Gut Unclenched

The phrase "Happy New Year" can make my gut clench with a pang not grotesquely unlike when I'm hiking a high ravine...and the dropoff to certain death is just one pee-wrenching sneeze away. Not so my reaction to "Merry Christmas" or even to its somewhat-snobby counterpart, "Happy" Christmas, from across the pond. Somehow, those sentiments expressed outside the shopping mall, in line at the bank, or read dozens of time across Facebook dump me in a shade of bliss, prompt more of a "Yes! Yes, I think it shall be!" reaction, rendered (at least in my mind) with a crisp and pert British accent.

But that pesky "Happy New Year!" Yeeeee-ah, that one prompts some inner-hives. Again with the gut-clench thing. How come? 

Oh, I think it's because the new year is the opposite, really, of the one-day-express Christmas wish. One day I figure I can handle. Despite the horrendous one-days my life has spouted so far, I find myself convinced that such a day will be peaceful. Sentimental. Celebratory.

But a spread of 365? All together? Plated into segments of unpredictable 24 hour servings rarely, if ever published, on a menu with prices?! I mean, come on! At least let me know how much any given day is gonna' cost me! 

Course, that's not how it works. At all. But my clenching gut wishes it were. When I was 20 - meh, not so much. That whole invincibility factor extinguished all fear...and good sense, I might add. At 35, I know better because I've seen more. Lived more. Survived far, far more than even the worst I thought would've happened by 35. 

 Immediately he spoke to them and said, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid." Then he climbed into the boat with them, and the wind died down. They were completely amazed...
Mark 6:51

And then I remember: I haven't seen the worst possible. By any stretch. I learned that there are more than few folks out there who totally think I suck. And suck - being one of those key words I rarely use except for when I really, most exceptionally think they apply (like now) - aptly describes. I also realized that there are a few more who think I'm pretty okay...which I'll gladly grab and hang on my heart mantle any day. I discovered that I can be and am, in fact, fitter now than in my 20's - despite new melodies of grinds and pops in the knees and fingers. I accepted that it's okay to say, "Aw, *^&*$#% it!" when the situation fits and, by extension, no longer feel the need to hoard the burdens of others on shoulders never meant to carry them in the first place. 

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”"

Matthew 11:28-30 ESV

Oh, don't mistake my wax rhapsodic as a replacement for the gut clench: it's still there. I suspect it will always reside, the cotton-looped price tag dangling from my antique of experience - a costly and ever-present reminder in any currency I value. Yet, I don't fear the clench. I don't worry it. And, rather like the pain of labor (not coincidentally, I'd imagine), I do not fight against it. It simply washes over me, runs through me, cutting and jibing and taking what it must. 

Because then it will be over. 

The sun of January 1st will set afore the sun of January 2nd rises.

You see, January 2nd is his birthday.

And just about every ounce of hope and promise and glory and goodness mine eyes have seen have been whilst standing sqaurely to the left of this man. 

"And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.
And Saul took him that day, and would let him go no more home to his father's house.
Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul."
1 Samuel 18:1-3 New King James Version

It is a reminder come a'shouting at a time my heart must hear. 

Suddenly, 365 plates of 24 hour days don't seem too shabby.  

Menu folded.

Prices optional.

Gut unclenched.

A Legacy I'm All For

You don't raise a hero, you raise a son.

And if you treat him like a son,

he'll turn out to be a hero,

Even if it's just in the eyes of his child.

Tuesday evening was parent-teacher conference night for team C&C. Both went well, but it was a moment we spent with Elijah's teacher, Kate, that marked the highlight for me. E's class completed a worksheet which answered the question of "Who is your hero?" Kate pulled our son's worksheet from her file folder telling us she teared up when she read it. 

And then I did, too.

There is no one in this world - and I mean...In. This. World. - that I admire and esteem more than my husband. He is, to my grown-up heart, the very best of what a man can be.

It would seem our son's little-boy heart agrees.

 

                                                     

You don't raise a hero, you raise a son.

And if you treat him like a son,

he'll turn out to be a hero,

Even if it's just in the eyes of his child.

That's a legacy I'm all for.

Touché

If you are a man and reading this, buck against the need to scornfully disregard this warning...and stop.

Stop reading. 

Stop reading.  

Stop reading. 

Or you'll likely be sorry.

Warning complete.

Yesterday, it was that oh-so-awe-inspiring yearly occasion of female medical responsibility we so early-1800's-ish call the "annual." (Or, for the about half of you following this blog who'll favor the reference, I paid a visit to Dr. Weary).

But, alas (and thank the good God above), this post is not about that. Or, not precisely anyway.

If your burgeoning memory remains intact enough, you'll recall the renderings of my last post, "Go Big", reflected on looking at the everyday "Wherever, Whatever"'s with as much intentionality and total presence as I can muster. On the eve after its writing, I was sitting in the study pondering just that sentiment with my oh-so-clever (did you know that about him?) husband. Now, you may not realize that I did not, in fact, marry him merely for his body, his heart, his soul, or his character. Nay, nay I say.

It was the wit. The wit. The wit. The wit.
The.
Wit.
Next to loyalty, it's my favorite trait.
(Necessary aside. 
Hang on with me. )

Upon the conclusion of a not-too-bad-for-a-Tuesday-evening exchange, our chat moved towards more practical matters; namely, what our next days held. Craig shared his to-do list and I, in my less than ecstatic droll, remarked, "Tomorrow, I have to go and have a speculum shoved into my vagina."

(Yeah, if you're a guy, and you just read that, I offer no apologies. I told you, didn't I? Didn't I?!)

And with what did my caustically witty husband - fist pump and hearty grin in merry accompaniment - reply?

"Go Big."

Wit.

Life With Each Other

In a close second to lover, "companion" was one of Craig's three most important aspects of marriage. An easy prospect to consider; harder if your personality differences bring new meaning to the catch phrase "Venus and Mars". But, for nearly 17 years of courtship and marriage, we've figured out ways to make it work.

The secret? Want to be with the one you love. Then be with them. In whatever way you can, every time you can. And reap the whirlwind of reward.

TV and music have been two of our "every way, every time" hallmarks. He'll watch Jane Austen and History Channel if I watch comedy and sports. Know what I discovered along the way? Craig often knows better than I what I'll actually enjoy watching...and he picks the shows with the best music. Case in point: Friday Night Lights.

I could write an entire post just about the nature of this show: its critical acclaim but hard-to-niche following; its wandering trek from network to network in search of just one more season; or how its faithful viewers trekked right along with it...until the recent series finale. Craig was one such trekker; certainly, more than one DVR, Hulu queue, and Amazon loader has seen the Friday Night Lights logo and geared up for multiple Plays - first, his. Then, mine. When we sat down to watch the finale entitled "Always", we found ourselves curled up, silent, waiting (as most finales have you) for the final frame to begin.

And then came the music.

When those final frames began, it was against the backdrop of this song by Delta Spirit. I say these to you: iTunes. Amazon. eMusic. Find it. Buy it. Listen to it. Repeatedly. As always, here are the lyrics for your persual:

Devil Knows You're Dead

And the sun shine warm upon your face
May the rains fall soft upon your field
Until the day we meet again

And the roof that hangs over your head
Find you shelter from the storm

Before the devil knows you're dead
May you be in heaven, my friend

May good luck find you at your worst
And bad love lose you at your best
May your days be rich and full of wealth
And your nights be long when you need rest

And the roof that hangs over your head
Find you shelter from the storm

Before the devil knows you're dead
May you be in heaven, my friend

And the road, may it rise to meet your feet
And be downhill all the way to your door
May the grass below be green and the sky above be blue
May it be so forever more

And the roof that hangs over your head
Find you shelter from the storm

Before the devil knows you're dead
May you be in heaven, my friend

I've listened to it 50 times if I've listened to it once. Every time sheds new light on someone I think about, someone I love. For that matter, it sheds light on saying goodbye. Saying "Until I see you again." Saying, "Be well. Be blessed. Be rich."

The rewards of companionship with my husband are many. And profound. And gifts. But they aren't all supernatural and abstract. Sometimes, they are the simple gift of a song found in a television show watched simply because he liked it. 

And because I like him. 

A lot. 

So I watch. 

And discover He's got something for me, too.

Like music I listen to again and again. 

Like music that Craig sits and listens to with me...again and again. 

Because he's my companion. 

Like I'm his. 

Sharing the simplest gifts. 

To discover we're living the biggest one He's got...life with each other.

Candidly

When I take pictures, they're meh. You know, fairly posed. Nothing to see here.
I've got great subjects, though, so I might come out of the developing (aka digital window) with this in tow:

Or this:                                                     Or this:
                          

But when Craig takes pictures...well, they're much better than meh. He just snaps and snaps without much thought to the matter except to wait for a moment. An expression. A whisper in time. Then he clicks and clicks and clicks some more.

Until he gets shots like these...

  

 
...to mark the memories of hugs and giggles and hunting a few eggs in between.

Then it's back to the ho-hum when the lens finds me again...

...proving that Easter photos, much like life, offer turn out best when you capture the moment.

Candidly.

In This House

While Colorado temporarily (and sporatically - yuck!) logs hours in the icebox, two realizations have struck me: first, I STILL miss Alaska and, second, I'm so thankful for our house.

You know, my joke in our home is that, being as how I take no shine whatsoever to flowers or jewelery, Craig has had to come up with inventive and (alas) not-so-traditional gestures of love. Well, he's surely never failed. For instance, you may not know that he got me to uproot my entire life and move in with strangers in another state...without ever asking me to marry him until I got there. Or that he proposed and wed me in a mere 7.5 weeks. On Halloween. (Or, in deference to my beloved's preference, October 31st.) On December 21, 2000, he gifted me with a daughter. A mere three weeks before Thanksgiving 2003, I got a son. Judsen came just after Easter. He bought me a house for Christmas 2004. And in December 2007, he lived.

The best gift of all.

But all those memories, those stories, we've inscribed upon our house's gateposts in the intricate font of Love. On these days when we're tucked cozily inside these four walls, we giggle and wrestle and craft and eat. And drink cocoa. And quibble over who'll fold the laundry or pick up the living room. We play Nancy Drew or watch movies about horses. We have storytime and look at pictures of snow days passed...in this house where our story begins. As brothers and sister. As mother and father. As husband and wife. As friends for a lifetime.

As family.

Passing the hours in warmth from the cold.
With all we need.
In this house.

Harlem Globetrotters

We don't do Santa. Decided we wouldn't after a heady discussion we listened in on not long after we were married...which is another blog entirely.

Suffice it to say, Santa Claus never comes to our town; instead, we open presents from one another on Christmas Eve and, on Christmas morning, we dig through stockings that Mommy (not Santa) fills followed by the kiddos opening their Jesus presents. Yep, Jesus presents.

We teach them that, since Jesus is the most profound, endearing, and saving gift we'll ever receive, it is most appropriate to associate your best gift with the Giver of all things. We also remind them that, since He's gifted us with life everlasting, why not want to give Him your own best gift: that of your life, your love, and your lifetime of faith?

Each year, we dedicate time as a Mommy & Daddy reflecting on who each of our babies have become over the course of the last year: Have they developed a particular passion? Has a talent or gifting emerged somewhere over the last 12 months? Was there a realization shared, an epiphany come upon, or a new goal determined? Whatever answers we find, therein lies their gifts.

Grace emerged as a new kind of reader in 2010, for example. As the degree of difficulty has risen in material, she's matched her wits and interpretation to it: now we're having great discussions not just about the plot or characters but about what said characters mean when they say, "I never relished risk until I took a step of faith." And oh the reward of such great conversations! Her gift package, then, highlighted her love of reading - and all the ways it's grown.

So you get the idea.

This year, Elijah discovered a true gift...for basketball. He's pretty darn skilled! And he genuinely likes it, a fact we haven't found with other sports he's tried. One November afternoon, I was watching the local news when a commercial came on announcing a one-night showcase of the Harlem Globetrotters was coming to town.

[Aside: LOVE the HG's!]

Have wanted to see them live since I was a little girl myself. I immediately called Craig and said, "I think this is the Jesus present!" He readily agreed and instantly began working with his company's concierge to secure a couple of tickets.

And tonight is Harlem Globetrotter night! Elijah and his daddy are paintin' the town with dinner and the HG's. Elijah is excited, yes, but in that way children are when, outside of Mom and Dad's unrestrained delight of explanation and some YouTube videos, they have no independent knowledge of what's going to happen. But I've no doubt he'll come home regaling their antics, firmly planting a memory for a lifetime of a Daddy-Son good time - punctuated by a gift suited perfectly to one thing he "became" in 2010.

Now that's a Jesus present.
Just like him.

Harlem Globetrotters Tricks 2010

I Sure Do Like This Picture

I don't know what they're talking about.
But I sure do like this picture.

I am a Daddy's Girl. Still. My father always wanted a daughter: he used to say he'd picked out a name when he was 15 years old - the name I bear today. When I was a bit rotund with terrible skin and awkward social skills, my dad would tell me I was beautiful...his perfect gem. When I was stumped by a life problem, he'd sit with me and say, "The answer awaits us. Let's find it." When I came down the stairs wearing that homecoming dress he so despised, he folded down his newspaper and grunted, "Like a ring in a pig's snout is a beautiful woman who shows no discretion." (My introduction to Proverbs, by the way).

My father taught me to be a thinker. To be gracious with my manners and generous with everything I had. To remember that "keeping a civil tongue in my mouth" doesn't mean I don't say what I think, but saying what I think should never keep me from being a lady.

We buried that man this year.

But his memory lives on.
In snapshots like this, I recall him as a gift.
Now she has her gift, too.

I look at this picture.
Look at this man.
How could I have ever dreamed this extraordinary daughter I once carried small and frail would know this exceptional man...and call him Daddy? This man who talks with her, holds her, protects her and calls her beautiful. Who leads without crushing, guides without doing...whose still, small whispers dominate even the loudest shouts telling her she can't. Won't. Isn't able.

I am a Daddy's Girl.
As is she.

I had a superb father.
As does she.
Better, even.

I don't know what they're talking about.
But I sure do like this picture.

I Let It Go

I'm task oriented. Goal-driven. This is an excellent trait when taking exams, completing errands, or running multiple miles. This is not an excellent trait when attempting to balance the moments of relationship with the press of an agenda.

Craig knows this about me. Accepts it. Challenges it. Tailors it. And why not? Heaven knows I need the help from those I actually value more than any task anywhere, anytime! If not for them (and, I hope, my own decidedly necessary attempts at self-control), I'd bury my life under relentless lists never seeing the bold lights of relationship's day.

Our anniversary getaway brought just such an occasion, and I can honestly say, "I let it go."

In honor of the impending recollection of our nuptials, we decided to run far, far away, boldly going to unexplored lands of culture, sophistication, superior intellect, and refined society....

Okay, not really.
We actually went to Denver and had a burger.

But it was a REALLY good burger (and we also made an overnighter/next-dayer out of it). Knowing our date was approaching and having volunteered to handle all our planning this year, I was a bit at a loss for a restaurant idea. We've done the high-heels and suit reservation - a few times, in fact - but we just end up wondering why we did it: me with my sore feet and Craig with his belly still empty (sprigs of parsley and one potato just don't seem to cut it with him...go figure!)

Then, on the Thursday before we left, we caught an episode of Man v Food on the Travel Channel where Denver was the featured city - and included a ditty on Duffy's Cherry Crickert.

Located in Cherry Creek, we surmised locals generally refer to it as "The Cherry Cricket" or its even more affectionate surname, "Cricket." The premise is simple: pick your base of one of three types of burgers (1/2 lb. beef, 1/4 lb. beef, or turkey). Then choose from an array of toppings, individually priced, to satiate your salivating palate. Options range from peanut butter, to egg (fixed any way you like it), to avocado, and BBQ sauce. You can split a traditional basket of fries or go the "Frings" avenue - a happy combo of their famous onion rings and fries. They also boast 22 beers on tap and over 82 brands bottled.

I actually heard a choir of angels for, as I recently read on the label of Steve's latest beer offering: "Good people drink good beer." Thanks for the insight, Hunter S. Thompson.

By the way, the Sam Adams Cherry Wheat on draught came highly recommended. After partaking, I give it another happy "Yea".

We sat outside beneath the falling golden leaves of a corner tree as the sun sank and foot traffic grew. It was, in a word, lovely.

Then I remembered I left my camera in the car.

"How long do you think it'd take me to jog back and get it?" I asked my sweet.

The "Aha!", though slow in coming, wasn't gentle in its arrival, either. It rather pelted me up side the head with a pointy toe to remind me this:

Forget about documenting the moment if it means you're not actually living in it.

Or put another way...

Let the task go.
Just be with the one you love.

After informing Craig of my mental epiphany, he chuckled and quipped, "You're just gonna' let it go, eh?"

And let it go I did - though I confess I expressed to Craig that failing to have my own shot of the famous spinning sign was irksome, at best.

So we enjoyed our vittles and brew and walked hand-in-hand down through the quaint university district and on to our car only to find our course brought us back.

To the restaurant.
To it storefront, to be exact.
Where we were summarily stuck in a short traffic pause.
Right in front of the famous spinning sign.
Which was - oh, joy!!! - just long enough for me to get my coveted shot....

...and to savor how He cares about the "Big Littles" of everyday life -
like letting it go to see what He gives.

5113 Days

Yesterday, Craig and I marked 14 years of marriage.

(Yes, our marriage's birthday is also Halloween and, no, that was not happenstance. Really, is anything with the Covaks happenstance?)

This morning, without any real forethought, I suddenly wondered, "How many days have Craig and I been joined?" Thanks to Calendar.com, I now know the answer: 5113 (as of yesterday). Now, 14 years is cause to shake a tail feather, but 5113 days - that's a journey!

And I wouldn't change a single one. In fact, despite those that have bent us to the ground, I celebrate every one for, truly - beyond ridiculous romantic ramblings or syrupy sentimentalizing - they are a brilliant story filled with chapters on grief, joy, bliss, wisdom, and love. Lots of love. No, I wouldn't change a single one.

Not.
One.

We see our marriage as a testament to who we were, who we are, and who we are yet to be: not merely as two people living as one, but as one marriage representing God, Who is surely the Savior of who we were, the Maker of who we are, and the Planner of who we are yet to be.

Each year, I reflect on our wedding vows, remembering sweetly the miracle of that day.
We wrote those lines together - the best gift we've ever given one to the other because, every day, we recall
how we choose our promises.
Together.
And how we're giving them life.
Together.

And we remember,
most assuredly and truly,
that we have been blessed.

For 5113 days.

The Great Pumpkin Day

We are a family of traditions: if you read along as I chronicle our adventures, you already know that. While the practice of the traditions is a family operation, their inspiration commonly finds its source at my heart's stoop. I grew up with some traditions but, when Craig and I got married, I wanted our story to be woven by-products of the "Remember that time when..." or "Every year we..." that intentional traditions create. So, we started that rhythmic repeat of memory-makings from day one - and only added more when each child arrived. Some I carried from my childhood, some we continued from Craig's, and still others I "borrowed" from great families all around the country.

But one of my favorite traditions was neither sparked by my hand nor conceived by my head. No, this one is all Craig.

When Grace was in Kindergarten, she came home with her very first permission slip. Tra-la!!! I couldn't believe we were already at this stage of her little life yet, nonetheless, there we were, scanning the various tidbits of time, place, date, and need for chaperones. Over dinner that night, I expressed that shock (and excitement, by the way) to my husband who, in his unique fashion, smiled then nodded then took a bite of food. After a beat or two of silence he added, "You know, I'll chaperone the school trips. Our kids will see me stop life for 'em, and they'll remember how I loved them more than my job. These'll be our special memories."

Yes, I'll pause her while every child of father stops to consider THAT tear-jerking sentiment.

So a tradition was born. One that Craig now carries to Elijah and one that, I've no doubt, will transcend to Judsen. So Craig takes the day off work and, much to every teacher's delight, arrives early to assist with the potty line, name tag stickings, and bus loading. He never seems to mind he's the only father and never has a problem with his assigned group - snicker, snicker. (For those who haven't met Craig, imagine their David to his Goliath and you'll get the general idea).

This month was Craig's first field trip of the school year. He went with Elijah's first grade class to Venetucci Farms to learn about plant life and picking pumpkins. A week before the trip, Elijah reminded daily anyone who'd listen that his daddy was "chappalonein" (chap-pa-lone-in) his outing.

They got to select their fave gourd and, in classic E fashion, he picked a 10-pounder that was less than easy to cart home. But, he said, "It was easier when I crammed it into my backpack."

He sure is proud of that pumpkin, which he affectionately titles, "The Great Pumpkin."

And he's abundantly proud that his hands are "just like my Daddy's."
True that.

Later, Judd and I walked a block to our neighborhood park where we met the class returning for a picnic lunch outside. I packed them some yummy treats, delivered their satchels, and left them to enjoy a perfectly sunny, moderately temped, fulsomely joyous end to a memory-making day of tradition.

And, when I looked back, I saw a tiny boy sitting criss-cross next to his giant Daddy (also sitting criss-cross), and my heart snapped the picture...for one day, I know I'll struggle to recall how small my firstborn son once was and wonder how he ever sat so near his father without consuming all the space.

And I'll think of The Great Pumpkin Day.

And I'll smile.

You Complete Me

I have Oprah issues. I'm caught in a tug-of-war between the allure of the captivating guests she hosts and the overall annoying interview habits she employs. I don't agree with her politics or even her morals (at least, not entirely). Yet, I applaud her generosity and humanitarian efforts to improve the world at large.

At times, she's insightful and funny; others, she's agenda-based, pushy, and even hijacking in her tactics ("I don't mean to interrupt you" followed by interrupting: the latter action cancels the former sentiment, no? And "Let me tell you what you really think" makes me want to zoom into the stratosphere while waving a banner of "No, Oprah. I can think for myself!")

Craig calls her the anti-Christ. I call her wildly popular with as much pop-cultural influence as President Obama has political. So, as with most such tug-of-wars, I vacillate between taking a stand and seeing the fruit in it (kind of like shouting at the tv during a sports event...I do it though I know with certainty the fellow can't actually hear me).

Now, during her final season, I'm intrigued enough once again to dip my toes in the water of my self-made controversy....what can I say? She equally fascinates and irks me. Regardless, I'm catching a show now and again thanks to the ever-gifting invention called DVR.

Last last week, Jenny McCarthy sat for a segment and addressed, in detail, her breakup with Jim Carey. It was interesting, I thought, how adamantly she claims her romance didn't define her: yet, here she was talking about it for 25 minutes of air time. Anyway, she spoke about the line from Jerry McGuire. Near the movie's end, Jerry announces to his wife, "You complete me." Yes, a famous line all around and, yes, we can all hear the hapless sighs of "Ohhhhh....how sweet!" from miles around. McCarthy made reference to the line, labeling it "a farce", to which Oprah decried, "And it has messed some women up!"

Okay, well, probably true since everything under the sun messes someone up somewhere, I suppose. They went on to speak of how no man "completes" you since "you complete yourself." Now, I don't actually agree fully with either one of those statements, but the next step in the conversation really got me going.

Oprah asked McCarthy: "Did you some part of you know this man wasn't your life partner?" to which McCarthy replied, "You know, my inner self did. That's probably why I kept my own house and controlled my own money." And the audience applauded.

It's saddens me that we see marriage as adversarial: a me-protected-against-you-protecting-yourself-against-me mentality never leads to a statement like "You complete me" because we're always encased safely within our walls of defense. I'm not a romantic, but I believe in giving my all: what's so wrong with cautiously plowing the row of love and commitment until you reap the harvest of permanent and lifelong partnership? What's wrong with casting off the reins of what defined solely "you" as he does the same for him until you've fashioned a merged life of "us"?

It seems these two notions - "You complete me" and the walls of defense - are two extremes of relationship outlook. What we really want is the healthy middle, right, since this is where real "us" lives? So why was that audience so ready to applaud separatist actions...especially in light of their context which, let's not forget, is a failed relationship (and, let me add by the way, that I think, had it been Carey keeping his house and money separate, that same audience would have accused him of having fear of commitment or readying to cheat. I'm just sayin'.)

Yes, it's good to maintain self: pursue our interests and our identity to thrive as a human being. But is it not equally critical to maintain "us", to pursue that which unites us wholeheartedly, no holds barred, all-in no matter what?

I don't know...am I totally off my rocker here?

I only know that completion is good. I believe it happens in multitudes of relationship venues and that marriage -if you have one- can be the most fulfilling. I don't want to live separate in any key relationship, celebrating how I've kept myself separate in the interest of my own protection. I want to put it all out there, living in abandonment, exercising crazy love.

I know I sometimes fall short.
I often fail.
But trying to my utmost every day is reaping profound rewards...
not the least of which is having the privilege of telling someone
"You complete me."

The Grass Really Is Greener

I despise lawn in Colorado. But, then, I despise total xeriscaping even more - something about rocks and cacti seem to make the abode shout, "I'm sterile!" Lawns, however, pose a whole other set of problems; in fact, these very worriments inspire us to fuel a 40 billion (can you BELIEVE it???) dollar industry with its tantalizing promise of sod Nirvana. In American Green: The Obsessive Quest for the Perfect Lawn (2006), author and historian Ted Steinberg notes that's approximately equivalent to "the gross domestic product of the entire nation of Vietnam." Say WHAT???!!!

Of course, this should be less of an "Eeek!" moment and more of a "Figures" one since Americans stand outside at least three months of the year with hose and fertilizer cart in hand poking in dismay at the barren tundra we wish was plush canopy.

What's that you say? YOU'RE one of those dismayed pokers? Well, don't be too dismal: I am, too. Or, rather, my husband is. Was. Probably will always be. But this year was different, see, because Craig is a "putt-putter" (a term of endearment generally referring to the guy who picks a bit at most everything as a form of stress-release) whose annual battle with the lawn reached epic proportions this year. Come about May, he was stalking inside more and more mumbling something about feed, seed, water..."third dimension of hell" might have been in there somewhere...and I decided this was a no-go. No more grass stress for my plot tender!

So, off to the research banks I go...and what do I find? An array of web chronicles so diverse as to be heir-apparent to the literary Canon: I mean, are you kidding me?? But I was not to be deterred and, days and many coffee cups later, I'd decided on the crown gem of products: pre-milled corn gluten. Yep, for just $27 for a 40 pound bag (pricey, yes, but WAY cheaper than a corporate buyout of Scotts and Ortho) and a few easy applications, we were fast on our way. Now, I also patched some spots with Easy Seed - yes, it really does work - and re-orchestrated watering times (thanks, Jason Bowles) but, all in all, the corn gluten was magic fairy lawn dust.

And Craig (yes, Craig) took pictures of the final product one summer evening.

Okay, so it's grass...big deal, right? Even if you factor in the joint effort it took to make it so lush and...well....green, it's still just a photosynthetic product of dirt, seed, and science, huh? Well, like most mind-bending encounters, grass may seem pedestrian at first glance. But then I got to thinking: blade for blade, that's a lot of photosynthetic product of dirt, seed, and science coming together to create a blanket as soft to the soles as it is pleasing to the eye. And it smells good. Looks good. And if, as Steinberg suggests, our lawns are extensions of our living rooms, then I want ours to stand up and shout, "Hello, gorgeous! This land is fertile and vital and all-around welcoming - come on in and sit for a spell!" Or, put another way, thanks to the co-labor of marriage and a fairy dust gluten, the grass really is greener on our side of the fence.

And we didn't even have to purchase Vietnam.

I Only Had a Day...

...to find childcare for three small children.

Two were only one day into the start of a new school year. One needed care requiring meals, snacks, a nap, and the ability to forebear a toddler. Ideally, we wanted to keep them in their environments since school's a block away, and Judsen does better sleeping in his own room.

Yep.

Peace talks might require less organization than that. And I had a mere day to do it.

The resulting "plan" brings this Scripture to mind:

"A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17

And this sentiment, too:

"My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them. They tell me those who were poor early have different views of gold. I don't know how that is. God is not so wary as we, else He would give us no friends, lest we forget Him."
- Emily Dickinson

So I placed four calls.

Then I was done.

In a detailed but expertly-greased hub of cogs and levers, all three children were balanced, loved, distracted, and tended. A friend, neighbor, and fellow mom from school took Grace and Elijah home from school on Friday and Monday until Craig's mom got off from work. Mom then took over for the weekend until Bee stepped in. Now she had a tough job: she spent Sunday and Monday night, feeding them, tucking them in, waking them, and shuttling them to school and Zee's house - who added Judsen to her flock of five...yes, 5!...for 2 days whole.

Upon our arrival in Iowa, my stepdad asked, "Who's taking care of the kids?" After giving him the skinny, he replied, "Wow. Now that's some kind of friends, isn't it?"

Indeed.

Thank you, Ashley, Mom, Zee, Bee, and all your families who went into the deep end to help keep our family afloat: you demonstrated true friendship, and I am full of thanks.

I can count on you and know you are more than empty words.
You came to the rescue

...when I only had a day.

The Hat

In January of 2008, I bought Craig a hat. The occasion prompting the purchase was twofold: his 35th birthday and an upcoming tumor biopsy.

The sentiment behind the purchase was a change in his consciousness I was determined to provoke. Perhaps to best understand the hat - and the sentiment - is through the visual.

Yep, they all have one item in common: The Superman Hat.

Though I've given him several over the years, this is the one he wears the most. I don't know if he knows he does. I suppose I'll have to ask him. But, whether consciously or not, he owns the message of this hat.

And that was the sentiment.

After months of pokes and prods and multiple scans, Craig still had a ways to go...and was feeling the discouraging effects of it. I was convinced he shouldn't go into the necessary biopsy - already painful and delicate and, therefore, quite scary in its own right - with that mindset. So, when I saw this hat, I scooped it up immediately...to remind him to be strong. To be faithful. To be determined beyond reason or logic. To stand firm when he most wanted to fall. And to believe in the might within him, given by God, no matter what.

When I gave it to him, I told him he had to live. He had to survive. I told him he was the most beautiful man I'll ever know. He just smiled and put it on, probably not really feeling any of those thoughts were true. But he wore that hat the day of his biopsy right until they wheeled him into the lab. And he asked me to get it for him as soon as he came out.

He conquered that biopsy. And the excruciating pain it brought. And the tumor it diagnosed.

Anyone who knows him will tell you, if you see Craig, you're likely to see that hat. 

He's a husband, father, brother, son, and friend.

He's smart and good and immeasurably wise.

He's a survivor.

After all, he's Superman.

March Madness?

It's a frenzy, that's for sure. It's up. It's down. There's wins. And upsets. And losses. And upsets. It's 10 freakishly-tall men somewhere between 18 and 22 who doggedly pursue a trophy and title some of their schools have never even come close to coveting.

It's birthed an entire sub-sect of linguistic dialect. Let's see...we do have, of course, the biggies. The Big Dance. The Sweet Sixteen. The Elite Eight. The Final Four. And don't forget the Cinderella (the team that should never have a chance, but wins its pairing anyway. Last night, that was 9th seeded UNI's victory over #1 seed Kansas). Then you've got the busted bracket (not good. Not good at all). You've got the office pools, the church pools (hey, it's not really gambling....calm down), and, of course, the 1 million dollar winner who projects the perfect bracket (though Craig informs me this tradition is no more...why, I can't imagine, since to my knowledge no one ever won it in the history of the tournament).

Fans (mostly men, but not all, now) miss work over it. Become tied to the TV for it. Surf 800 channels searching for it. And the din of the crowd hundreds to even thousands of miles away blankets our house like white noise...occasionally interrupted by an outburst from my husband - sometimes good. Sometimes not.

I love March Madness. I'm not a big fan. I watch periodically in between other tasks or happenings that are, quite frankly, far more attractive on the magnet scale of fun. This is the first year in a few I haven't completed a bracket. For Craig, it's calculated observation coupled with playing records with a bit of rooting for the underdog mixed in. His bracket is, I'd say, a pseudo-science. Mine's gut. Pure instinct. And, I'll have you know, I'm right enough to accurately predict no less than 75% of the Final Four. Not too shabby for little watching and even less interest. So how come I love it?

Because Craig does. 

It's the only - the only - sports event he watches from beginning to end, riveted. He's watched it the entire time I've known him...ever since college when he'd wheedle his way onto my dorm sofa, captivated by the tv as I studied away. He's even traveled out of state with a friend to catch a few games in the series. These are warm memories. These are ways you write a story as a couple. I don't feel lost or abandoned. Don't feel neglected or threatened. I'm not mad about March Madness.

I'm happy it makes him happy, that he celebrates the losing of the big dog to the little dog...that he snorts in contempt when the "should have wons" blow it in the final seconds and shred his bracket.

He loves it. 

So I love it, too.

Happy Birthday, Baby!

Other people's birthdays are a bigger deal to me than my own. I love celebrating the day God brought my dearest loves into the world. I mean, He picked the date, He chose the time, He celebrates your arrival every day...why not throw a party?

That said, our house doesn't mark the adults' birthdays with a party every year...or, at least, not a party in the standard sense of the word. Every year is something special and, we've found at least, that as we get older, the number in the party isn't as significant as the people in the party. In other words (surprise, surprise), once again, quality trumps quantity at the Covak house. Craig's 37th birthday party was no exception.

And boy did we have fun! Listen: there's a freedom beyond phrasing when a group comes together and can just be. Just be, I say! Your opinions aren't censored, your laughter isn't contained. You can be feisty or quiet, flamboyant or subdued, riotous or calm...whatever emotion you've got...well, you can just be. Sometimes, those opinions are coarse - nobody cares. Often, your level is just a skosh too loud - nobody cares. Maybe your demeanor is just a bit timid - nobody cares. But your presence, your joy, your feeling of being loved and valued - about that, everybody cares. It is the art of friendship savored.

God's still there. He's still honored. He's still observed. But there's no pretense of having to be, of needing to be, even, on your best behavior. You can just be. That simple.

So, we came together with valued friends and relished our time spent. At Craig's request, I made Chicken Arrugula (a Covak signature dish) and his favorite dessert, Peanut Butter Icebox. We laughed. A lot. There was never a lull of awkward silence and all time was forgotten. Then we laughed some more and celebrated our friend's birthday just because he matters.

Now that's a good time.

That's a party.

Happy Birthday, Baby!

The Zitzmanns, The Covaks, The Bowles

Is Love Blind?

Craig turned 37 on January 2nd. It's funny - I look at my husband and realize he's fast approaching 40, but in my heart's and mind's eye, he's still the 21-year-old man I saw walking down a hallway carrying his Bible as I thought, "This is it. This is the one. I love this man." Sometimes I wonder if he'll always be this picture in mind even when gray peppers his brow and laugh lines crease his eyes. If I asked some endearing elderly man married some 60 years who still pulls his wife's chair out to seat her, would he tell me his eye still sees the woman he saw walking down the aisle in white? Is love blind in the absence-of-vanity, truly-see-your-soul kind of way?

I hope so. I believe so. For it is so...at least for me.