what? Engagement, done. Wedding, done. Honeymoon, done. (I still can't write about it. I'm still too frustrated. American Airlines, you suck!) Right, so now what? There's a huge let down from all the planning and the excitement. You're the center of attention and a big deal and the next thing you know, the lawn needs cut and you're trying to figure out what smells in the fridge.
Being in that newlywed love bubble has made the outside world seem so less real to me. Like oh, that awful thing happened or he said WHAT feels softer. Then suddenly it's June and we have a couple of presumptive nominees and a guy rapes a woman and only has to serve six months because we can't ruin his life and we're arguing about bathrooms and gorillas. And I'm all... what fresh hell is THIS?!
There is much I could write on these individual topics. I've begun at least three entries on them and became so disheartened and sad I had to stop. The one thing that seemed to keep popping into my head was how incredibly unkind we've all become. How being heartless and insensitive has become something to aspire to. Caring for other human beings has become something to be mocked in unoriginal social media posts. It's as if everyone is sitting back, twirling their mustaches pouncing on any generosity of spirit or kind words and calling them weakness.
I live in a very small community. I speak to my neighbors when I see them. We show each other support and kindness in times of need. We do for each other when we can't do for ourselves. Let me say that again, we do for each other when we CAN'T do for ourselves. Not won't. There is a difference. I'm incredibly lucky to live here. I've been on the receiving end of that kind of support, and I'm so grateful for it. I'm also very scared that our community will become an anomaly instead of the norm.
It seems lately, in our big beautiful world, we're expected to not do for each other, period. We need our piece of the pie and everyone else be damned. It reminds me of being a kid and hearing about the bomb shelters people put in their backyards during the 1950s. All I could think was "what about the people who don't have them? Do you really lock yourself in there and let everyone else die?" I couldn't do it; I'd want to die with everyone else rather than been that sort of selfish and greedy. It just feels so hateful and wrong to me.
That makes me weak and pathetic. I'm supposed to care about I ME MY and MINE. If someone is knocked down, I should either kick them as I pass or look the other way or take video of it so we can all comment on it later. Let me just say this, those two bicyclists who DID something when they SAW something... that's all kinds of bravery. They didn't know exactly what was happening, they didn't know if Brock Turner had a weapon. What they knew was that they needed to help and so they did. That should be an example of how we should be living our lives. ACT, DO, BE instead of filming it or deciding it's not our business. You know what "not our business" means? I don't care. It's not happening to me, so I don't care.
I do blame the political environment for some of it. It seems that meanness and anger have become virtues. It's not enough to disagree, one much deride and despise the views of others and often the other with that view. If someone doesn't agree with us, we name call anyone who doesn't beat their drum to our cause. The hate is beginning to permeate everything. You can feel it swirling around you. It's frightening. We're losing our humanity, our souls. That's not America or human to me.
So here's what I'm going to do, I'm going to be kind. I've been less than that on at least one occasion recently when I felt that a kind heart of someone I love and admire seemed less kind than my perspective of them. So I retaliated with unkindness. Thus perpetuating and increasing the anger and bitterness. I put that unkindness out into the atmosphere. I was wrong to do that.
I'm going to do my level best to not get sucked into hate filled and fueled debates. I'm not going to let my temper run my show. I'm going to do my best to treat others the way I wish to be treated. This should be easy, right? I mean I'm a generally kind person. I'm loving. I'm freaking happy. Easy. Except, I'm also human.
I'm not talking about looking the other way when I see injustice. I'm not talking about NOT speaking up about my beliefs. I'm talking about how no one ever changed someone's mind with hate. If they did it's because that hate was already in that mind, quietly waiting for someone to voice what they really thought and believed so they could chime with with their "yeah!". Kindness moves people. Even the most hateful, irrational people. Unless their hearts are really that cold and dead and even then I should still do the right thing because mine isn't.
Kindness is for the weak and the strong. It's a universal language. Sometimes your kindness isn't appreciated. It isn't your business how someone uses a gift you've given them. It's your business that you give the gift. If someone believes themselves to be so strong that caring about other's feelings seems like a weakness to them, well they are already weak. If something as small as not saying the next nasty thing you think of, if not pushing someone aside so you can for sure get yours screams weakness to you, then how can you possibly claim strength? Brought low by giving someone a hand up? Made weak by not hating the person who is not exactly like you? Not being able to live in a world where everyone thinks their own way instead aligning with your beliefs... that screams fear to me. And how can you be tough while living in fear?
It takes a brave person to extend their hand to someone at the risk of having it slapped away. It takes simple fear to be the one slapping the hand. I will manage my own soul. I will try to be the person others look at and wish they could have some of the kind of peace I have. I will encourage and build up. I will love even in the midst of hate. I will admire and support the victim and pray for the offender. I will not care that I look weak, because those judging me as that are afraid. I will practice kindness as much as possible in a world that is increasingly feeling like hell.*
*Does not include road rage. I'm going to continue to practice that, but I will discontinue use of hand gestures and horn honking.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
When I got...
my driver's license at 16, my dad took me to the DMV. I had to take the driving portion of the test at the department, because I didn't have enough classroom driving hours. Our car horn wouldn't honk. A fuse had blown and our horn wouldn't honk and one couldn't take the test without a honking horn. My dad felt terrible. It was already a week past my 16th birthday, because I had to wait for my permit and it looked like I'd have to wait another day. Another day at age 16 is like, forever. Then my feisty Aunt Ethel happened to be driving by, stopped to tease me and just like that she lent me her car for my test.
I just kept looking at that license. It was warm when it came out of the printer. What was I thinking wearing that gray shirt? Gray, really? Five years of that picture. My hair took up most of it, because it was the eighties. Lisa D. Huber. There it was. She was a legal, licensed driver.
This past Saturday I sat in my car outside the DMV. The one in our town has long since closed. I sat outside and looked at my driver's license. I wasn't wearing gray; I've only had it since September when my address changed. Lisa D. Huber. I was at the DMV to change the Huber.
It's a huge decision for me to stop using that last name. I've lived 44 years with it. There is much debate about whether I should change it or not. I'm supposed to be a feminist and keep my identity. But is who I am as a woman tied to that last name? Am I not just trading one man's name for another man's name? Why should women be the ones who change? (My 6 year old nephew fought hard for me to keep Huber. It's his name too and that's how we know we are a family, he told me.)
Let me just say this, to me being a feminist gives me the right to decide what my life looks like, what my womanhood looks like. I decide what works for me. Conforming is still conforming, but I choose what to conform to. You telling me I shouldn't think this way as a woman is exactly, to me, the same as a man telling me how I should think. I made this decision thoughtfully and without pressure. Don't throw the easy reference about societal pressure, because ultimately I am responsible for what I do. I'm a woman. Let me make my decisions and if doesn't match what you believe, then don't YOU make the same decision. Let me also say that I think it's utter bullshit that I have to put this in here at all. Second-guessing and judging other women's decisions is the opposite of feminism to me.
The logistics alone of changing one's name is enough to make you not want to do it. The heart part was the hardest. Saying my new name, writing it, taking it as truly mine is an ongoing process. Because in doing that I stopped writing and saying my family of birth's name. There is a pause in my brain every time I hear or say Lisa Baker. That pause whispers Huber.
Here's what I believe to be true about myself... I am Lisa Dyan. Rena and David's daughter. Sister to Randy and Stacie. Aunt to their children. Niece to many. I am Lisa, a person unto myself. I am also now his wife and their step-mother. I am not just who I am to those around me; I am not just who I am to myself. I am all those things combined.
No one forced me to change. My husband didn't insist. He hoped I would. I didn't really entertain not changing it for long. Ultimately, to me what was right was what Landon said... it's how we know we are a family. I was born into the name Huber. I'm always, always Lisa Huber. However, I am also part my mom's family names, my father's mother's family names and back and back to the very beginning. I'm a sum of all those names. And now I add my married name to that.
I sat in my car, looking at that driver's license with a photo of me, my blood type, my height, my (goal) weight, my eye and hair color. My last name. All of those things (except the weight) can be used to describe me. All of those things (except the weight) would be fair and accurate and true. I am all of those things and so much more.
When the woman handed me my freshly minted license, it was still warm. Every thing was the same, except the last name. Yet it felt different. I can't return to Huber without a judge saying I can. The name I was born with now falls between parentheses or is proceeded by the words "she was a ..." or "her maiden name is...". But it is still entirely mine. It's the brown of my eyes, the curl at my temple, the stubbornness and the sense of humor.
Ultimately, my new name is a word added to my story. One that marks a life change. One that tells you where I am now. A word that shows my family has increased. A word that I never have to spell when I order pizza. It's the word my husband offered me and I accepted. It's the word that connects the dots between my family of birth and my family of choice. It ties us together. It is, simply and complexly, the very next word in my story.
P.S. May 1 was not lost on me. In the midst of my joy and honeymoon travel drama, I thought about how my babies would be 4. I counted my blessings and included their brief time inside me and the eternity they will spend in my heart. Happiness heals much, having someone to help you through the hard stuff helps, time makes it less sharp, but the silence where they should be remains. That date and those babies will never truly be lost to me.
I just kept looking at that license. It was warm when it came out of the printer. What was I thinking wearing that gray shirt? Gray, really? Five years of that picture. My hair took up most of it, because it was the eighties. Lisa D. Huber. There it was. She was a legal, licensed driver.
This past Saturday I sat in my car outside the DMV. The one in our town has long since closed. I sat outside and looked at my driver's license. I wasn't wearing gray; I've only had it since September when my address changed. Lisa D. Huber. I was at the DMV to change the Huber.
It's a huge decision for me to stop using that last name. I've lived 44 years with it. There is much debate about whether I should change it or not. I'm supposed to be a feminist and keep my identity. But is who I am as a woman tied to that last name? Am I not just trading one man's name for another man's name? Why should women be the ones who change? (My 6 year old nephew fought hard for me to keep Huber. It's his name too and that's how we know we are a family, he told me.)
Let me just say this, to me being a feminist gives me the right to decide what my life looks like, what my womanhood looks like. I decide what works for me. Conforming is still conforming, but I choose what to conform to. You telling me I shouldn't think this way as a woman is exactly, to me, the same as a man telling me how I should think. I made this decision thoughtfully and without pressure. Don't throw the easy reference about societal pressure, because ultimately I am responsible for what I do. I'm a woman. Let me make my decisions and if doesn't match what you believe, then don't YOU make the same decision. Let me also say that I think it's utter bullshit that I have to put this in here at all. Second-guessing and judging other women's decisions is the opposite of feminism to me.
The logistics alone of changing one's name is enough to make you not want to do it. The heart part was the hardest. Saying my new name, writing it, taking it as truly mine is an ongoing process. Because in doing that I stopped writing and saying my family of birth's name. There is a pause in my brain every time I hear or say Lisa Baker. That pause whispers Huber.
Here's what I believe to be true about myself... I am Lisa Dyan. Rena and David's daughter. Sister to Randy and Stacie. Aunt to their children. Niece to many. I am Lisa, a person unto myself. I am also now his wife and their step-mother. I am not just who I am to those around me; I am not just who I am to myself. I am all those things combined.
No one forced me to change. My husband didn't insist. He hoped I would. I didn't really entertain not changing it for long. Ultimately, to me what was right was what Landon said... it's how we know we are a family. I was born into the name Huber. I'm always, always Lisa Huber. However, I am also part my mom's family names, my father's mother's family names and back and back to the very beginning. I'm a sum of all those names. And now I add my married name to that.
I sat in my car, looking at that driver's license with a photo of me, my blood type, my height, my (goal) weight, my eye and hair color. My last name. All of those things (except the weight) can be used to describe me. All of those things (except the weight) would be fair and accurate and true. I am all of those things and so much more.
When the woman handed me my freshly minted license, it was still warm. Every thing was the same, except the last name. Yet it felt different. I can't return to Huber without a judge saying I can. The name I was born with now falls between parentheses or is proceeded by the words "she was a ..." or "her maiden name is...". But it is still entirely mine. It's the brown of my eyes, the curl at my temple, the stubbornness and the sense of humor.
Ultimately, my new name is a word added to my story. One that marks a life change. One that tells you where I am now. A word that shows my family has increased. A word that I never have to spell when I order pizza. It's the word my husband offered me and I accepted. It's the word that connects the dots between my family of birth and my family of choice. It ties us together. It is, simply and complexly, the very next word in my story.
P.S. May 1 was not lost on me. In the midst of my joy and honeymoon travel drama, I thought about how my babies would be 4. I counted my blessings and included their brief time inside me and the eternity they will spend in my heart. Happiness heals much, having someone to help you through the hard stuff helps, time makes it less sharp, but the silence where they should be remains. That date and those babies will never truly be lost to me.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Last night...
he was talking and said "my wife" and he was talking about me. It's like everything inside me flipped over and all the happy floated to the top. My whole life I've loved words. I use them, too many at a time usually, and think about them and love finding new ones. Yet it's the simple phrases that seem to be my favorite right now. I love you, will you marry me, I do, my wife, my husband. Let this ring show that this is my beloved and this is my best friend. Okay, that last one was a little wordy but I think you understand.
It was beautiful and thrilling and crazy and a mess. It was perfect. My garter fell off as I first stared the bridal walk and my brother threw it on the trunk of his daughter's car. (YES a garter because hubba hubba!) The cake was crooked, wasps were forming gangs in the roof of the tents, the punch wasn't ready and we almost forgot the cake. My sister locked her keys in her car the day before. I was 15 minutes late. We underestimated the seating for the wedding. And after writing that here, I won't bother with it again. Those things are just funny little anecdotes now.
My husband's daughters were beautiful. I mean wow beautiful. They were everything one needs at a wedding. Helpful, supportive, caring, patient and oh so funny. My mom and her husband did more than I even could have imagined. They made it better than magical. My brother's family did anything and everything I needed. My new SIL and her husband pitched in and lifted and cleaned. The oldest Baker child's boyfriend, Elliott, stepped in and stepped up and helped create some of the most touching things at the reception. My sister ran errands and adjusted my Spanx and zipped my dress. My SIL Shannon did hair and makeup all morning long while keeping us laughing. One of the best things about our wedding was how much of a family event it was. Before, during and after. I'm so very grateful for all of them. They are each a precious gift.
The support online I received was beyond what I could have imagined. I got messages and texts and calls, comments and reactions and so much love and well wishes. I won't forget it. I was surrounded by love and nothing but. And all that wasn't even the actual ceremony.
We decorated Saturday morning with the help of those named above. My Shannon (Boy Shannon as my nieces and nephews call him) and I decided we would see each other the day of the wedding but not after we were all fancied up for the actual ceremony. So we spent the morning working together. I had a meltdown early on and stood in my mom's house and cried. And then after a few minutes with my Shannon, everything was better.
We finished early and he and I were sitting outside admiring how beautiful everything was and talking about how grateful we are for our families when he asked if I wanted to go for a ride on the golf cart. He drove me down the lane where we'd shortly walk toward the wedding site. We drove past the paintings made by our families at one of my bridal showers and the signs marking our day given to us by friends. We sat for a moment quietly admiring the wooden pews and beautiful trellis he'd built for us to marry under. Then he drove me past the barn and the chickens wandering in the yard to the spot where my dad's ashes are buried. It's marked with a small stone that says "Dad's Garden". Standing there I could look back and see clearly the site where we'd soon stand and say the words that I now love more than any. He had a clear view of me and I of him.
The ceremony was short and oh so sweet. The cat wandered in and made himself at home. There was a breeze and bright sunshine. I was shaking and my brother cracked wise as he walked me down the aisle. Honestly it's as if everything but Shannon is a blur. Just he and I. And the words. When I said "take you Shannon as my husband" it took a moment to say because all the happiness and love tightened my throat and again ran down my face. When he said "take you Lisa as my wife" it was as if something wrapped around he and I and we were quite simply married.
Then it was done. Kiss your bride, back down the aisle. Lots of hugging. We sat at a table at our little reception and let it go by. We danced our first and held onto each other. To use a tired by appropriate cliché, we danced like no one was watching because in the moment it was just the two of us.
I hope as you read this you can feel some of the love I felt. Even a small measure, because it was shooting out of the ends of my hair and my fingertips*. I'm still floating on it.
Then it was over. We left. It felt different the leaving with him. It felt stable, peaceful and calmer. It felt like suddenly the world was safer for both of us because we had each other. A signed paper didn't do that. The long veil and the beautiful flowers and leaning cake didn't do that. The words did. The promises did. Our hearts did.
Thank you for being part of it. You were. I felt you all there as I was waiting for my turn to walk down the lane that was our aisle. I hope you understand that after a few steps I felt only my brother and then my father and my family, the one I came with and the one we created that day. And then I only felt my husband. My husband. And then I felt like his wife.
* Paraphrased from It's a Wonderful Life. Because it is.
Photo credit to my new SIL Chris.
It was beautiful and thrilling and crazy and a mess. It was perfect. My garter fell off as I first stared the bridal walk and my brother threw it on the trunk of his daughter's car. (YES a garter because hubba hubba!) The cake was crooked, wasps were forming gangs in the roof of the tents, the punch wasn't ready and we almost forgot the cake. My sister locked her keys in her car the day before. I was 15 minutes late. We underestimated the seating for the wedding. And after writing that here, I won't bother with it again. Those things are just funny little anecdotes now.
My husband's daughters were beautiful. I mean wow beautiful. They were everything one needs at a wedding. Helpful, supportive, caring, patient and oh so funny. My mom and her husband did more than I even could have imagined. They made it better than magical. My brother's family did anything and everything I needed. My new SIL and her husband pitched in and lifted and cleaned. The oldest Baker child's boyfriend, Elliott, stepped in and stepped up and helped create some of the most touching things at the reception. My sister ran errands and adjusted my Spanx and zipped my dress. My SIL Shannon did hair and makeup all morning long while keeping us laughing. One of the best things about our wedding was how much of a family event it was. Before, during and after. I'm so very grateful for all of them. They are each a precious gift.
The support online I received was beyond what I could have imagined. I got messages and texts and calls, comments and reactions and so much love and well wishes. I won't forget it. I was surrounded by love and nothing but. And all that wasn't even the actual ceremony.
We decorated Saturday morning with the help of those named above. My Shannon (Boy Shannon as my nieces and nephews call him) and I decided we would see each other the day of the wedding but not after we were all fancied up for the actual ceremony. So we spent the morning working together. I had a meltdown early on and stood in my mom's house and cried. And then after a few minutes with my Shannon, everything was better.
We finished early and he and I were sitting outside admiring how beautiful everything was and talking about how grateful we are for our families when he asked if I wanted to go for a ride on the golf cart. He drove me down the lane where we'd shortly walk toward the wedding site. We drove past the paintings made by our families at one of my bridal showers and the signs marking our day given to us by friends. We sat for a moment quietly admiring the wooden pews and beautiful trellis he'd built for us to marry under. Then he drove me past the barn and the chickens wandering in the yard to the spot where my dad's ashes are buried. It's marked with a small stone that says "Dad's Garden". Standing there I could look back and see clearly the site where we'd soon stand and say the words that I now love more than any. He had a clear view of me and I of him.
The ceremony was short and oh so sweet. The cat wandered in and made himself at home. There was a breeze and bright sunshine. I was shaking and my brother cracked wise as he walked me down the aisle. Honestly it's as if everything but Shannon is a blur. Just he and I. And the words. When I said "take you Shannon as my husband" it took a moment to say because all the happiness and love tightened my throat and again ran down my face. When he said "take you Lisa as my wife" it was as if something wrapped around he and I and we were quite simply married.
Then it was done. Kiss your bride, back down the aisle. Lots of hugging. We sat at a table at our little reception and let it go by. We danced our first and held onto each other. To use a tired by appropriate cliché, we danced like no one was watching because in the moment it was just the two of us.
I hope as you read this you can feel some of the love I felt. Even a small measure, because it was shooting out of the ends of my hair and my fingertips*. I'm still floating on it.
Then it was over. We left. It felt different the leaving with him. It felt stable, peaceful and calmer. It felt like suddenly the world was safer for both of us because we had each other. A signed paper didn't do that. The long veil and the beautiful flowers and leaning cake didn't do that. The words did. The promises did. Our hearts did.
Thank you for being part of it. You were. I felt you all there as I was waiting for my turn to walk down the lane that was our aisle. I hope you understand that after a few steps I felt only my brother and then my father and my family, the one I came with and the one we created that day. And then I only felt my husband. My husband. And then I felt like his wife.
* Paraphrased from It's a Wonderful Life. Because it is.
Photo credit to my new SIL Chris.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
It's really...
happening. This Friday we get our marriage license. Next Friday we rehearse. Then...it's really happening. We've alluded to getting married for several months. Things like "when we're married..." and "at our wedding...". He asked me in our kitchen, in case you're wondering. In our kitchen where we've cooked and laughed and disagreed and danced. Said he loved me and asked me officially to marry him. And I said "of course".
I've been surprise "showered" twice. Once by my Aunts Ruby and Pam and cousins Addie, Alison and Mandy and my sister-in-law turned sister. Once by my SBJ friends turned soul sisters. Both were remarkable and overwhelming. Both are now two of my most precious memories. I was amazed at the love I felt, how these women, those family by birth and those family by choice simply yet enormously wanted to combine their joy with mine. Oh the love in those rooms. I'm forever grateful, forever touched, forever moved by the love.
The wedding itself will be small. Twenty-seven people including the groom and myself. It will be in my mother's backyard, where she will officiate under the pergola SB and I built (okay, he built, I handed him stuff). His daughters, our witnesses. There will be a bench my great-grandfather built, a porch swing for a guestbook, direction signs made by my fiancé, painted by his sister, with wood from the barn in my mother's yard near where the ceremony will be and from the last place I lived with my dad. There will be paintings made by his precious daughters, my nieces and nieces-to-be, my sister-in-law and sister-in-law-to-be and my nephews at a paint class we all took together. Seashells gathered on vacations together, sand from Alabama, a handkerchief of my grandmother's borrowed from my sister and my father's wedding band tied to my bouquet. There will be things that are everything to us.
When we started planning the wedding I began looking for inspiration and articles about our situation. He's a divorced dad; I'm 44 and never married. Even Pinterest didn't have anything. Eventually, we found our own way. So here is my little piece of advice for "mature" brides... do your thing. Ask his opinion. Listen to him. It's his wedding too. People will tell you to relax and enjoy the planning because it goes so fast. Let me just inject a bit of reality into that, it goes fast because you have so much to do and seemingly little time to do it. You can't relax entirely because you are so busy. Life is happening while you're planning. However, I did force myself to pause daily and remind myself what I was planning for. A benchmark. A line that will measure time going forward, "before we were married" and "after". Being married not just getting married. So yes, hold the happy in your hand for a bit and then get back to work. Don't beat yourself up or worry that you're doing it wrong if you aren't skipping through wildflowers mentally while you're trying to pick an aisle runner.
Most importantly, ask yourself "does this feel like us?". Don't let people talk you into something that doesn't feel like you. Once you make a decision about size and location, don't let anyone talk you out of it. If I've learned anything from Carrie Bradshaw it's that you can't let the wedding get bigger than the bride and groom.
I ordered my dress online (BHLDN - they are fantastic for bridesmaids too). I love it. I tried in on alone in my hallway, in front of my skinny mirror and I had that wonderful smiling with tears moment. And then had it again when my mom and sister saw it. It's perfectly me. I wanted a veil and after reading what is "appropriate" for my age, I promptly got something else altogether. It makes me absolutely feel like a bride. With the help of my friends and family and fiancé, I know I deserve that big beautiful feeling.
It was a struggle deciding who will be at the ceremony. There are many that won't be there that I will absolutely miss. I know there is disappointment on the parts of those not attending, but so far no hard feelings. They love us, so they understand. But in the end, we just want to be married. We didn't want to get lost in the planning and then the marriage get lost on the wedding day. Even with a wedding of this size we've felt so busy at times that we miss each other even though we're doing all of it together. So this small, personal wedding is what works best for us.
We're at the point where everything feels almost ready. The small details, if left undone will not undo the wedding. The truth is, I'd marry him right now in the middle of the street. My heart already feels married to him.
Speaking of my heart, it is still so full of love. Love for my family, those that I've had since my or their birth and those that are becoming my family and for my precious friends. Love for my fiancé's daughters. Love for my beloved. My overflowing heart, she's grown from all this love that I not only give but know that I've been given back, good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over as promised.*
Now I just have to come to terms with the fact that I'm going to be married... while wearing flats. Ouch. I felt that one in my heart too.
Of course, they're really good flats.
#HappilyEverBaker
*The Bible has much to say about love and giving. This is from Luke 6:38.
I've been surprise "showered" twice. Once by my Aunts Ruby and Pam and cousins Addie, Alison and Mandy and my sister-in-law turned sister. Once by my SBJ friends turned soul sisters. Both were remarkable and overwhelming. Both are now two of my most precious memories. I was amazed at the love I felt, how these women, those family by birth and those family by choice simply yet enormously wanted to combine their joy with mine. Oh the love in those rooms. I'm forever grateful, forever touched, forever moved by the love.
The wedding itself will be small. Twenty-seven people including the groom and myself. It will be in my mother's backyard, where she will officiate under the pergola SB and I built (okay, he built, I handed him stuff). His daughters, our witnesses. There will be a bench my great-grandfather built, a porch swing for a guestbook, direction signs made by my fiancé, painted by his sister, with wood from the barn in my mother's yard near where the ceremony will be and from the last place I lived with my dad. There will be paintings made by his precious daughters, my nieces and nieces-to-be, my sister-in-law and sister-in-law-to-be and my nephews at a paint class we all took together. Seashells gathered on vacations together, sand from Alabama, a handkerchief of my grandmother's borrowed from my sister and my father's wedding band tied to my bouquet. There will be things that are everything to us.
When we started planning the wedding I began looking for inspiration and articles about our situation. He's a divorced dad; I'm 44 and never married. Even Pinterest didn't have anything. Eventually, we found our own way. So here is my little piece of advice for "mature" brides... do your thing. Ask his opinion. Listen to him. It's his wedding too. People will tell you to relax and enjoy the planning because it goes so fast. Let me just inject a bit of reality into that, it goes fast because you have so much to do and seemingly little time to do it. You can't relax entirely because you are so busy. Life is happening while you're planning. However, I did force myself to pause daily and remind myself what I was planning for. A benchmark. A line that will measure time going forward, "before we were married" and "after". Being married not just getting married. So yes, hold the happy in your hand for a bit and then get back to work. Don't beat yourself up or worry that you're doing it wrong if you aren't skipping through wildflowers mentally while you're trying to pick an aisle runner.
Most importantly, ask yourself "does this feel like us?". Don't let people talk you into something that doesn't feel like you. Once you make a decision about size and location, don't let anyone talk you out of it. If I've learned anything from Carrie Bradshaw it's that you can't let the wedding get bigger than the bride and groom.
I ordered my dress online (BHLDN - they are fantastic for bridesmaids too). I love it. I tried in on alone in my hallway, in front of my skinny mirror and I had that wonderful smiling with tears moment. And then had it again when my mom and sister saw it. It's perfectly me. I wanted a veil and after reading what is "appropriate" for my age, I promptly got something else altogether. It makes me absolutely feel like a bride. With the help of my friends and family and fiancé, I know I deserve that big beautiful feeling.
It was a struggle deciding who will be at the ceremony. There are many that won't be there that I will absolutely miss. I know there is disappointment on the parts of those not attending, but so far no hard feelings. They love us, so they understand. But in the end, we just want to be married. We didn't want to get lost in the planning and then the marriage get lost on the wedding day. Even with a wedding of this size we've felt so busy at times that we miss each other even though we're doing all of it together. So this small, personal wedding is what works best for us.
We're at the point where everything feels almost ready. The small details, if left undone will not undo the wedding. The truth is, I'd marry him right now in the middle of the street. My heart already feels married to him.
Speaking of my heart, it is still so full of love. Love for my family, those that I've had since my or their birth and those that are becoming my family and for my precious friends. Love for my fiancé's daughters. Love for my beloved. My overflowing heart, she's grown from all this love that I not only give but know that I've been given back, good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over as promised.*
Now I just have to come to terms with the fact that I'm going to be married... while wearing flats. Ouch. I felt that one in my heart too.
Of course, they're really good flats.
#HappilyEverBaker
*The Bible has much to say about love and giving. This is from Luke 6:38.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
My brain...
and my heart are very busy right now. They seem to not be working in tandem. I'm mostly all heart right now. I have to force my brain to engage for adulting. But oh my heart, she's so full she's taken over.
That's not a bad thing. I cry a lot. Happy tears mostly. When Dee picked out her prom dress for her senior year, I cried. The sunrise over the ocean made me cry. My sister's wedding gift... cried. My heart, she's so full she's apparently running down my face.
This next sentence is a hard one. My dad will not be at my wedding. He really won't walk me down the aisle. He won't kiss my hand as he hands me off. He won't tell me "I told you so" because he really did tell me a week before he died that "he" was out there and I'd eventually find him and that "he" would be the "best one". My dad really won't be at my wedding.
I wrote this to some of my friends a couple of weeks ago. Three of whom have lost their fathers. The rest of whom can imagine what it would be like. Saying it helped. I need to put it out there and face it before the day, because it's real and it's hell.
I want him to come back for just that day. He can walk me down the aisle and kiss my hand and clap SB on the back as my dad puts my hand in his. My dad could say "she's all yours... take care of her" or "good luck with her". He could sit on the front pew with my stepfather (whom I'm grateful for) while my mom officiates mine and SB's marriage ceremony. Maybe he'd cry. Maybe he'd laugh at my "silly ass". Then he'd have some cake and hug his grandkids and kiss my cheek and say "I love you babe." and then he could just go back to where he is now.
Just one day. Really in the picture of eternity, that isn't long.
Last night SB and I took a ride in his pickup. AFTER we voted, of course. We drove by the place where he put the blankets on the dock so we could watch the meteor shower. We drove around places we've driven since we've been together. We do this, this ride thing. It's easy to talk in the truck with "our" playlist and the weather feeling all warm and optimistic. My parents used to go for rides in the car. I remember watching my dad put his arm across the back of the seat resting his hand on my mom's shoulder. I remember my mom rubbing the back of his neck. I remember thinking I was going to do that when I got married. And now I do.
So on this ride we ended up driving past the last home in which I lived with my parents. It's falling down now. It was an old farm house and no one has lived in it for years. It's been more than 20 since I've lived there. It was the place my dad lived when he found out he was sick, before he moved to his old home place to die. It's the place that makes me homesick. Where I feel him most. Where I can picture my teenaged self most.
This time my fiancé pulled into the drive and we proceeded to trespass on private property. We saw the iris starting to peep up from where my mom and dad planted them. We could see through the falling down back porch to the kitchen where my dad drank coffee and we had dinner. I could see the memories.
SB wandered off a bit and I was standing in front of the garage. I put my hand on the door handle. I put my hand there because I knew my dad's hand had been there many times. I wanted to touch a place he touched. And oh I felt him. He wrapped himself around me. He held me like I was a child. I felt him right there. As SB seems to always always do, he was next to me at the exact right moment. And he wrapped himself around me and held me like I was almost his wife and I felt him right there.
My dad will be there April 16 at 2:30. He'll be there as I take my brother's arm and look at his hands which look just like my dad's. He'll be standing to the side and loving me. My dad is here with me now. I feel him. I feel him running down my face with my heart.
That's not a bad thing. I cry a lot. Happy tears mostly. When Dee picked out her prom dress for her senior year, I cried. The sunrise over the ocean made me cry. My sister's wedding gift... cried. My heart, she's so full she's apparently running down my face.
This next sentence is a hard one. My dad will not be at my wedding. He really won't walk me down the aisle. He won't kiss my hand as he hands me off. He won't tell me "I told you so" because he really did tell me a week before he died that "he" was out there and I'd eventually find him and that "he" would be the "best one". My dad really won't be at my wedding.
I wrote this to some of my friends a couple of weeks ago. Three of whom have lost their fathers. The rest of whom can imagine what it would be like. Saying it helped. I need to put it out there and face it before the day, because it's real and it's hell.
I want him to come back for just that day. He can walk me down the aisle and kiss my hand and clap SB on the back as my dad puts my hand in his. My dad could say "she's all yours... take care of her" or "good luck with her". He could sit on the front pew with my stepfather (whom I'm grateful for) while my mom officiates mine and SB's marriage ceremony. Maybe he'd cry. Maybe he'd laugh at my "silly ass". Then he'd have some cake and hug his grandkids and kiss my cheek and say "I love you babe." and then he could just go back to where he is now.
Just one day. Really in the picture of eternity, that isn't long.
Last night SB and I took a ride in his pickup. AFTER we voted, of course. We drove by the place where he put the blankets on the dock so we could watch the meteor shower. We drove around places we've driven since we've been together. We do this, this ride thing. It's easy to talk in the truck with "our" playlist and the weather feeling all warm and optimistic. My parents used to go for rides in the car. I remember watching my dad put his arm across the back of the seat resting his hand on my mom's shoulder. I remember my mom rubbing the back of his neck. I remember thinking I was going to do that when I got married. And now I do.
So on this ride we ended up driving past the last home in which I lived with my parents. It's falling down now. It was an old farm house and no one has lived in it for years. It's been more than 20 since I've lived there. It was the place my dad lived when he found out he was sick, before he moved to his old home place to die. It's the place that makes me homesick. Where I feel him most. Where I can picture my teenaged self most.
This time my fiancé pulled into the drive and we proceeded to trespass on private property. We saw the iris starting to peep up from where my mom and dad planted them. We could see through the falling down back porch to the kitchen where my dad drank coffee and we had dinner. I could see the memories.
SB wandered off a bit and I was standing in front of the garage. I put my hand on the door handle. I put my hand there because I knew my dad's hand had been there many times. I wanted to touch a place he touched. And oh I felt him. He wrapped himself around me. He held me like I was a child. I felt him right there. As SB seems to always always do, he was next to me at the exact right moment. And he wrapped himself around me and held me like I was almost his wife and I felt him right there.
My dad will be there April 16 at 2:30. He'll be there as I take my brother's arm and look at his hands which look just like my dad's. He'll be standing to the side and loving me. My dad is here with me now. I feel him. I feel him running down my face with my heart.
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Betrothed....
affiance, engaged, I am those things. And I'm so incredibly happy. In one month and one day I'll have a husband. I'll be a wife.
If you don't like mushy or talking about feelings, you should probably stop now. A couple of years ago, I probably would have closed this window and moved on. I understand if you want to do that too.
I love words, you all realize that. The words he and I will say and hear April 16 will now always be my favorite. We've picked them carefully. We've made sure our hearts feel them and believe them and understand them and mean them. We've made certain that we wish to live by them.
I love him. Love isn't a big enough word. I love seafood and the ocean and my family. Love doesn't cover all the things I feel about him. I don't think there is a word. I used to look at couples and wonder if that kind of crazy big love was real. Now I have no doubts that it does exist. I'm holding it right now. I can feel how he loves me even when he's there and I am here. It's as if I can see it around me, it's so palpable.
The truth is, if you are around us for very long, you too can feel what's between he and I. We can't help it. It's some sort of vapor that follows us. We're not sorry about it.
The weight of his hand is one of my very favorite things. I'll never get used to it. His voice from the other room, seeing him looking for me in a crowd. Knowing that it's me he's trying to find. Hearing him call us "us" or "we". These things are gifts he gives me.
It's not controlling, but it is consuming. It's finding the kindest way to say and do things with and for each other. It's not hard. Really. It's not work. There were adjustments and changes to be made by both of us. Those things didn't feel like work; they felt like a privilege. They felt like we were honestly building something for ourselves and each other.
I'm still fundamentally me. Yet, somehow, I've become even more myself. More confident, more certain of who I am. I'm not saying that because I'm getting married I'm a bigger deal, because honey, I am a big deal. I'm just saying that this relationship, this big crazy love has given me a space and the safety to fully feel who I am. I'm not complete because I'm getting married. I'm getting married because I feel completely... me.
I wanted you all to know. You have followed me and encouraged me and picked me the hell up when I couldn't do it for myself. You reminded me that I'm worth saving.
I'll post more about plans and details, if you want. Right now, I just wanted to tell you, the words I'm writing right now are my favorite: He is my beloved and I am his.
If you don't like mushy or talking about feelings, you should probably stop now. A couple of years ago, I probably would have closed this window and moved on. I understand if you want to do that too.
I love words, you all realize that. The words he and I will say and hear April 16 will now always be my favorite. We've picked them carefully. We've made sure our hearts feel them and believe them and understand them and mean them. We've made certain that we wish to live by them.
I love him. Love isn't a big enough word. I love seafood and the ocean and my family. Love doesn't cover all the things I feel about him. I don't think there is a word. I used to look at couples and wonder if that kind of crazy big love was real. Now I have no doubts that it does exist. I'm holding it right now. I can feel how he loves me even when he's there and I am here. It's as if I can see it around me, it's so palpable.
The truth is, if you are around us for very long, you too can feel what's between he and I. We can't help it. It's some sort of vapor that follows us. We're not sorry about it.
The weight of his hand is one of my very favorite things. I'll never get used to it. His voice from the other room, seeing him looking for me in a crowd. Knowing that it's me he's trying to find. Hearing him call us "us" or "we". These things are gifts he gives me.
It's not controlling, but it is consuming. It's finding the kindest way to say and do things with and for each other. It's not hard. Really. It's not work. There were adjustments and changes to be made by both of us. Those things didn't feel like work; they felt like a privilege. They felt like we were honestly building something for ourselves and each other.
I'm still fundamentally me. Yet, somehow, I've become even more myself. More confident, more certain of who I am. I'm not saying that because I'm getting married I'm a bigger deal, because honey, I am a big deal. I'm just saying that this relationship, this big crazy love has given me a space and the safety to fully feel who I am. I'm not complete because I'm getting married. I'm getting married because I feel completely... me.
I wanted you all to know. You have followed me and encouraged me and picked me the hell up when I couldn't do it for myself. You reminded me that I'm worth saving.
I'll post more about plans and details, if you want. Right now, I just wanted to tell you, the words I'm writing right now are my favorite: He is my beloved and I am his.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Some sisterly...
... hell today. I think I've mentioned that I'm a middle child. Older sister, who is 41 and younger brother who is 38. I've told you about my brother. That was easy. Strangely, telling you about my sister has been harder. I'm not sure why. It's not really for any negative reason, but I can see where it might be a little hurtful for me to have left her out.My sister, Stacie, was the first grandchild on my mom's side. My Uncle Don used her to get girls. She was a traveling buddy for my Uncle Harry. She was my mom's perfectly behaved, well-mannered daughter. And she was my dad's favorite. She was an absolute Daddy's girl. That never changed. He's gone and she still is his girl.
Then came me. I'd imagine my arrival was a bit like a never-ending thunderstorm to Stac. Babies need and Stacie was used to being the only. We're told she babied me and tried to carry me around. She called me "Lucy" because she thought that should be my name. She loved me while at the same time wished she could send me back to wherever the hell I came from.
Stacie and I are, in a lot of ways, mirror images of each other. She's inside and I'm outside. She's stubborn in a different way than I am. She will speak up for herself, and I'll get quiet. She'll pick a fight when she sees an injustice, while I'll fret until there is peace. She's "this is me, love me or leave me." I'm frequently, "like me like me like me." She'll push and I'll withdraw. She was the good girl, the easy child. I was the break some rules and do a lousy job covering my tracks.
Here's the amazing thing about my big sister, all those things she does, she'll do for me. She'll pick a fight, she'll speak up, she'll push and sometimes she'll even help me cover my tracks. She'll do my dishes and clean out my refrigerator just because it needs done. She'll roll her eyes at me when I've had a bit too much vodka. She'll be the one to ask me what the hell I think I'm doing when my judgement is flawed. She's also a big "I told you so" when I don't listen.
She will absolutely tell me if my butt looks big in something. She'll tell me when she doesn't like my hair or if I have too much cleavage showing. She'll say, "I like those shoes on you, but they'd look ridiculous on anyone else." (That's my favorite thing she says.) There are things only sisters will tell you. You know, stuff your friends will white lie to you about and men fear telling you, that's the stuff about which Stacie will be brutally honest.
Sometimes, because I am passive and want to just go along to get along, I end up in situations that are unpleasant or uncomfortable and I have to find a way to get myself out of. I worry I'll hurt someone's feelings or piss someone off or someone won't like me. Stacie, always always, will help me find a way out. Because as my big sister, she feels that's her responsibility.
We fight. Damn do we fight. We say things that hurt each other in ways only sisters can. We're jealous and pissy and catty. But we're sisters, always. There are times I do wonder if she even likes me at all. One thing I know, she must love me a hell of a lot to put up with me. Now, that's one thing reflected in the sister mirror that's the same.
Stacie, 3 & me, 1
I bet I talked her into doing this.
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