A Christmas Thought

Today is Christmas Eve.  Last weekend, Matthew and I attended A Celtic Christmas, a celebration of the Celtic contribution to the Christmas celebration.  There were carols, jigs, bagpipes, an epic poem, and dancers.  During the second half of the evening, the contemporary Scottish poem was read. I've thought about it all week, because I believe it truly encapsulates the true meaning of Christmas.  It reads, in an English translation, as follows:

It would not have been like that
Yon Christmas Card with its gold-lined edge
It's sweetie pinks and bonnie blues
It was hard winter for a start, and a hard journey's end
Locked doors and hard-nosed faces,
"Nae room here, awa doon the road!"
No capers under the mistletoe
No robins. No merry ringin of
Christmas bells (or cash registers)
Just darkness, and straw and childbirth
And the beasts, soft cattle on heavy feet
Great steamin flanks and wet muzzles,
Owls in the rafters, and the rattle of rats on the bare floor
What did she make of it all?
Fear she felt, no doubt, and pain.
But that fella with the fine clothes and outlandish gifts
What did she make of it?
Those hill men thrustin in at the door
With the cold of the heights on their breath
Crooks in their hands and lambs in their underarms
Did she imagine the road he was to take?
Or did she, like any mother, kiss his soft hands and feet
Taking adoration as his due? Lord, grant that it was so!
-The Christmas Card, EM Buchanan

10 Books that Stuck with Me

I love to read.  It is said that children are made readers on the knees of their parents.  I truly have my parents to thank for me being a reader today.  I have read hundreds (maybe thousands) of books, but, prompted by one of those Facebook things, I choose ten that "stuck" with me for some reason. 

Rain Makes Applesauce, Julian Scheer
(A children's book published in the 60s, it's just as silly as the title sounds.)

Though this children's book was published in 1964, I didn't read it until the 2000s as a teenager.  It was referenced several times in a teenage romance novel I read, so I decided to check it out.  The title is quite indicative of the book: pure silliness.  And honestly, I believe that someone who doesn't like the book is probably way too serious for their own good.  Scheer worked for NASA when he wrote the book, and according to the cover flap, "the play of a child's mind is even more marvelously far out than space-probing."
My favorite line is, "The wind blows backwards all night long and rain makes applesauce.  Oh, you're just talking silly talk."  This book is a refreshing reminder that we're all just talking silly talk in the end.

Rediscover Catholicism, Matthew Kelly
(From Amazon.com: "In this unique and timely book, [Kelly] proposes that Catholicism is not a lifeless set of rules and regulations , but a way of life designed by God to help each person reach his or her full potential. With remarkable insight, Kelly dispels dozens of myths that surround the rejection of Catholicism today and provides a profound and practical vision of what will lead the Catholic Church to thrive again in the future.)

Don't let Amazon's stupid, self-help-sounding blurp dishearten you.  This book was given to members of my parish in Louisiana, and it came to me at a crucial time.  I was at the lowest point of my decade-long battle with depression, and this book took my mind off of it.  I hated the prologue to this book (an unimaginable analogy full of flaws), but I was able to fall in love again with Catholicism via the rest of this book.  The section on the seven pillars of Catholic spirituality helped me grow in my faith, and this book reminded me why I love the Church.

Gone with the Wind, Margarett Mitchell
(Southern plantation before and during the Civil War fiction at its greatest.  Seriously, this book still ranks as one of the favorite books among Americans.  Scarlett O'Hara is too charming for her own good, and the novel portrays her growing into adult hood, breaking hearts and having her's broken, and coming to realize that she must only depend on herself.)

I don't know how many times I've read this book or seen the movie.  Without a doubt, if I catch it on television, I'll stop everything to watch it.  I read it for the first time in middle school and have been enthralled ever since.  It is far more than a story of romance (In fact, it's probably one of the most depressing romances ever.); it's a story of resilience, faith, and determination.  Definitely a better story than any romance I've read lately.

13 Reasons Why, Jay Asher
(Hannah Baker committed suicide.  According to a series of tape recordings, Clay Jensen is one of the thirteen reasons why she did it.)

This YA novel came out the year I graduated high school, and it perfectly summed up how awful high school can be.  The story is told by Clay Jensen about the thirteen reasons why his crush, Hannah Baker, committed suicide.  He's one of the reasons, and he spends an entire night following a map and listening to recordings she left about why she killed herself.  I cried a lot while reading this.  I've reread it a few times and cried then, too. 
I would love to be able to teach this book to a class of high school students.

The House of Dies Drear, VIrginia Hamilton
(Thomas Small and his family move into a house that once served as a stop on the Underground Railroad.  The caretaker, Mr. Pluto, is a strange man that the townsfolk call a devil, which Thomas begins to believe when strange and scary things begin to happen in the house.)

I actually got to teach this novel to a group of middle schoolers, but my first time reading it was in the fifth grade.  It touches on a lot of sticky topics: racism, classism, being an outsider.  But I didn't pick up on those until I taught it to my middle school kids.  I learned just as much as they did.  It moves quickly and offers a lot of mystery and suspense.  I love it, and I really enjoyed teaching it.  But I'm not sure why it stuck with me so much.

In Cold Blood, Truman Capote
(A non-fiction, true crime "novel" that details the 1959 quadruple murder of the Clutter family of Kansas.  After reading about the murders, Capote and his good friend, Haper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird) traveled to Holcomb, Kansas to interview the townspeople.)
 
I hate horror stories, but I really enjoy true crime.  A lot of the time true crime stories cross the line with the gruesome as a way to hook readers.  In True Blood is perfection, though.  I've read it several times, and I never cease to be enthralled from the very beginning. 

The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
(Young, new-money Jay Gatsby is obsessed with old-money Daisy Buchanan (who you'll probably quickly hate).)

I think the fact that I want to have a labra-doodle named Fitzgerald (Fitzie for short) says a lot about how I feel about F. Scott.  Another book I've read time and time again, Gatsby is so relateable.  I don't know the number of times I've tried way too hard to impress people I shouldn't be impressing, only to have it all come crashing down. 

Postcards from No Man's Land, Aidan Chambers
(Two stories are told at once, one of Jacob Todd in Amsterdam in 1994, the second of Geertrui, a young girl who nursed Jacob's grandfather in 1944.)

This book makes me uncomfortable but in the best of ways.  Issues of euthanasia and sexual identity are addressed, but the most uncomfortable aspect of the book is that the protagonist, Jacob Todd, has his world totally rocked.  Jacob's idea of his grandfather is challenged when he meets the woman who nursed his wounded grandfather during World War II.  Bridging the past and present with two stories told simultaneously, Chambers manages to write the feelings we all have when we realize that our parents or grandparents are not always who we think they are.

A Separate Peace, John Knowles
(Gene and Finny live and study at a New England Prep School in the early 1940s.  Polar opposites, they become fast friends.  Ultimately, Finny helps Gene to find himself.  The story is told when Gene returns to the school twenty years later to visit two sites: a flight of marble stairs and a tree, both of which play major roles in the book.)

This is the third YA novel and second YA coming-of-age novel set (at least partially) during World War II on my list.  A Separate Peace is an American classic and for good reason.  It was published less than twenty years after WWII ended, so I feel like it's probably pretty telling of that generation.  But the best part about coming-of-age novels is that they're always relevant.  Knowles' story of one friend pushing another so far out of his comfort zone makes the reader uncomfortable at times.  But like Postcards, you're uncomfortable in the best of ways. 

The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien
(A collection of short stories about a platoon during the Vietnam War.  Fiction, though many of the characters are semi-biographical sharing similar characteristics of men from O'Brien's memoir.)

I've only read this book, cover to cover, twice.  But I've read various parts of it a hundred times.  This book is hard for me to read; it's so damned sad a lot of the time.  Its a war story in the broadest sense; it takes place during a war in the middle of combat and several of the short stories are about combat.  But I feel so drawn to it because of the relationships within it.  In the last story, "The Lives of the Dead," O'Brien admits that he keeps his lost loved ones alive by telling their stories.  The entire book is meant, not to show the ugliness of war, but to show the beauty of friendship. 

The D-Word

The time has always been now to discuss depression.  So let's just dive right on in and get dirty and uncomfortable.

I have poly-cystic ovary syndrome, and the community of suffers throws around the phrase "invisible disease" a lot.  We suffer the consequences of our imbalanced bodies with no outward signal that we're fighting a health battle.  We inwardly cringe at our attempts to politely explain why we don't have children, attempt to muster encouragement while battling insulin resistance and weight gain, and brave a smile while having four hours of blood work done.  There's not a 5K to support PCOS research or t-shirts that read 'I'm so classy even my ovaries wear a string of pearls'.  



(But seriously, I need that shirt!)

My battle with PCOS has given me some courage to discuss my other invisible disease: depression.

My last blog post was both fueled by depression and depressing to read.  But it was absolutely reality.  So I'll give you an concise history of my depression.

Age 14, diagnosed with and medicated for severe anxiety.  Felt like a zombie on medication and constantly conveniently forgot to take it.

Ages 15/16, lose best friend to stupid boy (yeah, I know.) and grandfather dies, dip into severe low phase and am officially diagnosed with the d-word.  Prescription dosage upped, constantly reminded to take meds.  Begin seeing a therapist weekly.

Age 17, break a boy's heart and my own, go on a roller coaster of high and low phases, still forgetting to take medication.  Still seeing a therapist weekly.

Ages 18/19/20, enter college, decide my life is awesome, completely stop taking medication and attending therapy, probably convince people I'm certifiable with my mood swings.  

Ages 21/22, senior year of college, stress over future, experience death of a dear friend, two grandfathers, and an uncle.  Fail at getting grown up job after graduation.  Get totally heartbroken and enter the absolute worst low phase of my life.  Back in the therapist's office, back on daily medication and a hardcore pill for "really sad days."

Age 23, begin teaching middle school in a poorly performing school and anxiety skyrockets.  

Age 24, move to Texas, fiance's job takes him out of state, severe loneliness and depression creeps in.

Present, dealing with a lot of what my therapist called "situational depression."  I have more good days than bad days.  Only take a fast-acting anti-anxiety medication when needed for panic and anxiety.

I've never shared all that, even the concise version, with anyone.  It's surprisingly exhilarating to get it all out there.  I guess the reason I've never shared it is because I've never really felt like I could accurately describe depression and what it is and does to me.  But a college friend of mine recently crept into my head and hammered out exactly what happens on a fairly regular basis.  So I've shared it below.

---

Let's talk about depression, y'all.

You know that voice that sometimes pops up in your head when something goes wrong? The one that says "you fucked up" or "shouldn't have said that" or "maybe I should have handled that differently"?

Imagine that that voice doesn't just pop up when you actually mess something up.

Imagine that it is always there. Always. When you sleep and when you dream, while you wake and work, while you drink and eat and spend time with your loved ones. Imagine that you try to drown it out but it is always there, a drumbeat against the movement of your mind. Imagine that even in your happiest times, even when the music of life is at its sweetest - you hear it. Pounding pounding and drilling into the heart of you.

Sometimes it quiets for a while. Sometimes you can forget it, at least for a time, because life is lovely and in this moment with these people you are happy. But then the party ends, and we all go home; but the drumbeat stays. You know it will always be there. You know you'll wake up the next morning and it will thrum in your mind. You know that it will be there with you until the end. It is closer to you than a wife, a husband, a friend. It knows your weaknesses, it feeds on them. It chips away at your strengths until you can't tell that they're worth anything anymore. Imagine that the first voice you hear in the morning and the last voice you hear before you sleep are not the sweet tones of your loved ones, but the ruthless voice of an inquisitor. Questioning, judging, hating everything you've done, everything you are. And you've heard it for so long that, even though you know that YOU don't think these things, something inside you does. And it is strong and loud and implacable, and it will never, ever, leave you in peace.

Now imagine that there are times when that voice gets even stronger. You can't control it, you can't predict it. It is a storm out of a cloudless sky. But all of a sudden, your food tastes like ash and your friends speak all and say nothing, and always, ever, you hear that drumbeat. Thudding against your skull, pounding you until you have to drink or smoke or sleep to silence it. And even when it's quieted, you know it will return.

It will ALWAYS return. You will bear that hateful weight until the day you die. Something broke inside you long ago, and this is the price you pay. And you'll plead and cajole and pray to God or gods or devils, but the drumbeat is stronger than them all.

You'll blame others, or blame yourself. Neither will do you any good. Neither will it silence the demon that sings you into destruction. In all likelihood, it will only make it stronger.

Now imagine that this is your life. Every day. Every hour. At your highest points and your lowest - even if you sing another tune, you will still answer to the drums. And their song is Doom Doom Death and Ruin.

And imagine that you know there is no cure. Nothing will fix this. No medicine, no doctor, no therapy, no God, can fix what has been broken deep deep inside. So deep you don't even know what the wound was to begin with.

And imagine that you know there is no way out.

That is depression.

He goes on to respond to some comments left by readers:

Thanks guys. It's weird to see people talking about in public. Kinda heartening though.

I do want to make one postscript to the thing. My ending came off pessimistic, and to a certain extent that's fine, because there isn't a cure

But counseling, therapy, medications, give you tools to MANAGE depression. Won't cure you, won't fix you. But you will learn how to recognize when you're in a depressive phase, and you will get tools to manage it.

I know it's some silly ass GI Joe advice, but knowing is half the battle.

So if you even have a suspicion that you're dealing with depression, go talk to somebody and figure that shit out. If you're fighting a trench war against your own mind, it's not weak to call for reinforcements. It's the SMART thing to do.

And if you're suffering from depression, then I say don't you dare give up.

Don't you fucking DARE. 

(Thanks, Brendan Carrell, for being a part of the conversation.)

I've learned in my decade of dealing with my depression that really all you can do is deal with it.  I've been medicated and head-shrunk and prayed for.  And I'm sure that each of those has helped at one point of another.  But there is no cure.  Depression is an invisible disease, and unfortunately, it is often a silent one.    

When a tragedy occurs, like school shootings, mental illness is quickly blamed, and possibly rightfully so.  We recognize the problem.  But we don't talk about it.  We blame it for evil acts, but we don't contemplate what our society can do to remedy the mental illness epidemic sweeping across our country.  An estimated one in five American suffers from some mental illness.  Twenty percent of our country is in pain and we're shaming them for it!  We're sneering at them and blaming them for horrible tragedies instead of extending a hand and asking what we can do to help.

With the recent suicide of Robin Williams, I've seen lots of people calling for the depression discussion.  We need to start talking about it.  We need to normalize depression, discuss it, support the sufferers, encourage treatment, and most importantly, make treatment readily available.  

I shouldn't have to pay exuberant fees for therapy sessions because they're considered elective.     Veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder shouldn't have to wait years for government assistance with therapy costs.  Mental health screenings should be part of basic health care.  Therapy should be considered basic health care.  PTSD suffers shouldn't be near the bottom of a list of patients to treat.  

Most importantly, those suffering with mental illness shouldn't be shamed.  It shouldn't take the tragic suicide of one of the most beloved men in America for us to reach out to the vast community of mental illness sufferers.  Let's start talking. 

MWF Seeking Friends

According to various sources on the Internet, Ernest Hemingway once said, "Write drunk, edit sober."

I don't really know what he'd say about writing sad, but I think being drunk and being sad typically end with the same result: truth.  (And honestly, after these two fingers of whiskey, I may be closer to drunk than sad at the end of this blog post.  I also have little plan to edit it, so there ya go.)

At the beginning of May, I wrote about being a stayer who was not where she wanted to stay.  I'm sad to report that not a whole lot has changed since then.

No middle school teaching job.  No new friends.

Matt and I did move into a fairly nice apartment.  And I did find a job teaching preschool.  And I turned twenty five.

Being twenty five has been kind of depressing, though.  Mainly because in the movies, twenty five years olds have it all figured out.  They're either raising adorable babies in beautifully decorated houses or they're wildly successful in a job they love.

I did all the right things, ya know.  I got married, but Matt and I aren't raising an adorable baby.  (That's a huge, emotional post for another time.)  And I went to college, wrote a thesis, graduated in four years, and did it all with really minimal student debt.  So where's my dream job?

I know there are lots of people who are twenty five and in the exact same boat.  I don't need the "you're not alone" pep talk.  I just need to not be alone in feeling this.  I need someone who also feels like they're sucking at being a grown up to be here in Austin with me. 

It would also be really super if someone could give me lessons on how to make friends.  Because really, what do married without children people (one who is a introvert, one who is an extrovert) do to make friends in a new city?  Are going to a bar or a really awkward Meet Up group the only options?

Movers, Stayers, and Lonely Hearts

I recently read an editorial on the concept of movers and stayers.  Stayers are the people who, for the most part, are satisfied with living in one region for very long stretches of time, be it their hometown, county, or state.  Stayers like the idea of a permanent residence to call home.  Movers never stay in one place too long.  A few months or years in a place and they're ready to move on.  They're travelers,  be it world or country or throughout their state.  Movers are a romanticized bunch.  I think all of us, whether mover or stayer, likes the idea of a new place, of adventures and new things.  But stayers like that idea as long as they come home after a little while.  Stayers like knowing where home is.

I know many movers.  A dear friend of mine left home at seventeen, spent a few years across the country, spent summers in Europe, did a short stint in Tennessee, and is headed to Dresden, Germany now.  She has always been brave.  Others in my life are similar.  They seem so carefree when it comes to their next home.  Home is whatever and wherever they want it to be.

As much as I would love to be a mover, someone who thrives on making new places home for a little while before moving on, I am a stayer.  I love traveling, but I love returning to the one place that feels like home even more.  I often feel jealous of movers, of how exciting their lives must be, of how easily they make friends in foreign places where they know no one.  I don't know how they do those things.  

I made my first big move far away from home last summer.  (I'd moved fifty miles away for college, but even then, I never quite felt like Natchitoches was home.). I've lived in Austin for nine months now.  For some movers, that's enough time to move somewhere, make friends, and move away again.  But I'm not a mover, remember, and in these nine months, I've not yet make Austin home.  I don't think I really know how to do that.

I hope that maybe Austin would feel like home when my husband and I were in our own apartment with all of our things.  (We're moving in a week.)  And it hope that finding a teaching job and being back in a middle school classroom will make this home.  And I'm hoping that making some friends will make this feel like home.

But the truth is, an apartment is just a box, just like the one we live in now.  And a job is just something to occupy my time.  And honestly, I'm not very good at making friends, I've discovered.  I don't know how to connect with people when we don't already have some commonality, like classes together or mutual friends.

When it boils down to it, Austin doesn't feel like home because I'm painfully lonely here.

A few years ago, after a nasty breakup, I decided that as long as you like yourself, you're never lonely.  I thought that, while you may be alone, enjoying your own company means you're never lonely.  I decided that, though, when I was surrounded by people who loved me. I lived with my parents and brother and spent most of my nights with my best friend, the man to whom I'm now married.

 I realize now that even if you love yourself, you are not enough company.  Extroverted people like myself thrive on the energy of others.  And I don't get that energy here.  I have a loving husbands who works an opposite schedule than me.  And I have two or three friends here.  But I'm missing my best friends and my family.  I'm missing the people whose presence alone energized me and made me feel good.  I am missing what made home in Louisiana feel like home.

Everyone in Alexandria wants to get out of there.  Every person there has a gripe to make or an opinion about why CenLa sucks.  I get that there aren't a whole lot of draws for young adults.  I understand that there is one bar that has a monopoly on decent places to drink.  I agree that there is one coffee shop worth frequenting even if you have to see someone you dislike there.  I fully agree that Alexandria is so small that your past constantly finds you.

But I don't feel like CenLa is home because of bars and coffee shops; if a choice of places for good beer and dark coffee was what comprised home, I would love Austin.  CenLa is home because I can drive it with my eyes closed, because I know where I'm going to lunch every Friday of Lent, because going to that one decent bar on a given night guarantees that I'll see a friend who has a seat for me, because I know the exact meal I'll order from Oriental Wok, because I can visit my old job and still feel welcome there, because someone will tell me how much I look like my mom or act like my dad and remind me that I come from strong roots deeply bedded in rich Louisiana soil.

I'm not a mover, but I have moved.  I'm a stayer who doesn't love the place she's staying.

Hearses Don't Have Luggage Racks

I married a man who is a self-proclaimed minimalist.  Packing Matt’s things takes no time.  He likes simple clothing and owns as little of it as I will allow.  He doesn’t like a lot of decoration, and the majority of what he owns is books.  Everything else just falls in the ‘have to have’ category.  If you take a quick look around our house, though, you’d never believe any of that.  That’s because Matt married me, a self-proclaimed maximalist.  I like things!  I like decorations and pretties and knickknacks.  And I love clothes and shoes.  And I own hundreds upon hundreds of books.  This week, I started to ask myself, “Why?”

I’ve spent the past few days trying to rationalize my habits, trying to, at least, understand why I like things and buying them so much so that, hopefully, I can break those habits.  Two years ago, I gave up shopping for excess goods for Lent.  I made a few exceptions; I would allow myself to purchase new work pants and a new comforter for my bed.  But guess what?  I went the whole forty days, feast days included, without buying anything frivolous.  No new work pants or comforter, even!

My motivation that year was a simple one found in the book of Matthew, chapter six.  “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal.  But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in our steal, for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Lent 2012 showed me that yes, I could break that habit.  But when Lent ended, I slowly picked it back up.  Shopping, even just walking around a store and looking (But lets be honest, it was a rare day when I left without purchasing something.), has always comforted me.  I know now that it was, of course, only a temporary mood lifter.  I think my consumerism came to a head last fall.  Matthew and I had just moved to Austin, and within a month, he was working in Tulsa, which left me home alone in Austin with no job, no friends, and a fixed income.  Also, I had a new home with my soon-to-be husband that I really wanted to decorate and an embarrassment that all of my Louisiana clothes didn’t allow me to fit in to the hip Austin scene.  (I know, am I in junior high again?)  Despite my fixed income (I had saved a lot over the past year living with my parents), I managed to do a good bit of shopping.  And by a good bit, I mean way too much.

So money got tighter the closer we got to the wedding and Christmas, and for a while, I was genuinely worried about making ends meet.  Fast forward a few months, I’m in a long-term sub position that ends in a few weeks and looking for a full-time teaching position next fall and something to pay the bills this summer.  I keep looking around our house, full of all the things that I’ve amassed (some I love, most I just sort of like), and I want to kick myself for all the money I feel like I wasted on all the stuff that we could have easily done without.

Enter Jules at Pancakes and French Fries.  Via a serious of links that started as a search for kitchen organization on Pinterest, I stumbled upon Jules’ blog post from September 2011, Unstyled Life, in which she discusses the sobering effect of going through the belongings of a recently deceased loved one, analyzing the life of people we love based on all the things they left behind.  Immediately, I began to ask myself, what would my life look like based on the boxes of things I leave behind when I die?  What will my husband or family think when I am not there to explain why I have four pairs of Converse tennis shoes that I haven’t worn in months or years?  What does my accumulation of things say about my life on earth?  “Old tubes of mascara.  Eyeshadows.   Almost empty bottles of aspirin.  Expired lotions.  Moth eaten sweaters.  Uncomfortable sofas.  Bills, paid and unpaid.  Unread book.  Shirts that don’t fit, are no longer in style, or you never really liked.  Someone will one day run their hands over your possessions and make an assumption you won’t be there to refute.”  It was like Jules had looked into my life.

I want my accumulation of things to speak the truth of me.  I want it to proclaim my love of God, my husband, my family, and my friends.  I want my boxed life to reflect my desire to help others and lesson their burdens.  I want my boxed life to reflect a life I was proud to have lived.

My boxed life, right now, doesn’t reflect that.  And when that incredibly humbling statement dawned on me, I knew I needed a change.

Jules seems to have made a similar assertion of her life.  And she did something about it.  She started the William Morris Project, named for Mr. Morris’ thought on design, “Do not have anything in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.”  She collected a list of things about her home that did not fall into Mr. Morris’ philosophy, and she began a thirty-one day challenge to do something about those things.

It is an understatement to say that I was inspired.  I began to craft my own list of things to alter.  But I got a bit discouraged.  I knew that I wouldn’t have the time to do one project a day, not when some of my projects were large and I worked and tutored.  Our upcoming move also seemed daunting.  How was I supposed to better organize my shoes when I didn’t know what my future closet would hold?  And then I realized I was just looking for an excuse.

The Butler Family William Morris Project:

-purge and organize photographs
-purge and paint picture frames to be either white, silver, or black
-purge and organize the bathroom and beauty supplies
-purge living room décor
-purge shoes and research new shoe storage for new house
-implement new shoe storage after move
-organize top short dresser drawer
-purge and organize socks (no kidding, this is one of my biggest issues)
-create and implement family file system
-create and implement mail system with ‘action’ and ‘file’ sections
-create coupon system
-purge my closet
-create receipt box
-purge kitchen utensils after move
-print, hang, and organize in albums engagement, bridal, and wedding photos

When Marriage Isn't What You Expected

A few nights ago, I dreamed that I had coffee with the members of my favorite band from high school.  And it was totally normal behavior in my dream, like it really was common for me to just casually hang out with them.  This leads me to believe that in my dream, I had a slightly more mature grasp of what it means to be "totally in love" with someone than I did when I met this band as a seventeen year old girl and planted a completely inappropriate kiss on a famous man I did not remotely know.

When I was in high school, I was "totally in love" with various members of various bands.  Most of those members were rock stars covered in tattoos who probably more than dabbled in hardcore drugs.  Not to mention they were totally out of my realm of reality.

But in high school, when I fantasized about being married to one of those musicians (It didn't matter who; they were basically interchangeable), I wasn't exactly living in reality.  Anyway, my rockstar husband planned and took me on beautiful vacations.  He brought home flowers regularly for no other reason than that he was just completely smitten with me.  He wrote me songs and letters and left really romantic voicemail for me.  He drove a really big truck or a really loud motorcycle.  He wore tight pants and eyeliner and had a haircut and color that my parents probably did not approve of.  In fact, my parents probably didn't approve of him in general.  Now, before you think I should have been committed, I did have some inkling of a clue about real life, and I expected that if I didn't marry a rockstar, I would at least marry a guy with some rock star qualities.

If you know my actual husband, you know that he is not that guy.

I didn't expect to marry a man who drove a 4-door sedan because it's economical.

I didn't expect to marry a man who has beautiful curly hair and insists on wearing it trimmed neatly because it looks professional.

I didn't expect to marry a man who agreed to my dream wedding inside of a church where he is not a member.

I didn't expect to marry a man who only buys flowers on special occasions but shows me he loves me in thousands of other ways.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would light the candles on my brother's seventh birthday cake because he loves my brother like he were his own brother.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would work seventy hours a week at a job that isn't glamorous just to give me the life he thinks I deserve.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would agree to adopting a cat when he didn't want a pet to begin with just because I get lonely when he's gone.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would change that same cat's litter without complaining about it.

I didn't expect to marry a man who has dinner and Frozen ready to eat and watch when I get home after a really hard week of work and tutoring, even though that man was equally exhausted from his week and didn't really want to see Frozen.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would give me endless back massages instead of just buying me a trip to the spa.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would attempt to bake something for the first time in his life just because I love red velvet cupcakes.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would constantly pick up my shoes that I tend to leave everywhere.

I didn't expect to marry a man who cannot pull off skinny jeans but wears a dress shirt and bow tie better than anyone I know.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would enjoy attending Mass at a church where he cannot fully participate.

I didn't expect to marry a man who only wears eyeliner when acting in plays.

I didn't expect to marry a man who had interest in theatre!

I didn't expect to marry a man who would enjoy talking politics but would refrain from antagonizing my Republican family.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would refuse to write me songs but would sing me really corny pop songs loudly while we're in the car.

I didn't expect to marry a man who would write me a love letter that would bring me to tears moments before I walked down the aisle to marry him.

I didn't expect to marry a man like Matt.  He isn't a rock star.  He doesn't have a lot of rock star characteristics, though he can belt some N*Sync like you wouldn't believe.  My husband is not what I expect.  He is far more than I could have ever fantasized.

There's some of those guys I thought I might marry.

And there's the guy I actually did marry.  Isn't he gorgeous?  

The Worst Compliment Ever

I’ve always been the chubby girl, and several people throughout my life have had no problem reminding me of that.  It was mainly in elementary through high school (which, in retrospect, was a long time to be reminded that you’re imperfect by world standards), and I think that at some point most people mature enough to see that, while physical appearance may still be a major aspect of their own lives, being couth is a lot more socially appreciated.  Most adults (at least the decent ones) won’t flat-out call someone ‘fat.’

Living seven hours away from most of my friends and family means that I don’t see them all that often.  But when I do, sometimes one will comment that I’ve lost weight.  Now, I probably have lost weight.  Since Matt and I are on a limited budget, I cook most of our meals, and I try to create healthy, veggie-filled dishes that give us lots of nutrients and still fill up my husband’s bottomless pit of a stomach.  But losing some weight has not been the most exciting thing that has happened to me since that person saw me last.  I’ve moved to a new state, started a new job, and gotten married.  Those are all more exciting than shedding a few pounds.  So while no one has called me fat, my own personal body weight has still been made into someone else’s business.  I am still being judged, categorized, and recognized by the size of my jeans.  I recognize that most mean ‘You’ve lost weight!’ as a compliment, but it’s probably the worst compliment ever.  Because it sets one's worth as a number.

I’ve heard, what feels like, every possible reasoning as to why someone else’s weight is anyone else’s business, from good Samaritanism to the cost of healthcare.  Rationalizing it only further identifies people by a number, the one in their pants or on their scale.  We are humans, though, not numbers.  We are not numbers in the eyes of God; He didn’t assign us a number at our creation and keep a spreadsheet of how we’re doing.  He knows us all by name, by accomplishment, by struggle, and by effort.   I firmly believe that the things I have accomplished are worth more than my rising or falling pants size.  I believe that entering into the covenant of marriage, exploring my new city, and furthering my career are far more interesting talking points than whether or not I’ve lost weight.   I believe that God is more concerned with my desire to better love Him and His creations than my weight.

J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series, said once, "‘Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.  I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’?... I’ve got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don’t want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons."

If you’ve read the series (or seen the movies), you’ll recognize Hermione as the sharp-as-a-tack, resourceful, brilliant, caring witch who advocated for better treatment of house elves, fought in numerous battles, and saved Harry’s and Ron’s skins more than a few times. While Pansy Parkinson was an all-around bully, constantly teasing others and reveling in their sorrows.   She goes so far as to laugh at the memory of the late Cedric Diggory and to suggest handing Harry Potter over to Lord Voldemort for certain death.  It doesn’t take much thought to rationally conclude that we should all want our daughters and ourselves to be more like Hermione.

No one comments about Hermione’s weight or hair or complexion.  No one cares that she’s a bit of a frizz ball; people care that she stood up to evil.  And I seriously doubt that Hermione ever spewed the compliment, ‘You’ve lost weight!’

Treading Water

I am not a very strong swimmer.  I have horrible vision (I'm actually legally blind), and I didn't begin wearing glasses until I was six.  Of course, wearing glasses in the swimming pool isn't very practical, so I was never able to really see what I was doing when it came to swimming.  Eventually, I taught myself the basics, and I can swim enough to keep myself afloat.  But every time I swim, I pray I'll never have to save someone from drowning.

I'm awesome at treading water, though.  At basically every aspect of my life.

The Sunday before last was Candlemas, or the Feast of the Presentation.  Basically, Mary got to come back into the public (as was customary for women to be secluded for a set amount of time after giving birth) and infant Jesus was presented to the world.  And the readings leading up to Christ's presentation have a certain anxious waiting to them, almost like we've gone back to Advent when we wait for the coming of the Lord.  The first reading (from Malachi) even tells us that the messenger is coming to prepare the way for the Lord, and the messenger will purify and refine like gold.  So right away, we're told someone is coming and we've set the stage for anticipation.  The second reading (from Hebrews) tells us that Christ is coming, not for the perfect, but for the imperfect.  And believe me (someone who is super imperfect), that's something worth waiting for.  And of course, the Gospel tells of His presentation.

We learn that two people have been patiently waiting for Christ when he arrives at the temple with his parents.  The prophetess Anna, who was old and a widow, had been waiting without ceasing.  She spends all of her time waiting in the temple, praying and fasting.  And when she sees Christ, she thanks God for him and tells everyone about the child who will redeem them.  And then there's Simeon.  Simeon was a really holy man, very devout and pious, and he had received a message from God that he wouldn't die until he'd seen Christ.  So when Simeon does see Christ, he holds him and praises God and declares that he has seen the salvation and that Jesus will see the rise and fall of many Israelites.  The thing about Simeon is that, unlike Anna, he hasn't been at the temple waiting every day.  He came that day because the Spirit had told him to.

Fr. Trahan spoke about actively seeking the Lord.  All of the readings provoke a sense of urgency in us, a feeling of waiting for something big.  We recall the feelings we have right before Christmas when we're actively waiting for something (hopefully the birth of Christ, but often the opening of gifts).  We do all these things to prepare for Christmas both in our spiritual lives and in our lives preparing for the customs of the holiday.  And the Candlemas readings remind us that we must continue to actively prepare for the coming of Christ a second time.  Of course, actively preparing is not the same as passively waiting.  And too often, I think, we all find ourselves living lives of passive Christianity.

When we are passive Christians, we are boring Christians.  We're treading water instead of swimming.  Instead of actively seeking Christ, we just wait and expect him to knock on our door and let us know he's here for us.  We must be proactive, constantly seeking Christ like Anna and Simeon.  It is not enough to be stagnant, keeping ourselves afloat in our Christian lives by treading water constantly.  How will we find Christ in the smallest of places if we aren't actively looking for him?  How much will we miss if we stay in the same place, expecting him to come to us?  Simeon didn't wait at home, expecting Mary and Joseph to bring Jesus to him for a visit.  The Spirit led him to the temple, and he went.  Anna knew that Christ would be there and she never left!  She never stopped waiting for him where she knew he'd be.

We cannot expect everything we seek (even beyond our relationship with Christ) to simply come to us.  We tell children from an early age that they can do anything, but we often leave out exactly how much work one must put into achieving those things.  Thus, we've bred a generation full of entitlement, a generation of people who believe they deserve everything they could ever want but don't realize they may have to work for it.  When our school systems refuse to issue failing grades and we hand out participation trophies, we teach our children that they will be rewarded for just participating in life without exerting much effort.  We reward them for being stagnant, for treading water.  And how much do they miss out on because they haven't been encouraged to try?

I often see members of my generation wondering why they didn't walk right into a well-paying job after receiving their diplomas.  We once were told that a college diploma was what one needed to do well.  But now, with the huge influx of college grads flooding the workforce, we need more.  We need drive, motivation, marketability.  In the ever-appropriate words of Dr. Seuss, “You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.  You’re on your own.  And I know that you know.  And you are the guy who’ll decide where to go.”  We need to be swimming toward success, actively seeking it.  We can't tread water and expect success to float past us.

The book of Jeremiah tells us that we must look for Christ, "You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart."  We're not told that he will come tap us on our shoulders when we're parked in front of the television on Sunday morning.  We're told that when we search, we will find Christ.  Searching isn't always easy or enjoyable.  It isn't comfortable to be always swimming toward something.  But as Pope Benedict XVI said, "The world offers you comfort.  But you were not made for comfort.  You were made for greatness."  We are not meant to be stagnant, sitting ducks.  We were meant to swim.

"Courage is found in unlikely places." -Tolkien

Disclaimer:
This post isn't meant to be about a hot-button issue.  It isn't meant to rally you with or against me in my stance on the sanctity of life.  This post is meant to applaud courage. 

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When I first read Tolkien's words, "Courage is found in unlikely places," I didn't really think much of it.  I didn't think much of it because I had never been called to be particularly courageous.  I had known particularly courageous people, relatives, friends and acquaintances that had faced some battle or situation that required extraordinary courage.  For a long time, I just assumed that they were naturally braver than me.

To me, courage seemed to be a distant concept that was naturally built into people and manifested itself in extreme circumstances, like making an incredibly stand against a bully and being someone's hero or waging a treacherous war on a disease or racing into a burning building (or equally dangerous situation) to save lives.  Courage was always a distant concept, probably because the less obvious acts of courage I had witnessed always seemed to come so naturally and easily to those who showed them.  Courageous acts were full of grandeur and valiance.  I often missed small acts of courage in others and myself because they seemed like instinctive reactions.

When my mother was forty years old, she discovered that she was pregnant with my younger brother.  I was a senior in high school, and needless to say, the pregnancy was a surprise to the entire family.  I was less than supportive.  (I was actually kind of a terror about the whole thing.)  And in retrospect, I know my mother had to have been fearful; she was beginning motherhood all over again, eighteen years older than she was the first time around.  A lot of things had changed, and she and my father were jumping back in quiet unexpectedly.  But I never saw that fear in either of them, and it seemed to me that they were just naturally accepting of this new challenge.  The idea that they were forced to be courageous in that situation wasn't one that crossed my mind until many years later.

In our society, my parents had did have a choice in their situation.  They had a choice to be courageous with the new task before them or to terminate the pregnancy and live the life they had planned with their baby bird left the nest (which included purchasing a motorcycle and RV and having a few grand adventures).  But at the time, it did not register with me that they had that choice.  The family and moral situation in which I was raised did not warrant abortion as an option for unplanned pregnancies.  The idea of aborting their unplanned baby probably never crossed my parents' minds, as it certainly never crossed mine (despite how totally not accepting I was of the situation for most of the pregnancy).

In the past seven years since my parents made the choice to be brave and keep their unexpected miracle, I've realized how truly brave my parents are, for various reasons.  My eyes have been opened to bravery all around me.  But a recent experience showed me, perhaps, the biggest act of bravery I have ever witnessed.

My friend, Julie, (along with her husband) and I attended the Texas Alliance for Life's Rally for Life.

It was a bit step in my personal ministry.

Last weekend, I got courageous and stepped out of my own comfort zone.  You see, I’ve been ministering to children and teens for the better part of the past ten years.  I’ve participated in various ministry teams and spoken to hundreds of young people about the Lord and His love for us.  And it was tough at times, because it isn’t that surprising that the last place some teens want to be on a Saturday morning is a church retreat.  But nothing required the courage I managed to find last weekend when I attended the Texas Alliance for Life’s Rally for Life.  I’ve never had to evangelize in such a way.   I’ve never been met with that level of hostility.  I’ve never been cursed at or rushed toward for speaking the Gospel.  But my bravery was simply nothing compared to a quiet act of great courage amongst the crowd.   

A woman walked before me with a sign on her back.  It was a black sign with white writing, and it read, ‘I regret my abortion.’  And I was floored.  It was a quiet act of courage, but it was probably the most courage I had ever seen.  It takes a lot of courage to admit to ourselves that we’re wrong.  It takes even more to admit to others that we’re wrong.  But my, how much courage it takes to admit to the world that we regret something that so divides us.  

When our group of marchers approached the capital building, I began to honestly feel fear.  It had been a peaceful march thus far.  Around me, groups were praying rosaries and singing beautiful hymns in Spanish.  But as the capital approached, our march slowed as our whole group bottlenecked trying to get through the gates.  And surrounding us were pro-choice advocates.  Some were vulgar, shouting curses at us and chanting crude rhymes condemning the Church for supporting the sanctity of life.  Some were taunting us and bowing up at us.  And behind me, someone spoke, ‘Remember, being pro-life also means being pro-peace.  We aren’t violent.’  In retrospect, I doubt anything violent would have occurred.  We had been escorted by police since the march began, and police were patrolling intermittently around the capital.  But I was slightly fearful as we slowly moved through the pro-choice crowd and toward the capitol steps.  The words of pope Francis kept ringing in my ear, though, ‘Ask Jesus what He wants from you and be brave!’  I had read the words a few weeks before and hadn’t been able to shake them.  And as I learned about the rally, the more I repeated the pope’s words until I finally committed myself to attending.  

Blessed John Paul II made an appearance.
I became interested in his Theology of the Body in college.

In front of the capital, we listened to many speakers.  The keynote speaker was Greg Abbott (who is of no relation to me), the Texas Attorney General and Republican candidate in the Texas gubernatorial race.  Abbott is wheelchair bound, and he said something that really struck me.  He said, “It does not take legs to take a stand; it takes a backbone.”  He wasn’t using his disability as a crutch, wasn’t making excuses as to why he could or could not do something.  But how often do we rationalize our actions (or lack thereof) by claiming inability for one reason or another.  How often do we let the possibility of bravery pass over us because our fear is too great and our reasoning is too sound?  We don't need every detail in order to take a stand; we don’t need reassurance that we’ll succeed or be on the winning side of an argument.  We just need a bit of bravery.  

As the rally drew to a close, I thought again of the woman I’d seen earlier.  The quietly courageous woman who proclaimed her regret, her mistake.  She had a backbone.  She wasn’t giving a speech to a crowd surrounded by the opposition.  She wasn’t filibustering in the Senate.  She was taking her own stand, being courageous in her own way.  In the most unlikely place, a pro-life rally, she was courageous in admitting she’d had an abortion.  There are other women, I’m sure, who regret making that decision.  But this courageous woman faced her fears and told the world that she regretted that decision.  I’m sure both sides of the fight have said unkind words to her, but it took guts to do what she did.   

Some perspective from Horton.

C.S. Lewis wrote, “Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point, which means at the point of highest reality.”  Courage is what we get when we take any of the seven virtues (prudence, temperance, justice, fortitude, faith, hope, and charity) and test it within us.  When we feel temptation so strongly, the moment when we are able to turn from it is courage, when we are able to say no to the vice that appeals so much to us.  It is so, so simple for us to hide behind a vice.  It is at the moment when we feel most as if that vice, be it indifference, impurity, impatience, hatred, or a plethora of others, is the norm in our lives that we must be our most courageous.  It is when we are most tempted toward impurity that chastity becomes courage.  It is at the moment when skipping Mass on Sunday has become commonplace that our choice of piety becomes courage.  When it is so very simple to be hateful, being kind is courageous.  

When Tolkien’s unlikely place is our everyday lives, we must be brave.  We must ask Christ what he wants from us and we must be brave.

Connecting: Why Facebook Isn't Enough

I have been thinking a lot about connections lately because I often feel like mine are minimal.

My husband and I are experiencing a rough time right now in that he currently has to work a few hours away several days and nights of the week.  It is hard on him and me and our marriage. In a time when we should be blissfully swimming in our newlywed situation, we go several days and nights without seeing each other, and depending on his work schedule, we may not get to speak more than just a few words a day.  My primary means of showing and receiving love is through quality time spent with a person, and I find myself lonely when we are apart. In a time when our connection as spouses should be incredibly strong, Matt and I are having to put in extra effort to maintain that connection.

As Matt said to me this morning before he left again for San Antonio, it really sucks that this stint of being away from each other fell so early in our marriage.  But it also is providing extra income for us while we are preparing for a move and helping Matt to further his career.  Neither of those make it suck any less.

I have been thinking about the connections I have with other people a good bit, also.  I am a millennial; my generation thrives on instant gratification.  We use credit cards and loans to procure things that we have to have the instant we decide we have to have them.  We expect relationships to be sexual the instant that we form them because the idea of waiting for something as special as making love is just preposterous and unnecessary.  We have surgeries to change our bodies quickly instead of working for that change.  We walk into the workforce with a college diploma expecting to make six figures a year fresh from graduation.  We expect new cars on our sixteenth birthdays, 'I love you's after the first date, and dream homes to return to at the end of our honeymoons.  We do not like to wait, and we have created a world in which we often do not have to.

But many things require waiting.  They require patience and nurturing.  They require time.

If you are also a product of the eighties or nineties, then you can probably recall the grating sound of a modem attempting to connect to the Internet, all the beeps and whirring and scratches that you endured just to hear a voice declare that you had mail.  You know that sometimes (a good bit of the time), it would not connect and you would have to try again later.  Now, how frustrated do I get when Matt and I are driving through east Texas and my Facebooking or pinning is interrupted by a message at the top of my phone's screen that reads 'No internet connection'?  I have the ability to surf the web on my cell phone (that doesn't have to be connected to any sort of phone line or electrical outlet to work), and I get frustrated that the hours I spend pinning useless crap that I really don't need get interrupted on rare occasion by a lack of connection for ten minutes.

Talk about the need for instant gratification.

I read once that some scientists were theorizing that the amount of time one spends on social networks has an opposite affect on the ability one has to form real connections with people away from the screen.  I understand that my generation has a desire to use social media.  We are a generation raised on and responsible for the development of social technology.  We used live journal, Xanga, MySpace, open diary, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snap Chat, Linked In, Vine, and a plethora of others.  We see all of these products as an opportunity to connect with people, to shrink our world down to the size of a smart phone's screen.  We can Face Time or Skype with our parents out of state or country.  We can see live footage of the streets surrounding the Eiffel Tower with Google Maps.  Facebook allows us to post our opinions and then get into flame wars about them.  Twitter allows us to evangelize by retweeting the Pope!  Everyone in the world can know that I like to prepare colorful paleo dishes if I post them on Instagram.  There is a panda cam that allows me the joy of watching pandas play!  We are instantly satisfied that we have communicated with society and our egos have been sufficiently stroked because people 'liked' our statuses.

I have, literally, hundreds of friends on Facebook.  I know people who have over a thousand.  And of those hundreds of friends, none of which are people I work with, I have had meaningful verbal conversations with four of them in the past week.  Four.  I had meaningful conversations with four or the hundreds of people I claim to socially connect with several times a day.  I understand our need to use social media.  It is simple and instantly gratifying.  I we feel down, it takes only a few seconds to find someone who has a more depressing life.  If we feel lonely, Facebook messenger is right there!  But how long does that social high last?

Matt and I are making an effort to be less connected with the world and more connected with each other when we are actually able to see each other.  It is my goal for us to go through an entire meal without checking our phones, eventually for us to just be able to lie in bed without wanting to stare into a screen. It is so easy to feel close to someone just by being near them, so we assume that being glued to our phones or the iPad isn't diminishing our connection.  But how much do we miss by having a screen in front of our eyes.

How many parents miss important first steps or words because they're too busy trying to get to the camera function of their phones so they can post a video of it on Instagram?  How often do we fail to give someone a hug on his or her birthday and justify it by wishing them a happy birthday via Facebook wall message?  How often do we forget to be thankful for all we have because we pinned too many things we still want? When is the last time you went to the gym and didn't post a status about it.  Sometimes we get so carried away trying to post our awesome lives on social media that we forget to live them.

Of the hundreds of Facebook friends I have, there are many I don't even like.  I assume I don't like them because of things they post, because they're either too liberal (unquestioned abortions and unregulated government assistance and 'Christians are unintelligent' types) or too conservative (zero gun control, supporters of the death penalty, and 'Obama is the anti-Christ' types).  But the percentage of the ones I don't like who I haven't actually had a conversation with is staggering.  I am socially connected with them, but I have never made an actual connection them.

And that is our problem.

The smaller our world gets, thanks to technology and social media, the larger our hatred gets.  We are so quick to write off people without getting to know them, simply because they 'liked' something posted by a page we don't agree with or they use profanity in their posts.  Or simply because they post selfies.  We have access to thousands of cultures and perspectives because of the Internet, and we consider ourselves connected to those cultures and perspectives because we have social network friends who practice different religions or do illegal drugs or happen to be attracted to the same gender, the opposite gender, or no gender.  But how often do we connect with those other cultures in reality?  Liking a photo or even a thought-out comment doesn't connect us to those people.

We must talk to our friends about what makes us different or, more importantly, what makes us the same.  We must look past their opposing views on gay marriage, abortion, or Saints football to find that small seed of commonality.  That seed, given time and nourishment, can bloom into a real human connection.

Human connection, real, no-screens-involved connection, is vital for our survival.  If we cannot connect, we cannot form empathy.  And a world without empathy for others is a world destined for hatred and destruction.

Marrying Young

I suppose it's not typical to dedicate one's first blog post to someone else.  But I thought there weren't many better ways to begin a blog about married life (and all it's adventures) than by showcasing an inspiring married couple.

My husband, Matt, and I have only been married for (almost) five weeks.  We're hardly experts on the topic.  (Although, really, who is ever an expert on something that changes so much?)  But Matt and I have been blessed with many inspiring married couples as examples of fully living the sacrament.  None of those couples are prefect, and none of the couples are without their own struggles and tribulations.  But they all are strong.

This past weekend, I made the seven hour drive from Austin back to Louisiana (by myself, as Matt was working in San Antonio) to celebrate my paternal grandparents' fiftieth anniversary.  The fiftieth anniversary is considered the golden anniversary, and that's too fitting, I think.  Chapter two in the book of Sirach says, "For in fire, gold is tested, and the chosen in the crucible of humiliation."  Gold is such a worthy symbol of fifty years of marriage, because in fifty years of marriage, the love and commitment of that couple has gone through fire many times.  Just as the strength of gold is tested in the heat of fire, marriages and their participants are tested many times in the crucible of humiliation, in the chore of humbling oneself to serve one's spouse.  For a marriage to thrive for fifty years, it must be strong.

My grandparents married young.  They were in their early twenties, wide-eyed and ridiculously in love.  Their wedding pictures are just adorable.  My grandfather, as skinny and as tall as a bean pole with big goofy glasses and wearing the same hairstyle he wears fifty years later (granted, it was a bit thicker and darker then), and my grandmother, elegant, poised, practically floating in a gorgeous hand-beaded gown, were surrounded by and emulating the love of their families.  Not long after their wedding, they began their family, which would eventually consist of three sons, two daughters-in-law, six grandchildren, and two great grandchildren.

(Aren't my grandparents and their three sons just precious?  That's my father on the end, by the way, the only one with a full head of hair.)

Marrying young was quite common for my grandparents' generation, so common that marrying in one's early twenties wasn't necessarily considered marrying young.  But times have changed.  For my generation, society as a whole has shifted it's views on marriage.  Instead of being the beginning of a great adventure, so many of my generation view marriage as an end to adventure, the beginning of ennui.  My generation tends to see marriage as the end of fun, and therefor, we are encouraged not to marry young, to put it off until our thirties or later (or to not get married at all) to ensure that we have all the fun we want before tying the knot.

Recently, Facebook has popularized a list of twenty three things to do instead of getting engaged before the age of twenty three.  The post circulated among young women, many of whom were probably lonely, secretly yearning to put their Pinterest wedding boards to use, and unsure and trying to rationalize why exactly they weren't engaged when so many of their friends were.  I had been married for a grand total of two weeks when I read the blog, the entire thing from condescending beginning to ridiculous ending.  I would like to say that the blog had some redeeming qualities, and the list did have some nice ideas, but I can't give it much more credit, because the entire list features only two things that cannot be done after marriage (and even those can be done with a spouse, though your morals will be seriously questioned).  I promise you that I still binge-watch 'Girls' and spoon Nutella strait from the jar to my mouth.  And the entire rant surrounding the ridiculous list suggested that the author, Vanessa Elizabeth, had a positively unrealistic idea of a healthy marriage.

You see, I got engaged at the age of twenty three.  Matt and I dated for about a year before we were engaged, and before we dated, he was my best friend of two years.  We got married one year to the day after he proposed.  I was twenty four and a half when we got married; he was four months shy of thirty.  So I guess we do not necessarily completely qualify as marrying young or being engaged before the age of twenty three.  And I did more thrilling, life-fulfilling things during my serious relationship and engagement than I did in the twenty two years before.  While Matt and I dated and were engaged, I bought my first new car, got my first teaching job, moved to Austin, Texas (yeehaw!), completed several DIY projects (a few from Pinterest), adopted a cat, and honestly forgot about the tattoo I got a few years ago.  I did more things on Vanessa's list after I was dating or engaged to my now-husband than before!  Because I was and am part of a healthy relationship with a man who supports my growth as a person and encourages me to do fulfilling things.

So, in honor of Vanessa's list, I've compiled my own list of thirteen things to do when you get engaged at twenty three, followed by a list of ten reasons why marrying young is awesome:

13 Things to Do When You Get Engaged at 23

1. Complete some kind of pre-marriage counseling or preparation, even if it's just in the form of reading a book about the sacrament.  You'll learn more about yourself and your spouse, and hopefully you'll talk about the sticky topics that tend to be avoided during the joyous engagement.  (Can you say 'student loans'?)

2.  Take a trip.  A day trip to a different city, a weekend getaway, or a full-blown vacation.  Take some kind of trip, just you and your fiance, and celebrate your engagement in a special way that you'll never forget.  Matt and I went to the Great Smokey Mountains and Dollywood.  It was gorgeous and refreshing.

3.  Find at least one television show you and your fiance have in common.  Matt and I don't generally agree on much in the way of television.  But we both LOVE 'Downton Abbey' and 'Once Upon a Time,' and we have a standing date to watch new episodes together.

4.  Clean out your closets together, both literally and figuratively.  You're going to have to merge your lives together.  You might as well get rid of all the clutter you don't need anymore.

5.  Adopt a pet (or a plant) together.  Learn to split responsibilities and nurture something together.

6.  Teach each other something.  Matt tried to teach me to drive a standard.  I could do it if I absolutely had to, but I leave that up to him and appreciate him all the more for it.  And after a stressful afternoon attempting to learn, we went on a fun date (during which he drove) to take my mind off of it.

7.  Find a couple you'd like to emulate in certain ways.  Become friends with a couple who embody important aspects of married life.  Find a couple who models the kind of marriage you would like to have and take that couple's advice.

8.  Massage each other's feet.  Seriously, you build a log of trust in someone when you're letting them rub your feet.

9.  Go on regular dates.  Engagement and marriage doesn't mean that you stop wooing and attempting to impress your significant other.  Even after you're living together, get ready separately and go out for some fun.

10.  Learn to cook your honey's favorite meal.  If Mr. Wonderful's favorite meal is his mother's meatloaf, spend an afternoon learning her recipe.  (Also a great opportunity to bond with your mother-in-law.)  Or if he's like Matt, whose favorite food is a hot dog, find the best hot dog place in town.

11.  Write love letters to each other to be read on your wedding day.  Half an hour before our ceremony started, Matt and I stood on opposite sides of a door and read letters the other had written for us.  I reread that letter several times the minutes leading up to me walking down the aisle, and his very special words will probably always been inscribed in my brain.

12.  Plan your wedding with your future spouse's input.  Bring your Pinterest wedding board to the table, but be open to his opinion; it is his wedding, too!  And you might discover that mixing his style with yours introduces you to an entirely new style.  For Matt and me, we discovered art deco, which became the underlying theme of our wedding!

13.  Plan your dream home.  If you're engaged at twenty three, as newlyweds, you're probably going to living in a less-than-stellar apartment or rental house.  It probably won't be what you imagined your first house to be like, but it will be yours to turn into the perfect home for you and your new spouse.  But while you're turning that little one bedroom on the second floor with no elevator into your cozy newlywed nest, you can dream and plan you ideal family home together!  It gives you something to look forward to and an incentive to save money (perhaps by cooking more instead of eating out five days a week?).

10 Reasons Why Marrying Young is Awesome!

1.  You get to grow up together.  When you marry as an older adult, both parties are pretty stuck in their ways.  When you get married young, you get to grow up and into real adulthood together.  You're more flexible because you're probably still trying to figure out how to be a grownup.  You're less likely to be dedicated to certain ways of folding towels or managing money, and decisions are up for discussion.  In stead of one spouse resigning to doing something they other spouse's way, y'all can find a way that works for both of you.

2.  You feel less pressure to immediately begin your family.  Marrying young means that you have many, many fertile years ahead of you to plan and create your family.  I know that marrying as a older person doesn't mean that one has to begin having children immediately, but it is true that a woman's fertility decreases as she ages and there is definitely more pressure to quickly begin a family when one marries later in life.

3.  Upgrades feel like Christmas day.  There's a good chance that if you're marrying young, you don't have a bunch of really awesome stuff.  You're probably living on and with furniture from college or hand-me-downs from family and friends.  It is probably not new, and if it is, it was probably pretty cheap.  So when you make a purchase of a new piece of furniture or are given something nicer than what you currently have, it feels like a major success.  (I'm still waiting on this, as Matt and I have only purchased two pieces of furniture thus far, a bookshelf and kitchen cart from IKEA.  One day, though, we'll have a big beautiful headboard!)

4.  You get to accomplish things together.  Whether it's putting together your giant IKEA bookshelf or graduating from college or landing your first big job, when you marry young, you have someone who is always there when you do something great, and you have more great things to celebrate in a longer marriage! 

5.  You're out of the dating scene.  It's hard enough to make friends after college (no built-in acquaintances or pre-planned social interactions), but dating is even tougher.  When you marry young, you loose the pressure of finding a date to a friend's wedding (you'll go to a lot of weddings) or figuring out how long you have to be dating someone before you bring them home to meet your parents.  (One day I'll post about the hilarious way Matt first met my mother.)

6.  You're used to being broke.  When you marry young, you're probably accustomed to pinching pennies and not having enough money to order anything not on the dollar menu.  So you probably won't expect to have a lot of extra income as newlyweds trying to pay rent and car insurance and grocery bills.  

7.  Having a baby may be an easier transition.  It won't be easy, by any means, but it may be a little less crazy when you're used to the craziness of young married life, going to school or working crazy hours or not getting enough sleep or having no money for fun things.  When my best friend and her husband had their son, her husband was in school and working two jobs, and they lived off of only his income.  But they're wonderful parents who seemed to transition into parenthood seamlessly.  (I know it wasn't effortless, but they made it look great!)

8.  You really learn to depend on each other.  Sure, you'll both have your own friends and family who will support you, but the younger you get married, the more years you have for those friendships to dwindle.  If you get married while you're still in college, there's a good chance that after graduation, those college friendships won't be so prominent in your life for one reason or another.  But your spouse will be a constant, and during your marriage, you'll see many friends go in and out of your lives.  You have an entire life to form and maintain the best friendship you'll ever have.

9.  You get to experience more anniversaries together.  My grandparents celebrated their fiftieth anniversary, and they're both only in their early to mid seventies.  When you marry young, you're giving yourself more opportunity to reach those milestone anniversaries.  

10.  You know the world's against you.  When you marry young, you know that the statistics say that a huge portion of young marriages don't last, and you're more hell-bent than ever to make it work.  You're probably still a stubborn teenager or young adult, and you don't want the world telling you what to do or what will happen to you.  So you'll be more inclined to ensure that your marriage is not part of the majority that fail.

So you see, marrying young isn't a life prison sentence.  It's not a requirement that you transition from fun young adult to boring married person.  No where in your vows will it say that you have to stop going out on the town or must immediately begin a family (although, you can if you want.  It is YOUR marriage, after all!)  Being married only doubles your fun and joy because you're able to share those good times with someone.  And it divides your sorrow, because you've got someone to help you carry the burden of hard times.  Getting married means stating that you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, and when you marry young, you have more of the rest of your life ahead of you!