By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Jeff and I spent last weekend shopping for my perfect pants — or in this case, the perfect shorts.  Most husbands aren’t very enthusiastic about shopping with their wives; but, we have already established that Jeff is an exceptional husband.  And besides, the ellusive shorts were a sporting goods acquisition which put them firmly into the kind of shopping Jeff likes to do.

We were hunting for a good pair of sliding shorts.  Let me set the record straight before we go any further.  I have no intention of sliding.  Sorry Coach but the word “sliding” does not co-exist with the term “recreational softball team”.   While admittedly, I am competitive to a fault at times, sacrificing my body to “take one for the team” is something that went out with my A.A.R.P. membership.

We were looking for sliding shorts to give some extra support to a leg that also apparently went out with my A.A.R.P. membership.  Thankfully, we hit the sliding short jackpot at a fairly local sporting goods store.  As I happily headed for the fitting room loaded with options, Jeff trolled the aisles while visions of basketballs danced in his head. 

The first pair of shorts that I tried on were cute little pink and white things.   Very cute.  Very feminine.  Very little.  I squeezed into them, or tried to, as visions of the Michelin man danced in my head.  After many gyrations and no fewer than 5 basic ballet moves, I got the dumb shorts on.  Looking in the mirror, I laughed out loud.  The Michelin man thing was more than just a vision!

It was only after I peeled the shorts back off that I noticed the tag.  “YOUTH” it said in big, bold letters.  Oops.

Once I moved out of the Juniors department and started trying on adult shorts, things went swimmingly.  I found several pairs of shorts that would work and went out relay the happy news to Jeff.  He met my happy news with more options in the form of compression shorts.  These shorts would do the job I wanted them to do without the extra padding of sliding shorts.   Not only would I get the extra thigh support I needed from the compression; but, the sliding pads would be absent so nobody would make the wild assumption that I was actually planning to slide.  Obviously a win/win situation. 

Because I do have a learning curve, I looked at the tag on the shorts to make sure they were a reasonable adult size before I headed to the fitting room with them.  That was when I saw that my potential shorts had some pretty amazing features. 

Not only were the anti-bacterial, they also promised to stay stretchy, protect me from the sun, and keep me dry.  It was one last feature that kind of tripped me up though.  My potential shorts came with “noise-reduction”.  I had to read the tag several times to make sure that’s what it really said and then, I almost put the dumb shorts back on the rack.

I didn’t want shorts with noise reduction!  I just wanted regular shorts that I could blame when things went awry.  “I’m sorry, Coach.  I tried to get that ball but my shorts…they were just too darn loud!”  “Sorry Coach, just when I went to make the catch, my shorts taunted me and I dropped it.”  “Sorry Coach, I intended to slide but my prophetic shorts told me not to.”

In the end, I did buy the exceptionally quiet shorts.  Because my “loud shorts” excuse is now gone, I expect big things of myself at the game this week.

Trying to imagine the look on my coach’s face if I blamed my poor performance on my shorts has provided hours of good, clean fun.  However, I can’t imagine that he, or any of my teammates, would be too thrilled with me if I tried to use the “loud shorts” excuse.  And I REALLY do not want to imagine the long ride home as Jeff is also one of my teammates and has no patience for excuses or loud shorts.

My new shorts got me thinking about God and the excuses I’ve given Him over the years for not doing what I’ve been asked to do.  Too busy.  Bad timing.  Not equipt.  Scared to death.  In my mind, my excuses seem very plausible — even reasonable.  In God’s eyes, I’m sure my excuses seem totally ridiculous.  Kind of like blaming a poor athletic performance on loud shorts.

And so, armed with exceptionally quiet shorts, I’m headed into my week with a new motto and a new attitude.

No excuses.

No compromise.

Just do it.

I’m really praying that God doesn’t want me to slide.

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Friday nights are date nights for Jeff and Kieran Rich.  We take turns planning dates and try really hard to come up with something original once in a while – something that doesn’t include the standard “dinner and a movie.”

As a result, we’ve had some interesting dates.  One such date included a play, a downpour, and an improvised umbrella.  The play, “Smoke on the Mountain”, was fantastic and in a surprise ad lib in the dialog at the end, I got baptised.  Earlier that night during a summer downpour in Atlanta, I stepped in a puddle that went past my ankle.  It has become another “look back on it and it’s funny” kinda memory.  And the improvised umbrella?  Well let’s just say that sunshades were designed to keep the interior of cars from baking in the sun and they were never meant to keep anyone dry.  Just ask Jeff!

Another favorite date included a well-crafted plan, a blindfold, and a big surprise.

Kidnapping Jeff after work, I took him to the hotel where we had previously spent our wedding night.  To get him there, I had blindfolded him and drove him around Atlanta during rush-hour in an effort to confuse him so he wouldn’t know where we were going.  Driving during rush-hour in Atlanta even if you’re not blindfolded is confusing and nobody knows where they are going, so I had Jeff pretty turned around in short order.

I planned for weeks for this wonderfully romantic evening.  In my best laid plans however, I did not account for the model citizens that rented the room across the hall from us.  In a totally non-smoking hotel they decided to smoke something that was neither moral nor legal and, just as I was leading the blindfolded Jeff to our room, they managed to set off the fire alarm.

As the alarm screamed in my ear I stood in dumbfounded shock and chest-pounding fear.  It took me a minute but I finally did tell Jeff that he could take off the blindfold.  He was definitely surprised but certainly not for the reasons that I had intended!

The evening ended well.  We were upgraded to a suite, got free breakfast the next morning, and built a memory that neither one of us will ever forget.  We still laugh about that night and it has become the source of many private jokes between us.

Another one of my favorite dates was a few months ago when Jeff and I had a slumber party.  Again it was my week to plan so I had him change into his pjs as soon as he got home.  We had pizza for dinner, did a craft project, and played “Spin the Bottle.”  I skipped the slumber party staples of sleeping on the floor — we’re too old — and painting each other’s fingernails — Jeff is too male; but we did watch “Schoolhouse Rock” videos as a tribute to my childhood and my beloved Saturday morning cartoons.

Our weekly dates give us a set time to reconnect and renergize our relationship.  I can’t remember starting the “date night” tradition.  It’s just always been a part of us and I’m so thankful that it has.  So many of our favorite memories as a couple revolve around our Friday nights together. 

This past week was no exception and it was a date that I will remember for a long, long time.  It was one of those special dates where we simply knocked each other’s socks off.  We planned it collectively and unfortunately, it’s entirely too expensive to do weekly or even monthly — although I would be perfectly willing!   This Friday we spent our date night in Virginia.

We went out for dinner at a place called “Max & Erma’s”.  It is a favorite from our Atlanta days and we were pleasantly surprised to find that there was a franchise in Virginia Beach.  After we got back to the hotel, we put our our sneakers, and most everything else that was in our suitcases (It was cold!), and went for a walk.  Though it was already dark and getting colder by the minute, our hotel was steps from the Atlantic ocean and we just couldn’t let the opportunity for a “beach date” pass us by.

So we held hands and cuddled together and shivered.  We walked and we talked and as the mesmerizing sound of the surf washed over me again and again, I found myself wishing time would stop.  We were in the midst of one of those perfect moments when I felt that if I just knew where to reach, I could touch God. 

As we made our way back to the hotel, I happened to glance over my shoulder at our footprints.   In the bright moonlight I could see two sets of identical prints.  Not only do Jeff and I have the same sized feet, we also wear the make and model of athletic shoes.  But that was where the similarities ended.   As I looked back, I could see portions of our walk that we were absolutely together, our feet landing stride for stride right next to each other.  But there were also portions where one of us swayed out to the side, making the space between the sets of prints far apart for a while before eventually joining back together. 

“That’s an awful lot like marriage,” I thought to myself in a bit of an “Ah-ha” moment.  Sometimes we’re right together, mirroring each other step for step.  Other times we’re out of sync and our gaits become uneven and unmatched and drift apart for a while before eventually coming back together. 

Friday was one of those nights when we matched each other stride for stride.  As we walked and talked about everything, I felt so close to my husband.  I tried very hard to remember every detail about the night almost as a deposit for those times when our walk together is more of a fight than a stroll…for those times when words fail and communication breaks down. 

Our date nights have given me lots of those “deposit” moments and I’m incredibly thankful for every one of them, for the man I get to share them with, and for the God who brought us together.

It was one of our best nights…

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Note:  This blog has been kicking around in my draft file for several months now as its subject is something I truly struggle with and am not exactly comfortable writing about.  Every time I’ve written on this file, I kept asking myself, “Do I really want to put all of these raw thoughts and feelings on the world-wide web?  The answer was invariably “no” so I would just save the file and allow it to get lost in the depths of my draft folder for a few more months before the process would start all over again.  However, since February’s default theme seems to be living courageously, I decided that maybe it was time to have the courage to finish this blog.  And away we go…

Planning a wedding can be overwhelming and just flat-out stressful at times.  There are so many decisions to make, so many plates to keep spinning, so many opinions and ideas to incorporate — no wonder a large number of brides cry on their wedding day.  For the record, I did not cry on my wedding day.  Jeff graciously handled that little responsibility for our family. 

People use all sorts of tricks to simplify and de-stress the nuptial planning process.  For instance, I have a friend who has already started to plan her daughter’s wedding — even though the identity of the groom is still completely unknown to everyone but God.  Gotta love that pre-planning!

Another trick that is often used is choosing a quote or a saying as a kind of a ready-made wedding theme.  I have to admit that Jeff and I were seriously lacking in the pre-planning department.  The process of putting our wedding together felt an awful lot like a stint on “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”; but, when it came to choosing a quote?  We jumped all over that one.

However, our quote was a little different as it did not come from the Bible.  It did not come from Plato or Gandhi or Socrates or even Shakespeare.  Our quote came from what many may see as an unlikely source.  Dr. Seuss.

As our wedding day approached and I was grasping to find a way to sum up my feelings about our impending marriage, the good doctor once again gave voice to exactly what I was feeling when he said this:

“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”

As a little girl, I used to lay in bed at night and plan my perfect wedding right down to the final detail.  I would pick the dress, the wedding party, the venue, the flowers, and the music.  Why, I would even piece together the perfect groom!  In case you’re wondering, the groom usually looked a lot like  G.I. Joe.  I didn’t want to make Barbie jealous by marrying Ken!  My groom had the humor of Alan Alda, the charm of Christopher Plummer, and the money of an Egyptian king.  What do you expect?  Pulling off my perfect wedding was going to take some serious cash!  With all the details in place,  I would fall asleep and have beautiful dreams of my wedding in vivid technicolor.

The trouble with dreams though is that you have to wake up to reality and reality was always such a rude shock.  Why do I have to take a spelling test?  Spelling is totally underrated anyway.  What do you mean my brother is trying to clobber me again?  Tell me something I didn’t know.  Baseball practice?  Please!  Who has the time?  I have a wedding to plan here!  There were many, many days that I would find myself counting the minutes until I could once again enter the delightful world of my dreams.

And now, in all those days between then and now, reality has become better than my dreams.  Most of the time I still go to sleep feeling like I’m living a fantasy — like I have stepped into someone else’s life because incredibly good stuff, like a wonderful marriage to an amazing man, just doesn’t happen to me.

No, it hasn’t been all bliss.  There have been days when I didn’t like Jeff much and I know he’s felt the same about me.  We fight about stupid things and manage to hurt each other without ever trying.  But “like” and “love” are two very different things.  And it’s that deep, rich, enduring love that  has me reaching for Jeff in the middle of the night to make sure he’s really there and not just some imaginary friend I’ve conjured up after going to sleep with a full stomach.

My 6 faithful readers, as well as any guests who may have accidentally stumbled across this blog, are probably gagging uncontrollably by now.  But I really mean it.  I’m completely, totally, inexplicably in love with Jeff.   He is the man God created for me to be with.  He is my other half.  He is the one who completes me.  I know all these things without a doubt.  My marriage has been the single biggest blessing of a life that has, at times, been very difficult.

So what’s the problem?  Why am I writing a blog entry entitled “To live with fear?”   Well it’s because I’m so darn happy, of course! 

Let me try to explain…

I live in fear because I don’t want my life with Jeff to ever end.   I got married late and there is quite an age difference between Jeff and me.  The movie we watched for our date night this week had a scene where a middle-aged woman held her older, frail husband as he struggled through the last days of his life.  Jeff made the light-hearted comment of “That’s us in 20 years.”

But his comment made my brain explode in an internal tirade that mostly consisted of the word, “No!”  I don’t want 2 years or 20 years.  I want 200 years.  I want 2000 lifetimes.  I want forever.

And I am afraid.

Afraid of Jeff being taken from me.  Afraid that the wonder of our marriage will be stripped from my grasp.  Afraid that the happiness we have found together will simply evaporate.  Afraid that I will wake up one morning and he will be gone.  I am afraid.

So what happens when fear controls my life — or even a portion of it?  Joy receeds.  I step back from God.  Satan steps in.

That’s where I am right now.  Fear is keeping me from truly enjoying my marriage and my husband.  Fear is allowing satan to get a foothold in my life.  Fear has grown from a grain of sand to a pebble to a rock to a boulder to a mountain between God and me. 

I do believe in eternity and I know, without a doubt, where I’m going when I die.  I also know that I will see Jeff there but again, fear grips me because in my feeble, human mind, I cannot grasp what heaven will be like.  I cannot wrap my brain around the thought that eventually I will get to spend forever with the man I love in the presence of God who breathed life into us.  I can’t imagine what it will be like to see Jesus — the One who willingly suffered and died so that I might live forever — in spite of all of the evil things I’ve done in my time on earth.  I cannot fathom any of this so I fear it instead.

I am finally beginning to understand, as dense as I can be sometimes, that the opposite of fear is faith.  Faith is knowing that if Jeff dies today or tomorrow or 60 years from now, that God will sustain me.  Faith is understanding that God wants only His very best for me and if I get out of the way and allow Him to work, He’ll give it to me.  Faith is deciding to step out from under the shroud of fear and truly begin to enjoy whatever time we have.

So today, I will reach back toward God and allow Him to remove the mountain of fear that has come between us.  I will live courageously and rely on God for my every need and I will continue to love Him above all else.

Even if my earthly life with Jeff ends tomorrow, today it feels great to be alive and to be here with him, enjoying the gift of the precious present.  Whatever tomorrow or the next day or the day after that brings, my world will not end.  So today, right now on this beautiful, amazing, almost spring-like day, I’m going to go enjoy the company and laughter and touch of my husband and I’m going to love every minute of it without fear that it will end.  Today, I will live with courage and faith and comfort in knowing that this is the way God intended life to be lived.

But because of His love and providence and the amazing gift of this life that God has given me to live,  reality is finally better than my dreams.   And I am so incredibly thankful.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

It was one of those mornings at our house.  You know, the mornings when life just seems…well, a lot like life.  I had my typical Sunday morning.  I got up, stumbled around, ran into large pieces of furniture and then it happened. I went to take my medicine and the lid wasn’t on the bottle so I spilled my 3 1/2 remaining pills all over everywhere.  Jeff woke up to the sounds of me trying to find the pills, Mr. Magoo style.

When it became obvious that I was not going to find the pills with my current modus operandi, Jeff jumped out of bed, flipped on the light, and announced, “I’ll find them!”  He is a very chivalrous guy.  However, his willingness to jump out of bed and find my medicine at 6:00 AM was rooted more in self-preservation and a deep desire for more uninterrupted sleep than chivalry.

So together we hunted little green pills and found exactly two of them.  The rest fell into the black hole that literally seems to surround me at times.  Rather than wasting our morning searching for pills that had obviously already fallen to China, we gave up and listed them as MIA — hoping all the while that our mail-order pharmacy has actually mailed my little green pill prescription that they’ve been sitting on for two and a half weeks.

Jeff got dressed and headed upstairs to check football scores from yesterday; and I started to get ready for church.  We were visiting yet another congregation this morning in our quest to find a new church home.  If I had any sense, I would have just jumped into the black hole with the missing 1.5 little green pills and gone MIA myself.

But I didn’t.  For the next hour, I dropped things.  It’s not really a hobby, mind you — just a study in how clumsy I can be first thing in the morning.  I dropped, in no particular order: one contact, one hairbrush (Three times.),  the toothpaste (On my foot, lid closed, thank you very much.) one lid to hairspray (MIA until after church.),  deodorant, the curling iron and, my lip gloss. (Lid off.  Very messy.) 

I also ran into the corner of the dresser, got my toe caught in the pocket of my pants (Don’t ask me how!) and dropped one of my clunky shoes on my foot.  As I was literally waiting for the other shoe to drop, I prayed.  “Please let me get to church in one piece.”  This was truly a passionate plea for help.

We finally did get out the door — after I stopped looking in the mirror, that is.  No, I’m not especially vain but I am the proud owner of one of the more stubborn cowlicks in the state of Tennessee.  And of course, it picked this morning to stand up and be recognized!  After poking, prodding, threatening, and a copious amount of hairspray, I was worse off than when I started.  I finally just turned off the bathroom light and walked away — secure in the knowledge that a big chunk of hair right in the middle of my forehead was reaching for the sky and praising God!

We went to breakfast and then to the new church, a charter member of the “Fire & Brimstone Association” where people come forward to accept Christ for no other reason than because they are scared to death of either the preacher or the bus that’s going to run them over when they leave the church — it’s really a toss-up.

The Pastor did have some good points in his sermon but this style of worship was just not for us.  Unfortunately, we knew that about 10 minutes into the service when they had a mass baptism and everyone repeated the same, obviously coached, sentence about why they wanted to be baptized.  It made me really sad to think that one of the most important moments in their lives had been mass-produced.  Shouldn’t baptism be a very personal time of reflection?  When did it become ok to have that moment scripted by anyone other than God?

Today’s church experience left me a little sad and a lot discouraged.   I want to be part of a church family again.  I miss the fellowship, the sense of belonging, and the deep relationships that are cultivated.  But then, tonight, after a nap, a shower, and the nightly dropping of inanimate objects (In real life, I’m really coordinated.  Honest!) I came to a startling conclusion — or rather, God knocked me over the head with it.

We can choose not to go back to that church today.  We can make a choice to try one of the dozens of other churches within a 15 mile radius.  We have that freedom.  Nobody is going to hunt us down (Or run us over with a bus.) for our beliefs.  We can worship our Creator openly and without fear.  Doesn’t that make us…make me…about the most blessed person in the whole world?

Kinda makes black holes, inanimate objects bent on revenge, bad hair days, and complaining about churches that have missed the mark seem rather unimportant and downright silly.  I am incredibly thankful for my life and my freedom and my God — even if the way I live that life sometimes suggests anything but a thankful heart.

Please forgive me, Lord, and thank you for another day with You.

Amen.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

I sinned last Sunday.  This, unfortunately, is not really big news.  However, it was the way that my sin was committed that particularly bothers me.  And although I do not normally feel the need to confess everything to my faithful readers (A special ”thanks” to all five of you!), I wanted to tell you about my sin.

It all began as a pretty normal Sunday.   Jeff was in the tech booth so we had to get to church early.  I took my laptop so I could blog while he rehearsed with the Praise Team.  All was normal.  As service time got closer, I took my usual token stab at socializing and I picked up a bulletin.  Everything I did and said was well…normal.

And then I opened the bulletin.  “Children’s Ministry Wants YOU!”, it read.  Given that it is the beginning of the school year and that most churches are volunteer-starved anyway, this may not strike you as anything out of the ordinary either.  And I guess it really wasn’t; but, what was definitely not normal was my reaction.  I felt an immediate conviction from God about using the things He has gifted me with — which I haven’t been doing.  Much.

I did react as I normally do when God wants me to do something I don’t want to do.  “I’ll pray about it,” I thought — quickly filing the entire issue in the, “I don’t want to do this but I’m going to attempt to pacify God by telling Him that I’ll pray about it.  However, I have no intention of following through and actually doing it but I’ll definitely pray about it.” file.

Oddly, God was not pleased.  I know this because He spoke to me.  Now, don’t get all freaked out.  It wasn’t audible.  I am not hearing voices.  Most of the time.  But in this instance, God spoke to me as clearly as if He were sitting across the table having a cup of tea.

“Talk to Amy,” He told me.

Amy is the Children’s Director at our church.  So when asked by God to go talk to Amy, did I immediately say, “Yes, Lord!  Absolutely.  I will obey You immediately after the service!”  Of course I didn’t.  Instead, I sinned.  I did not worship.  I did not learn anything from the sermon.  I spent the ENTIRE service arguing with God about why I could not teach in Children’s Ministry this fall.  Although it’s not written anywhere, “Thou Shalt not argue with God in church!” should have been the 18th or 19th Commandment.

I can’t even remember the numerous, lame excuses I offered up as I argued with God.  What I do remember is His response to every excuse.  “Talk to Amy,” He said.

So I talked to Amy and afterwards, for the first time since moving to Atlanta two years ago, I was really excited about an opportunity to serve God.  I still didn’t want to teach.  For me, teaching little kids about God is an all-consuming passion.  It takes time.  It takes attention.  It takes research and reading and prayer and really listening to God.  It takes stepping out of my comfort zone.  It takes genuine and sometimes painful personal growth.  And above all, it takes great care and compassion and remembering who’s dog is sick, who is struggling with Spelling, and who’s friendships are rocky. 

Teaching takes an awful lot of love and it takes a lot out of me.  Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure my heart was ready to care about a new group of kids.

After talking with Jeff and an awful lot of honest, searching prayer, I agreed to teach 2nd & 3rd graders this fall.  I’m still not sure I’m ready to do this and yet in spite of all my trepidation and my doubts, I have found a deep and incredible joy in following God and being willing to do what He wanted me to do.

And everyone lived happily ever after, right?

Well…yes.  When God is part of the story, they ALWAYS live happily ever after; but, at what I thought was the end of the story, God threw me a little curve-ball.  It is in the form of a possible answer to a long-standing prayer, which may bring about a major life-change for the Rich family.

If you’re thinking that I’m being a little nebulous here, you’re absolutely right.  At this point, nothing is for certain and I am not at liberty to divulge any more information at this time.  However, I can tell you that we are extremely excited and we should have some answers by this time next week.  

Will Kiera teach Sunday school?  Will God throw another curve-ball?  Will Jeff and Kiera’s life indeed change?  Tune in next week to find out!

Hey!  Don’t laugh!  This “cliff-hanger” ploy works for the soap operas.  And maybe, just maybe, this is exactly what I need to boost my blog readership to 6 people!

And I leave you with one last thought… 

Amazing things happen when you join God in what He’s already doing.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

I have a confession to make.  My mind wandered during the sermon this morning.  It wasn’t that Pastor Jim’s words weren’t compelling — they were.  It was the fact that the sun was shining brightly, drawing my attention to the floor to ceiling cathedral-type window at the front of the church.  As the dappled sunlight made intricate patterns on the floor, my mind wandered to four of the most beautiful minutes of my life.

Those minutes took place in front of that very window.  The sun wasn’t shining then; but, the moon was — casting shadows through the panes.  Pastor Jim wasn’t speaking then but he was there, watching and waiting.  The worship band was playing and even today as I closed my eyes, I could still hear the music.

Jeff and I had gone to the window after we took Communion — the very first thing we did after saying our marriage vows.  Standing there together, we gazed out at the stars.  We held hands, whispered to each other and, we prayed.  It was one of those moments that if I just knew where to reach, I was sure I could touch God.

If I had a top ten list for memorable moments in my life, our time at the window would certainly be very near the top.   I was caught between the beauty of the moment — feeling like God was right there — and the solemness of communion and saying our vows.  Then there was this other part of me, probably the part that adores all things Dr. Seuss, that wanted to do a wild, happy dance because I was so thrilled to finally be Jeff’s wife. 

As we prepared to take Communion this morning, all of these feelings and memories came rushing back to me.  And I cried — with joy and thankfulness and awe for my God who just IS.

My marriage to Jeff changed a lot of things.  It changed my name, my address, and even my identity to an extent.  I lost the day-to-day fellowship of a circle of dear friends in Nebraska.  I left behind 3 cats who had been my family for the better part of 15 years.  I also stepped away from a class full of kids who taught me Sunday school — even though I was “officially” the teacher.

And yet, for all I lost, I gained so much more.  I gained family.  Jeff’s brothers, their wives, children, and even grandchildren.  I also gained a mother and father in law.  Bobby, Jeff’s mom, died before I ever really knew Jeff.   Tommy, Jeff’s dad, died shortly after we were married.   Although time spent with Bobby was non-existent and my time with Tommy was entirely too short, I still feel like I know them.  I see them every day in Jeff.  I see them in the eyes and heart and soul of the wonderful little boy that they raised and the Godly man that they gave to me.

I also gained my very own fishing pole.  Tommy gave it to me shortly after my somewhat nervous attempt to explain to him how much I loved Jeff and how I intended to spend the rest of my life making him happy.  For a man who loved to fish the way Tommy did, there was no greater gift.  It was the very best “Welcome to the Family” I ever could have hoped for.

I gained a new circle of friends.  One of those friends I have so many obscure things in common with that we often joke about being sisters separated at birth.  I also gained a new church family – a new place to learn and grow and change and become. 

I gained new teams.  Instead of being exclusively a Colorado girl (Go Buffs!  Go Broncos!  Go Rockies!) I now also cheer for Jeff’s smorgasbord of teams  – the Dallas Cowboys, the New York Yankees, and the Florida Gators.  I even went so far as to root for the Miami Heat in the playoffs two years ago.  It should have been obvious to all the world that I was deeply in love with Jeff because I hate watching basketball!

I gained a taste for Cinnamon Mentos, brown rice, and fried shrimp. Separately!  Not as a combo platter!

I gained two step-cats.  Kacey has finally accepted me.  It only took her a year.  Scooter still hates me and probably always will.  Unfortunately, like any loving step-mother, I can’t send her to boarding school and just be done with it!  As I type this, she’s sitting in the corner hissing at the world and I am sorely tempted to send her somewhere.  ANYwhere!  (Note:  All reasonable offers will be considered.)

I gained new traditions and celebrations.  Good Friday is a family holiday now.  In additional to the usual Biblical observances, we also celebrate Good Friday because it was the day Jeff proposed.  We have an anniversary to enjoy together.  I’m hoping to do better than this year’s celebration when I was so sick with Mono that all I wanted to do was sleep.  I also got to revive a few treasured, childhood traditions.  For the first time in a long, long time, I got breakfast in bed on my birthday.

The most important thing I gained though is a husband.  Sometimes goofy, sometimes intellectual, sometimes sarcastic and wry; but always loving and always supportive.  Jeff is so good about giving me space and time and the tools to be creative — without which, I truly believe a part of my soul would curl up and die.  He makes me laugh when nothing is funny and makes me cry tears that come from the sheer joy of never loving another human being more than I love him.  He is by my side when I need him to be and even sometimes when I just want him to be there.  And I am completely amazed me when the last words I hear each night are “Wake me if you need anything.”

Those four minutes in front of the window at church changed my life.  Looking back, I’ve often wondered why those minutes have stood out as my favorite part of my wedding night.  I guess it’s because I believe it was during those four minutes that God sanctified our marriage.  Maybe I’m crazy; (Email me to cast your vote!) but, I felt God’s joy and His resounding approval as it bubbled up from the very depths of my soul.

As we celebrate Valentine’s Day this week, I am overwhelmed with the love I feel for Jeff.  It’s a growing, changing, reaching, yearning kinda love.  It’s as comfortable as my old faded jeans and yet so new that it takes my breath away.   It’s the sacrificial kind of love that God modeled for me when He sent His one and only Son to die for my sin.  It’s a love, though we are imperfect people, that has been made perfect through our Savior who was and is and will always be. 

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Happy Valentine’s Day!