made my husband's lunch and shook his bottled water into a pink lemonade, because I know he'll like that. I blessed my Keurig as it bubbled hot chai into my most favorite of mugs. I punched the oven awake and cracked open a can of cinnamon rolls, knowing that they wouldn't be done until after the husband left for work, meaning I was making an entire can for myself. I didn't care. It was that kind of day. I needed to save it, redeem it. Make it special and sweet amidst the naked beds, their sheets already spinning clean long before 8 a.m.

As the cinnamon rolls baked and the little boy played and the husband left for work and the chai snaked down my throat, I felt it stirring. The edges of a smile. A wave of contentment rushing over me and making me realize that it's really not all bad and hard and just mindless routine. I added items to my to-do list, feeling ambitious and alive as joy began her happy dance. And then the oven dinged! Time for cinnamon goo and icing-coated goodness!

And the darn things were burnt. Toasty.

You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.

I may have mumbled a dismayed, "Seriously?!" as I slid the pan onto stove top. Maybe a healthy coat of icing on each would redeem their crusty skins. It helped somewhat and I ate it anyway. Gave thanks for it anyway. A kind of disgruntled thanks, but thanks still.

And then the unexpected... a little boy at my side, looking interested and enthralled by the interesting item on my plate. A little boy who is notoriously picky as he delves deeper into the "I'm a big kid!" stage. And I asked if he wanted a bite and he opened wide, his perfect white teeth smiling at me and his eyes bright at the possibility. At the chance for something new. Unexpected on a Tuesday morning.

He took a satisfied bite, ran off to watch more Mickey Mouse, only to return moments later, mouth open, a little bird begging for more of whatever is being offered. And I smiled and felt the proud love of a mother who adores every bit of her child... and maybe a little bit of a humbled smile as I felt the sincere attention and love of a God who sees. Who notes the trying. Who gets the headaches and the responsibility and the pieces that never fit quite right. As I fed bite after bite to Joel, I felt myself fill, too.

Funny. All is not lost as I had feared. All is really, really grace, just as I have come to believe even when I have days when it's tough to want to live it out. In all the spaces, in all the rooms of a day, in all the scratches of must-do's in a notebook, there is always space enough to find a thank-you. There's always time enough and opportunity enough to slow down and take control of the wild thoughts, to conquer the mental exhaustion, to not allow the tone of your day to be set in stone before the blessings are even given a chance to be seen.

My boy and I are still munching slow on an unexpected sticky treat. I think I may end up liking today just fine.

"And God blessed them...

And God saw everything that

He had made, and behold,

it was very good..."

~ G e n e s i s 1 : 2 8 a & 3 1