seven.

word of the day: seven \ˈse-vən\ a number that is one more than six.

Since Jake and I got married seven years ago, I have this ongoing game that I play called "Is there anything Jake can't do?"  The answer is (and I've watched him do a lot of things over the years) no.  It really is.  Ask our closest friends; they'll back me up.  I am fully convinced that there is nothing Jake can't do.  Sure, he comes up against his fair share of weaknesses (parking lot navigation, social media outlets, and sports trivia to name a few), but given time, he will rise to the occasion every time.  

Jake, the hem ripped out of these shorts, can you sew them for me?  Your iPhone screen shattered, and you really think you can fix it yourself? My bridesmaid dress is still too big; can you take it in for me? You actually think you can cut down that tree in our front yard by yourself? Can you put Lily's hair in a ponytail? Can you cut my bangs for me? Can you build me a table? Some shelves? A vanity? A janky trailer to transport our stuff to Cleveland (twice)?  

The answer to all those questions (all real life scenarios) was yes.  In fact, in this moment, I literally can't think of a single thing he has not been able to do in our seven years of marriage.

Being married to Jake is easy because he can do everything for me.  

The end.  Happy Anniversary to us.  #sorrygirlsigotthebestone

But (here I go again), if I were to be really honest, I would tell you that sometimes it's easy for me to feel like I'm not needed. Like the balance isn't equally weighted in our marriage. That there's nothing I do for Jake that he can't do for himself.

I know it's a lie, of course (lest you feel the need to tell me all the things I equally do for him. I know he would eat ramen noodles every single day if I weren't around, ok?).

Jake would absolutely be the first to tell you how much he needs me; I know that.  And, I know that our marriage is one that is built on partnership and balance and a commitment we made before God that won't be broken.
  
But I also know how easily lies creep in, and that if I'm not ready to defend and name them, they'll stick in my brain or, worse, my heart.  

And so, this anniversary, in addition to gratefully thinking about all the things Jake does for me (see also: paints toenails when I was too pregnant to reach and makes phone calls when my weird phone phobia kicks in), I can't help but think about how important it is for me to continue to fight for my marriage daily.  To name the lies and replace them with truth.  To be patient and kind and to communicate in those moments I begin to listen to something that's untrue.  

But, here's the seventh anniversary truth: Marrying Jake was the best decision I ever made, and even more truthfully, the best decision I keep making every single day I decide to work at it. 

agape.

word of the day: agape \ä-ˈgä-(ˌ)pā, ˈä-gə-ˌpā\ deep, unconditional love

Not to be confused with a mouth displaying surprise or wonder, I've been thinking about the agape kind of love lately.  

It's the kind of love that you don't take for granted.  That you give without expecting anything in return.  It's unconditional.

It's how I feel about my new dishwasher.  (Sorry, did you see that going differently?)

I'm not kidding.  I have never felt a greater level of affection for any household appliance (albeit, the new vacuum ranks pretty high too). I haven't had immediate access to a dishwasher since our pool house days (circa 2011), and, let me tell you, I don't ever want to go back.  

Our kitchen is clean.  All the time.  Is this why my friends have had so much more time on their hands?  Because you weren't hand-washing all your dishes every night? Because you weren't taking a toothpick to your sippy cup lids to scrape out the crusted milk? (please tell me I'm not the only person who's ever done this.) I feel like a new (and cleaner) person.

I don't even really mind washing dishes by hand.  There's a certain nostalgia to using original scent soap that reminds me of washing dishes with my grandma as a kid.  

But the time I have gained in my life? And the ease at which I can say to Jake in the evening, "You go play with the girls.  I'll clean up."  It takes me 10 minutes, for crying out loud!  (I typically stray away from exclamation points, but this is how strongly I feel in the proclamation of love).  

But enough of the sappy love story and more on the notion of time.  Have you ever tried to see how much you could accomplish in a single minute?  It's a new, fun stay-at-home mom game I invented.  All you do is heat something up in the microwave, hit the "minute" button, and then see much time, but I'm here to tell you that I can go to the bathroom, wash my hands, re-fill my water bottle and make it back to the microwave with time to spare (even while holding a baby on my hip for the last 25 seconds).  

I need to get out more.  

But really, sometimes I need to be reminded that time doesn't always move as quickly as I think.  The excuse to stay inside because of how much time it will take to put on shoes and sunscreen or because of how much time it will take to give baths to wash off sunscreen later (more on how I feel about baths another time) becomes a moot point when I remember how much I can actually accomplish in a minute. It's always worth it to get out.  

The sun is shining in Cleveland today--something else Jake reminds me not to take for granted.  And, everyone is sleeping (something else I NEVER take for granted).  I've got some sun to take advantage of.

I just have to load the dishwasher first.  

musings.

word of the day: musings \ˈmyüz-ing\ thoughtfully abstracted

It feels like most of my thoughts lately have been rather weighty. I've got some more ruminating nicely in the corners of my brain, so the order of the day is "thoughtfully abstracted."  

Like this conversation Jake and I had the other day:

Me: The girls really need baths today. (heavy emphasis on really)
Jake: Yeah.
Me: Maybe we should take a walk and get some ice cream instead.
Jake: Yes.  Let's do that.

Can we talk about Eastern Standard time for a second?  Ninety-seven percent of the time, not such a bad thing.  In fact, it makes staying up until eleven easier because a piece of my heart still resides in the Central Standard.  But staying up until 11:32 to watch The Tonight Show?  (Ok, I'll do it.  But curses to the EST at 3:00 a.m. when I'm up with a baby).

I've been thinking lately about how elusive milestones are. Right before Norah was born, I thought I was in labor.  I put Lily to bed that night thinking it'd be our last night just the two of us.  I held her an extra five minutes and cried while I walked out of the room.  Norah was born three days later; I'd savored a moment that wasn't even the last.  

I think about that night a lot as I traverse the rapidly changing landscape of having a 2-year-old and an 8-month-old.  Lily doesn't sleep in her crib anymore.  One night she did, and the next afternoon she didn't.  There was no long goodbye; it just happened.  

And Norah sat at the table with us for dinner tonight.  Just right across from me. 

Elusive. I think I'm happier when the milestones slip through my fingers more quickly than I can grasp them.  It's less stressful (at least I think).

Today Lily walked up to Norah, ripped her pacifier out of her mouth, and threw it across the room.  

"You don't need that, k?" she said.

So, now I'm wondering how many times I tell Lily something and then say, "K?" If you want to know which words you say more than all the others, have a toddler and you'll find out real quick. 

Lily and I made homemade croutons and homemade banana bread in the same day last week.  

The long version of the story involves a book called "7" that wrecked my life.  The short version of the story involves me french braiding my own hair and finding out that you have a lot of time to learn new things when you're a stay-at-home mom.  

Jake says I should get some guest bloggers or that I should let him ghost write a post.  I told him he could write the last sentence of this entry.

Get busy living or get busy dying.

horizon.

word of the day: horizon \hə-ˈrī-z^ən\ the line where the earth or sea seems to meet the sky; the limit or range of a person's knowledge, understanding, or experience

The year was 28 B.C. (Before Cleveland), and Jake and I took a trip.  We left the girls with my mom, boarded a plane, and flew to Cancun to celebrate our break-up with medical school.  

Now, in the year 1 A.D. (After Des Moines), I keep thinking about this picture I took during our decent into Mexico:

I was captivated by the view because the horizon wasn't so easily discernible.  The sky and the sea merged together in a way that would have given a poet a blank canvas to paint a beautiful picture of words.

I've never been much of a poet though, so I went straight to the metaphor and have been thinking about it since.  I love a good metaphor, see? (Augustus Waters and I would have been great friends.)

I can't stop thinking about the horizon line, and I can't stop feeling like I've been walking it. The place where Before Cleveland meets After Des Moines is thin, but it feels separated by a line nonetheless.  

Therein lies the problem.  Before and after.

I've been going back to the blog archives recently. There's the one where I first started talking about stories and the one where I reflected on the lie that I deserved something different. There's the one where I had an identity crisis, the one where I was feeling isolated, and the one where I vowed to "season the season."

Technically they are words from "before", but they're all (and countless others) so pertinent to the now that I am reminded of how thin the horizon line is. There isn't really a "before" and an "after."  There are chapters, of course, but as any good novel would tell you, they are connected by the thread of a larger story.  

And, wouldn't you know, the themes of this season of my life were introduced into my story long ago.  

I appreciate a good reminder every once in awhile that life is not a series of coincidences.  That everything is connected and that, if I listen and let Him, God will equip me to face each new chapter with knowledge from what I have seen and been through before.  

[insert a tacky line about expanding my horizons. that's all I've got.] 

cleave (land)

word of the day: cleave \ˈklēv\ to adhere firmly and closely or loyally and unwaveringly

Here is something I've learned about about myself on a much deeper level in the 10 days I have lived in Cleveland:

I have some social anxiety. 

Take the other day for instance.  I went to our local Giant Eagle (missing you, Hy-Vee). As I stood in the check-out line waiting my turn, I realized that I didn't have a Giant Eagle card.  Can you check out at Giant Eagle without a Giant Eagle card? I wonder how long it will take me to get one after she's already rung up my food and realizes I don't have one.  What if the Giant Eagle Card is a non-factor but my credit card won't work because we keep forgetting to update our address?  Either way, I'm going to have to apologize to the people behind me for the added time.  When I started mentally rehearsing my apology (and sweating), I realized I might have a small problem.

Probably one of two things happened to you while you read that last paragraph (which is 100% true and non-exaggerated, I might add).  You either stopped reading at the third "Giant Eagle Card" reference for annoyance's sake, or you took a sigh of relief knowing that you're not the only one who has ridiculous inner monologue issues.  

There is a point to all of this.  

It's going to take work for me to lay down new roots.  I've been realizing the past few days how easy it would be for me to stay inside our house and never leave.  To exist with my small family unit and never venture much past my own street.  There is rain in the forecast for the next few days which, for someone like me, is a relief because it gives me an excuse to not have to try anything new.  To stay in my bubble.  

The old bubble.  I made Jake take this unfortunate picture with me at 6:30 a.m. right before he left with our janky trailer for Cleveland.  That's right, Jake.  I said "janky."

But, the last time I checked (and I checked), God didn't say, "Stay put, Molly. Be comfortable where you are.  I'll get back to you when you're ready." 

I'm never ready.  

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

Despite my moments of panic, I feel like a blank slate.  A person cut off from distractions and responsibilities; untethered to the comfortable and easy.  

And, I've got to tell you, amidst the sweating and heart palpitations is a layer of anticipation (the good kind).  Because blank slates have the potential to be great things.  

So.  I'll start putting down roots.  I'll adhere firmly.  Closely.  Loyally.  Unwaveringly.

I'll cleave to Cleveland.  

I took this picture on Father's Day.  So far, in the 10 days we have lived here, we've seen the sun about 3 times.  That may be an exaggeration.  Maybe.  

root.

word of the day: root \ˈrüt, ˈru̇t\ the part of a plant that grows underground, gets water from the ground, and holds the plant in place; the cause or source of something

My parents had to cut a tree down in their yard a few weeks ago.  Said tree had been growing in front of the house since we moved in when I was five.  

Needless to say, I got all “The Giving Tree” about it and made Hannah do a photo shoot with me in front of the tree.  I’m a hopeless sentimental. 

In true Hannah fashion, she turned it into an adventure and made me climb the tree--marking the first and last time I climbed that tree in the 23 years I knew it.  

The tree is gone now. Except it’s not really gone.  A stump remains and an expanse of roots beneath the ground.  

So the word “root” took root in my brain.  

I felt unrealistically sad that this tree (the one I had never climbed) was being cut down.  But, then, as I watched them saw down the stump, I realized that the tree was still there.  You can’t very well tear 30-year-old roots out of the ground.  

And then I moved to Ohio (a phase in my life which will certainly be wrought with more words--some which are already ruminating nicely).  

As I drove away from Des Moines, last week, and in typical sentimental fashion, I listened to the song “Iowa” by Alli Rogers about 8 times in a row (The chorus starts with “Iowa, don’t know how to leave you; don’t know how to tell you goodbye” for crying out loud.  Which I was obviously doing.  And, you will certainly recognize this song if you lived in close proximity to me circa 2006).  

But I digress.  This is the phrase that stuck with me:

My soul is weathered but green

When a storm passes over the roots are unseen  

Until all is laid bare 

And the hope that I needed was already there

It hasn’t fully fleshed itself out in my brain yet, but here is what I know:

It’s hard to pull up roots.  

But hope doesn’t come from the storm that takes away the tree trunk.  It was always there and always will be there if you choose to plant your roots in the right place.  

And hope is what carries you through.  

bittersweet.

word of the day: bittersweet \ˈbi-tər-ˌswēt\ pleasure alloyed with pain

I’ve been thinking lately about the place where bitter meets sweet as though it’s a physical place in which I can reside.  

The past few weeks I’ve been feeling like I straddle the line at all times--one foot in the bitter and one foot in the sweet.  

Jake graduates from medical school on Saturday, and that new beginning brings so many subsequent “ends.”  It brings goodbyes and unknowns; things that can really only be defined as they are: bittersweet.  

But here’s what I realized today: In the bittersweet moments of life, things are bitter because they were sweet in the first place.  It’s not the other way around and it’s not two separate entities converging together.  Bittersweet are the good things that we wish we could carry with us for always but can’t.  

I stumbled across this verse in Ecclesiastes this past week as I churned the word around in my brain:

When times are good, be happy;

   but when times are bad, consider this:

God has made the one

   as well as the other.

Therefore, no one can discover

   anything about their future.

-Ecclesiastes 7:14

God has made the one as well as the other.  

Times aren’t bad.  They’re just bitter because they have been so sweet.  And when I really get down to the heart of it, that’s something to be thankful for.  It means that Jake and I did something right.  It means we surrounded ourselves with good people and good things and a support system that has walked this journey with us from the beginning.  

We could have written a different story for ourselves; we could have traveled the road alone which would, I suppose, have made this current transition much less painful.  

But I’ll take this over that.  I’ll take the sad goodbyes over living our lives in isolation because that’s not what we were meant for.  

We were meant for the bittersweet.  God made one as well as the other.

The beginning of the road.  Jake’s White Coat Ceremony four years ago.