BEGIN AGAIN.

I write this from my phone, lying in bed, belly full of the sour straws I committed whole-heartedly to not eat the entirety of my 27th year (I made it less than a month). Matt is downstairs watching basketball. Babies are asleep. We are all tired and happy from a weekend of playing and puddle splashing and eating junk and togetherness.

I’ve been feeling an itchiness lately. I lie awake long into the night thinking. Crafting sentences. Brainstorming. Doing the kinds of things mothers of young children who get up at 7:15 am sharp need not be doing at 2:34 in the morning. But I can’t help it. Nighttime, when the house is quiet and no one needs me, is when the wheels start turning and my brain starts sticking words together to try to adequately capture my experiences and emotions of the day.

So this is my attempt to replicate that phenomenon at a more humane hour. Plus I’m full of approximately 800 calories of refined  sugar. I need to direct these jitters to something.

Here we go.

There were a few reasons I stopped writing. First, I got a new boss at work who had things he wanted me to do and a budget for me to do these things and the time to meet with me about these budgeted things. Out went my downtime sitting in front of a blank screen (I was not the best employee, clearly). Secondly, I got pregnant. My focus shifted and I was pretty terrified all of pregnancy. I think I wrote about that? No clue where that post went, tragically. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, because it’s still something I’m struggling with, isn’t this all just so...self-indulgent? Who am I to think that I have something so valuable to say? And that I should write it somewhere publicly and think other people might want to read it? The gall!

But then I went hunting though my old email account, found this blog, read all these old posts, and felt such AFFECTION for my newly-married, childless, bored-to-tears-at-work self. I read those posts and felt the same pride I felt for Ada tonight when she put her pajama shirt on all by herself. Look at young me doing something! Just for the heck of it! Way to go! I want to be like that!

I keep thinking of two quotes I read recently. Well, one is a quote. The other is a quote-ish summation from Jennifer Fulwiller’s new book One Beautiful Dream that I’m too sour strawed out to dig out and flip through.

Let’s start with the real quote from St. Teresa of Calcutta: Do something beautiful for God.

And the second quote-ish: You have something to offer.

So I’m combining the two and making a plan/motto/mission statement. I’ll be here, stringing words and thoughts together in a way that is (hopefully) beautiful because I have something to offer the world.

Thanks for joining me.



SIDE NOTE:
Why oh why is it so hard for us to say that we feel we are gifted in an area? Reading back through my old posts, I was legitimately impressed and freaking proud of my writing. But I would almost sooner have another back-laborious natural birthing experience than stand up and say “Hey. I’m Mary Margaret and I’m a decent writer.” Have we swung too far into humility that we’re afraid to even admit these things to ourselves, let alone declare them publicly? It just feels so braggy. Ugh. Even then I just went back and changed the word good to decent. Double ugh.

a week

Monday is for refusing to turn your brain on until you have listened to the previous night's This American Life in its entirety.

Monday is for taking your time.


Tuesday is for running to your local post office with a terrifyingly low Yelp rating fifteen minutes before it closes to ask questions about lost mailbox keys, but then being blown away by the kindness and helpfulness of the woman behind the counter.

Tuesday is for surprises.


Wednesday is for girding your loins and going to Trader Joe's despite your (self-induced) chocolate migraine because your fridge is flat out of all solid food items and husbands don't consider green beans with a side of almonds dinner.

Wednesday is for strength.


Thursday is for wearing a dress that shows probably a little bit more boob than necessary, but deciding to own it while making a mental note to not lean forward in front of anyone, just in case.

Thursday is for confidence (and sitting up very straight).


Friday is for cranking out reports, throwing things in to pivot tables, and sending emails to important people while holding your breath and praying for no typos. It's for managing to prep and bottle the week's kombucha in 20 minutes flat.

Friday is for efficiency.


Saturday is for sleeping in late then going out for waffles. For visits to new places, naps, and quesadillas. Maybe it's also for drinking margaritas and getting a little silly.

Saturday is for Sabbath.


Sunday is for grocery trips, a birthday batch of blueberry muffins, loads of laundry, and floors cleaned before AND after church.

Sunday is for quiet productivity.

And now we begin again.

someday

This is about fertility, babies, and the deepest longings of my soul. Consider yourself warned.



Even though we're not trying, even though we have a plan, and even through I know the timing is not right, every month I feel a sense of failure sink in. And every month I try explaining this to Matt. I tell him about callings. I tell him about the feelings that are so core and so very central to my being. I try my best to articulate that while I am currently decidedly unpregnant, I feel like I should be pregnant. There's always a lot of pausing for deep breaths between even deeper thoughts. I sigh, stare at the ceiling, and struggle for the right words to say. I finally tell him what he already knows - his wife would like a baby please. After this display of emotion, I always find myself flopped on the bed. And in a display of spousal love, I always find Matt flopped next to me.

We discuss timelines. We discuss finances. We discuss waiting and agree that a bit of patience is best. But then we (mostly me) discuss the what-ifs: what if it doesn't work/what if it takes years/what if we regret these months of waiting? We (mostly Matt) discuss trusting God. We (I) discuss infertility and miscarriage and the dozens of things that can go wrong. We (Matt) discuss, again, trusting the Creator of the universe and our hearts, the One who put these desires in motion.

Then we (Matt) get up to brush our (his) teeth and get ready for bed, while we (I) go to the couch to do some thinking.

I think about the first time I realized I was made to be a mother - made to nurture and support, to tend to and love. I was six and my youngest brother was a few months old and starting to cry. I picked him up from his crib, sat cross-legged on the floor, put on my gentlest voice, and calmed him down. Something clicked. I sat there, watching him drift slowly off to sleep, feeling like I had both power and purpose.

I think about my heart and the hearts of women everywhere who share the same longing. How all of our hearts beat so strongly for this one thing that all this waiting, either intentional or unintentional, just seems throughly unproductive.

But then I think about God. I remind myself of His promises and His plan and of all of those little things that my impatient heart doesn't want to hear. How my God is the same God who remembered Rachel, who remembered Sarah, who remembered Elizabeth. Someday, somehow, He will remember me.

Then, in all of this talk remembering, I remember this doozy: God knows the exact date of each of my somedays.

And with that, I can finally go to sleep.

useless anecdote no. 1: Church vs. church

In our apartment, we do a fair amount of singing. Singing in the shower. Singing to the kittens. Singing the lyrics of one song to the melody of another (by yours truly and not even on purpose, I just happen to be musically challenged). Call me Maria Von Trappe.

Yesterday’s singing session took place between church and our Holeman & Finch reservation and was kicked off with me singing one of the morning’s hymns to the tune of Girl Crush by Lady Antebellum (again – not intentional). So Matthew, being the dream boat he is, pulled out his guitar to graciously aid me in my praising. We moved through the a few other hymns, but mysteriously ended up where we always end up these days - the contemporary classic “Shut Up and Dance.” (two-for-one tangent: I watch that little 20 second clip at least once a workday and it makes me grin down to my toes // I found an old journal during the last move and saw that I wrote about praying for a singing husband...so thank you Jesus.)

Around this time, our across the hall neighbor, who, unlike us, has age-appropriate hobbies like going to bars (this detail will become pertinant, I promise), had arrived home and was letting her cat roam the halls, heard our impromptu concert and was lead to tell us that we were really good. I was like, um, we? As in both of us? She confirmed. Yes! Both of us! And told us that we should preform places. Like Tin Lizzy’s or JCT. Matt mentioned that he plays at church about once a month. To which the neighbor said, “Oh I love Church! I go there all the time! Let me know next time you play!” We were like, "Yeah! Ok!" and then headed out for lunch.

As I walked down the stairs, I realized she was most likely referring to Church (also known as Sister Louisa's Church of the Living Room & Ping Pong Emporium, a bar in Edgewood), while we were referring to church (also known as Trinity, also known as the House of the Lord, Most High).

We should have clarified.

But am I still riding high from the fact that someone thought my voice was something other than “different” or “not great”? Yes. And I will hold onto that white-lie of a compliment til my dying day.

Anyway. Holeman & Finch burgers deserve every bit of hype and are worth standing in line in the muggy heat for. Highly recommend.

let them eat cake

Sometimes you create grand plans of eating your wedding cake on your anniversary cruise, but sometimes cruiselines don't let you bring cakes aboard. So you adapt.

19262855210 from Mary Margaret Phillips on Vimeo.

(Matt's itchiness is a long story. Disregard.)

year one

Three hundred and sixty five days ago, a girl woke up unmarried for the last time. She spent the morning feeling butterflies, which surprised her, because she didn't think she was nervous. But they flew around her belly while she sipped iced coffee. They fluttered while her nails and hair and make-up were done. They did back flips and cartwheels while her dress was zipped up and sash was hooked, and when she danced around the bathroom, the butterflies danced with her. They spun and twirled as she hooked arms with her father and walked out the door. 

Then she saw him. And the butterflies stopped.



People love to tell you how hard the first of marriage is, but when I look back at our first year, I'm overwhelmed with a feeling of quiet peacefulness. Our first year was walks after dinner, belly laughing on a messy bed, sitting on the kitchen table singing hymns. It was going out into the world and, no matter what happened, knowing that you were coming home to your own little haven.

In my mind, this peacefulness comes primarily from knowing that we weren't required to be everything for each other. Knowing that your spouse is looking to an omniscient, all-loving God for fulfillment and meaning takes so much pressure off your daily interactions and lets you truly be free. Freedom to speak your mind, freedom to love with all you've got, and freedom to forgive quickly.

Secondarily, it comes from Matt. Matt Phillips is a rock. If we were climates, Matt would be the sunny Southern California to my unpredictable, ever-changing Georgia weather. He's stable and steady when I'm working myself up into a lather. He holds fast and strong to truth when I'm being tossed about by life. I can completely lose my mind about hypothetical scenarios, but I know that he'll be there, holding my hand and letting me know that everything is going to be ok.

Matthew David, thank you for being my calm in the storm. Thank you for leading me, praying for me, and being the best teammate I could ask for. Here's to grainy selfies and bedtime stories, to weekly spaghetti dinners and spending forever by your side. Happy anniversary, my love.

butter is my love language: four somewhat unrelated thoughts on food

Starting at about the age of nine, I would regularly grab a stack of old Southern Livings or Better Homes & Gardens from the basket in the office, seat myself at the counter, and flip about three quarters of the way back, past colorful maps showing when to plant your tulips and articles about Charleston restaurants til I found what I thought was the only redeeming section of the whole publication - the recipes.

It was poetry. A list of every day ingredients, sometimes with something exotic sounding mixed in ("Mom, what are bing cherries?"), followed by a step-by-step set of instructions, ending with a glossy, staged picture with a well-placed garnish, a structure which repeated with different combinations of ingredients for four or five more pages. It was from these magazines I learned how accessible cooking was. All you had to do was gather what's on the list, follow the instructions, and add a little something to make it pretty. 

As a wife and functioning adult, I get to experience this poetry in my life everyday, although now it's less "sonnet in iambic pentameter" and more "free-form hippie poetry with the occasional couplet". I borrow from the poetry of others and add a little something of my own. Roasted garlic. Browned butter. Raw sugar sprinkled for a crunch. I am the queen in this kingdom. If I choose to use a heavy hand with the vanilla extract or add a pinch of cayenne to the candied pecans for good measure, so be it.

I love people with the food I make. Through it, I get to simultaneously delight and meet a primal need. With pies and cakes, I am giving my time and gentleness. With soups and hearty dinners, I give my care and attention to detail in the form of a chopped onion, smashed garlic cloves and almond-crusted chicken breasts. With every chocolate chip cookie and oatmeal cream pie, I give my joy and and love. With any yeasted dough, I knead in a triple dose of my patience.

Cooking is a communion with the past, the most delicious form of memory. When browning ground beef, I see my mother, standing barefoot in the kitchen stirring spaghetti sauce with a wooden spoon. Cinnamon rolls smell like childhood Christmas mornings and with each apple I peel, I remember a Thanksgiving Day pie. While making sweet tea, I am swept back to a late-summer picnic in Grant Park with a boy I loved but hadn't told yet. Peanut butter pie reminds me of sweet roommates and how lucky I am for friendships that pick back up right where they left off. A BLT on warm toast has me smiling at jokes told in ridiculous accents that have (somehow) only grown more funny with time. Corner brownies and crispy potatoes remind me of my dad. Whole roasted chicken tastes like triumph. Banana bread, home. Brie and green apples on a baguette, adventure.

I wonder what memories my children and their children and their children will have of me after I've had my ashes scattered in some great body of water (morbid, whatever). Will roasted sweet potatoes with broccoli or raspberries on oatmeal remind them of me? Will they hear my voice saying "boxed mixes are for quitters" as they rub citrus zest into sugar? I hope so. If I get to have any say in these things (which I don't think I do), I would like my legacy to be one of never measuring the vanilla extract, always encouraging a second serving of lemon cake and not skimping on chocolate chips. I want to be remembered with my oven mitts on and smiling, a barefoot queen in her kingdom. Take note, unborn children. Take note.

gratitude on day 342

This morning, I arrived at the airport without my wallet for the second time in the last 12 months. Both times, I've called Matt in a panic and, both times, he's come and rescued me. As he pulled up, he smiled at me and handed me my wallet. No mention of the fact that I majorly threw off his morning. No mention of the last time I did this. Nothing but a smile, a "here you go baby," and a "it's going to be ok" as I ran back into the airport. 

We've been married for almost a year now. And each and every of those 342 days, Matt has treated me with a kindness and grace that blows my mind. He makes me laugh when I don't want to. He cooks dinner when I'm running late. He forgives me when I am selfish. He washes dishes always. He pushes himself everyday to make sure our future is as secure as it can be. He sings me songs while I put on my makeup and redo my hair for the 14th time. 

How can I begin to thank him? How can I begin to repay the debt I've accrued?  Even though I try, there's nothing I can do or say that will adequately translate the gratitude in my heart. The selflessness he displays daily causes something to well up within me. I am unworthy of this unconditional love. I am unworthy of his kindness and devotion. 

But he loves me nonetheless.

When I think about Matt rescuing me from my own stupidity at 6:54 this morning with a smile on his face, I see Jesus shining through. For every bit of love in Matt's heart, there is an infinite amount more on God's heart for me. Love that lead to death on a cross. Love that remains, despite my continual shortcomings, my messes, my bad moods and the accompanying chains of cuss words. Love that is patient, kind and keeps no records of wrongs. Love that overwhelms. Love that I can do nothing to diminish. 

Matt Phillips, I'm so thankful for you. Thank you for pointing me to Jesus and being such a reminder of his love. I admire and respect the heck out of you. How can I begin to thank you? An edible arrangement? An Apple watch? Chicken tenders for supper for the next 70 years? Chaining my wallet to my body? 

Even if I did one of those things or all of them, I wouldn't even come close to conveying the graditude in my heart. I'm so blessed to have a lifetime to limp alongside you, thanking and loving, loving and thanking. 

baseball as a metaphor for everything

(Like actual baseballs, not the game. Sorry Matt!)





Deconstructing a baseball is not a task for the faint of heart. You need patience, a comfy seat, and a blade of some sort. And, of course, an old baseball found from a walk in a park.

First you cut the red seams holding the whole thing together and tear apart the outer leather.

Two flat pieces of leather and shreds of red thread. That's not a ball.

Underneath you find a whole mess of sticky white string. You grab a section and pull. Unwind, unwind, unwind. You realize, for the first time, that this is probably going to take longer than you initially estimated. But you continue, wadding up the gluey thread on the table next to you as you turn the ball over and over again in your lap.

One mess of white thread. That's not a ball.

Much to your surprise/delight, the white thread gives way to a new fiber. A mostly gray yarn speckled with sprinkles of reds, greens, blues and golds. As you loop the yarn around your hand, you ponder the origins of the composite yarn and hope it comes from recycled sweaters. Unwind, unwind, unwind. You realize, for the second time, that this is definitely taking longer than you expected. The yarn gets more and more densely packed as the baseball shrinks before your eyes. Slowly, you see flashes of it - bits of pink rubber peaking out between the turns of the yarn.

One rather thick loop of gray yarn. That's not a ball.

You look around you at the mess you've made and you look at the little pink thing in your hands.

One pink rubber ball, much smaller than what you started with, but something that can not be stripped down any further. That's a ball.





In the quiet hours of the night, when Matt is fast asleep next to me and God and I are going over the day together, I've found myself remembering unwrapping baseballs. Both pre- and post-dismemberment, it's technically a ball. But it's covered with so much other sticky (slightly mildewy if we're being honest) not-ball stuff, that the end product is entirely unrecognizable from the starting point.

I push the metaphor further, because what else is 11:30 pm for if not pushing a metaphor anyway? I think about the two things I hold most dear - my faith and my marriage - and apply the baseball effect. How often am I more focused on the yarn and the string and the glue and the perfect little red stitches of life that I forget about the essence, the basis, the little pink ball that started it all?

In my faith, I often find myself focused on the thread and yarn. Putting the lion share of attention towards bulking up and filling out my faith, like finding a good devotional or figuring out which Sunday School class I should be teaching or memorizing my favorite psalms, rather than focusing on the core of it all. No amount of reading or prayer or singing songs with toddlers about about a man who climbed a tree (while all done with the best of intentions) will save us if we lose sight of reason behind it - that God loved us so much, despite our shortcomings, despite our continual disobedience, despite our every attempt to go against Him, that He became man and died the death we deserve so we can be with Him forever. Focusing on this, the fact that I am redeemed and loved more than I can fathom or deserve, makes the rest of the tangles and turns of faith fade into the background. Cling to Jesus. Cling to the little rubber ball of our faith. From Him all goodness and mercy, all grace and joy, flow.

In my marriage, I'm guilty of pouring way too much of my attention and energy into the leather and stitching - the day-to-day activities that hold our home together and make it pretty, the what's-for-dinner and the floor sweeping aspects of our lives - that I am prone to leave Matt neglected. I'll only half (or quarter, sorry babe) listen to the tale of his day when I'm really staring at the built-in shelves behind him thinking about succulents. See, decor and meal planning and other finishing touches, while important and/or essential to living, do not a marriage make. Marriage, at the core, is about love. It's waking up every day and making the decision to love someone. It's listening, truly listening, when fears and worries are confessed. It's providing a soft place to land, a dirty joke to raise his spirits, a kiss on the neck. It's giving and asking for grace even when it's hard. Focusing on the essence of our marriage means feeling my heart flutter when he looks at me; it means being more patient, more kind, and more gentle with my words; it means encouraging his dreams and letting him know that I believe in him and his abilities.

Spring has sprung and, much to the delight of my husband, baseball is starting back up. There will be home runs and NL East Championships mixed with lamentations about poor management and "we'll get 'em next year." But there will also be the reminder to peel back the layers on the things that are most important to me. Uncovering and holding fast to the little rubber ball in the middle of my faith and my marriage.

Everything else is just fluff.

nostalgia

I never feel it coming. 

I'm in the middle of something routine. Quietly working away on dinner, or driving home from work, when I'm hit with such wistful longing for my life just as it is. Nostalgia for right now.

Oh remember when? I say to no one in particular. Remember when I was twenty-three but swore to my brand new husband that I felt twenty-six, at least?

The swirly feeling continues. I see every aspect of my life through the lens of memory.

Remember when it was just the two of us? When we would up and decide to go across the country in a week and a half. When we could be utterly selfish with each other. When we would both wake up and go out into the world to labor and toil for a bit, come back home and reunite with a long hug and a kiss, then eat a simple supper. Maybe even on the couch. Because we didn't have to set examples for anyone. When our evenings and weekends are ours, and ours alone, to be filled with last minute dates, long walks, or absolutely nothing at all.

Remember when I worked outside the home? When I would wake up and talk to the cats while putting on my black pants and a cardigan. When my speech consisted of more three letter abbreviations than I ever thought possible. When I had bosses and meetings and sent lots of emails that made me feel all at once both terribly important and unimportant. When I would take deep gulps of fresh air the second I walked out of the building. When I spent my days surrounded by the quiet, comforting hum of a busy office knee deep in spreadsheets and graphs and nested formulas. 

Something always pulls me from my reverie. A ringing phone, a red light changing to green. 

I look around at the articles that make up my little life - my green notebook, a brightly colored spoon rest, an airplane shaped paper clip - and feel a sudden and deep affection for them. I promise myself to take more pictures, to slow down, to soak it all up. To let myself feel the longing and excitement for the next step, but not let it prevent me from seeing and appreciating the simple sweetness of my life. 

Because, right now, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. 

And one day, I'm going to miss this. I already miss this.

meh-HE-co & life lately

February feels like dead week in college. You kind of just put your head down and try to get through it. All regular activities go by the wayside in an attempt to survive. Dinners aren't cooked, exercise certainly isn't happening, and laundry is the only chore that gets done consistently because we sadly have a finite amount of underwear. We're coping with it the best way we can: fresh flowers, burning candles 8 hours a day, and watching a whole bunch of Parks and Rec. 

Everyone should marry a Matt Phillips. They make you laugh when all you want to do is pout. They let you buy expensive candles even though you exceeded the "Home/Miscellaneous" section of the budget last week. They have never-ending hope in Georgia Tech athletics despite their horrible track record, which points to a heart filled with a bottomless grace (good news for wives who are prone to forgetting to turn off lights when they leave rooms). They tell you how beautiful you are when you have to wear a uniform of ill-fitting polos in the most un-pale-person-flattering colors for work. They can tell the second you walk in the door if you're in the state of mind to cook a meal, and if not, will suggest somewhere to eat, usually Mexican because they know the way to your heart is through chicken tortilla soup. They hold you and pray for your grandfather when you can't articulate the worry on your heart. They always hold open the car door for you and tell the best bedtime stories when you can't fall asleep, even though they themselves are very, very sleepy. They are patient and kind and unrelentingly cheery in a way that would probably drive you crazy if you weren't a direct beneficiary of all that positive attitude. And all you can do is say thank you and try and make sure there are always bananas and apples in the kitchen for them. 

We moved to our neighborhood in October, so we haven't really gotten the chance to go on the after dinner walks we became accustomed to over the summer. I'm itching to wander through Collier Hills and scheme up how to befriend/become the sole heirs to the millionaires who inhabit the homes of my dreams. As much as I love hunkering down in Nessie, I need some fresh air. (Heaven help me if I ever live anywhere actually cold. The melodramatics have already reached threat level midnight. Can you imagine the dire straits we'd be in if we left the deep south?)

Friday the 13th was 2015's best day on record. It was profit-sharing day at work (a day when a percentage of the prior year's profit is distributed amongst all employees), and, all thanks to me, obviously, we had a record payout. I was given a last minute invitation to help work a five-day award trip at an all inclusive resort in Playa del Carmen. Somebody who loves me sent me roses. I set-up for the department's profit sharing party (and pretended I was Pam Beesley), where I won a $50 Best Buy gift card in a drawing and ate a cupcake from the bakery that made our wedding cake. I left work an hour early and went to celebrate Galentine's Day with burgers and cookies and uterus discussion and selfies with some of my favorite ladies. Friday the 13ths are always the luckiest day. 

My workload in Mexico involved zero Excel but a lot of maracas and glittery ribbon. Matt got to experience how truly awkward I am around my coworkers. The virgin mojitos flowed like water and we had a jacuzzi! On our balcony! There were 11 restaurants at the resort and I lost count of how many pools there were. I never once wore the cardigans I packed or figured out the layout of the property. Our faces are freckled and legs a little sunburned. I got to meet the spouses/partners/significant others of my fellow employees and boss which has been a career-long dream of mine because I'm super nosy and fascinated by their personal lives but too shy/antisocial to ask about them. I would like to go back, please. 

#loversretreat2k15

Perhaps Jacksonville Beach is not the most exciting place to vacation. But we had a three day weekend and needed a trip to a within-driving-distance-beach with a cheap AirBNB. St. Simon's and Amelia Island were a bit pricey. Miami was too far.

Jacksonville Beach, CONGRATULATIONS! You won by default.

Our little apartment was perfect. Minus a toilet in the shower situation (which Matt loved - and considered a feature). There was wood paneling in the living room that actually looked nice, creaky floors to remind me of Nessie, and french doors leading to the master. If there's one thing I know it is this: life needs more french doors.

We spent the weekend doing basically what we would do at home (minus kittens and laundry). Which made me feel guilty. I confessed to Matt that I felt like I was incredibly dull because we had had zero excitement in our weekend. Then he reminded me that 1. we were in Jacksonville Beach, which is the most average beach ever, and 2. we didn't particularly like age-appropriate things, mainly bars, because they tend to be a. loud, b. crowded, and c. expensive. And weren't we having such a marvelous time being dull? he asked. Answer: yes. Being dull is fantastic.

I'm so thankful for him. Marriage is never having to pretend to be cooler than you are, and your spouse will still think you're the greatest person alive.

And now, for a recap of our weekend, let's do the numbers (highest of fives if you mentally read that in Ky Ryssdal's voice):

$12.84 - amount we spent on two front row seats to see a guy named Louis Ramey perform at the esteemed Jacksonville Comedy Club, where he proceeded to verbally violate me and make me the butt of all his semi-violent sexual jokes.

2 - times Matt said "I told you this would happen if we sat there"

2 - times I replied "But the tickets were $6! Less than half the price of the rest of the tables!"

1 - lesson learned (by me): don't ever sit in the front where they can see you

2 - trips to Starbucks for coffee/lemon cake

2 - total trips Matt has now taken to Starbucks in his 23 years

$4.95 - spent on an awesome Jax Beach magnet from Walgreens

5 -  days of my "Bible in a Year" reading plan I read Sunday, because not even a month in and I'm already woefully behind

37 - verbal uses of our trip's hashtags: #loversretreat2k15 and #yojo (you only Jacksonville once)

63 - (+ dark clouds + wind) temperature on Saturday, our first beach attempt

25 - approximate number of minutes spent shivering at the beach on Saturday

72 - (+ light breeze + sunshine) temperature on Sunday, our second beach attempt

200 - approximate number of minutes we spent loving our lives at the beach on Sunday

1 - pair of running shoes forgotten at home

2 - blisters on my lover's feet from his barefoot beach run

46  - minutes I spent admiring Matt's thick eyelashes

3 - wishes made for a yard with a lemon tree like the one we saw in that bougie Riverside neighborhood

$590,000 - price of one of the many homes I coveted in the aforementioned neighborhood (yikes)

3.5 - stars for American Sniper, which we saw Sunday night because what else were we going to do...we didn't think it lived up to the hype

371 - pages read

2 - Sonic diet cherry limeades (aka heaven's sweetest nectar) I ingested in a 9 hour period

10 - number of Sonic chicken tenders Matt ingested in a 9 hour period

1 -  chicken tender stomach ache

13 - times Matt mentioned how awesome the toilet in the shower was

1 - regret: not visiting the Beaches Museum & History Park (Matt put his foot down on that one)

Thank you for such a lovely, albeit elderly, weekend, Mr. Phillips. I love you more than grocery store discounts, sensible shoes, and going to bed early combined.

the first married christmas

Mostly unrelated to the below: I just remembered that I ordered an "Our First Christmas Together" ornament but never got it...


I base a lot of my decisions on how they will affect others, completely disregarding my own feelings. This is not a humble brag about my selflessness. It's me admitting that my pride leads me to believe that I am much stronger than I am and life's difficulties will simply roll off of me like water on a duck. That's a bad metaphor, but you get my point.

Which is how I found myself sobbing into my husband's chest at 11:55 pm on Christmas Eve.

Let's back up a bit.

Soon after we got married, Matt and I were discussing how to split the holidays. Knowing his mother, I texted her and asked her to choose between having us for Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. She chose Christmas, and I remember thinking to myself (and possibly saying to Matt), "She has feelings about this, I don't/won't, it's just Christmas." So we did Thanksgiving at my parents' house, and Christmas in Perry where I, much to my surprise, cried more in a day than I've cried in the past two years.

Wait. Let's back up a bit more.

The Swanson family has Christmas traditions that are both fiercely guarded and deeply held. Some of them we don't even like that much, we just do them because dang it, it's Christmas so Cory MUST over-spice the chili.

The gentlemen of the family spend Christmas Eve around the kitchen table while the ladies cook and I contribute sassy comments into whatever conversation I can (it's tradition). On Christmas Eve-ning, we eat soup (three options - the over-spiced chili, some kind of chowder, and a wild card of my choosing) and go to Mass, where we listen to the same story of our salvation and sing Gloria like it's going out of style. We take silly pictures in front of the tree, eat cookies from a gift basket, and watch three movies before hanging our stockings and going to bed - The Toy that Saved Christmas, The Grinch (complete with snippets of old commercials from when my grandmother recorded it on TNT in the late 80s!), and A Christmas Story - all on VHS. During the movies, Trey sits on the stairs, I sit by my dad, and everyone I hold dearest in this world is close enough to kick (except Trey) and I LOVE IT SO MUCH. I think Christmas Eve might be my favorite day of the year.

On Christmas morning, we all pile into my brothers' bedroom at around 7:40 and wait patiently until 8, when we descend the stairs in reverse age order pausing occasionally for pictures before tearing into our stockings. After stockings, we feast on a breakfast of scrambled eggs, cinnamon rolls and bacon to fuel us for The Opening of Presents - an event that takes approximately three hours because we open them one-by-one and there are a million people in my family. The rest of Christmas Day is a blur to me...there's a nap, some more board games for the men/cooking for the women, then a large meal mid-afternoon.

It is all a well-oiled, very comforting, machine.

Christmas 1993, aka the beginning of my deep love for old men.

Fast-forward to last week.

I didn't realize now how much I cherished these silly traditions until this year. Christmas in Perry was fun. We ate a good dinner and went bowling on Christmas Eve, but the mere thought of my dad's face would put me in tears. I missed my brothers and sister. I missed my uncle and Granddad and mom. I missed listening to the bickering over Monopoly and I'm certain they missed my sass and apple pie. I wanted chili and board games and all of our traditions, and I was crying about it because it didn't feel like Christmas (side note: I know this is ridiculous and childish because the birth of Christ  and celebration thereof trumps whether or not you eat very specific foods or watch certain movies).

But this is just the thing about growing up. Life changes and Christmas will change right along with it. As my siblings get married and move away, they too will alternate between my parents and their in-laws. We'll all have children and start to do our own things at our own houses and my parents will hop around. This makes me want to throw things. I want our old Christmas! I want marching down the stairs in matching pajamas! I want to squeeze one of my brother's hands as hard as I can in Mass because that's just what we do!

Time will continue regardless of me throwing things. There is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. But what I do is bask in the honestly incredible memories of twenty-two Christmases with my weirdly structured/loud/soup-eating family, and look forward with excitement and gratitude to creating new traditions with my husband and our future children.

So, after getting out a good cry, Matt rented A Christmas Story for me on Amazon, and we stayed up together into the wee hours of Christmas morning watching it - him for the first time, me for the umpteenth. The next morning, we read from the Bible, opened all our presents at the same time, then our stockings, and headed out to Waffle House.

And it felt like Christmas because long ago a baby was born in stable and he changed the world. And that's what matters.

six months in

Today, our marriage turns six months old. A small accomplishment in the grand scheme of things, but something worth celebrating with German pancakes, bourbon caramelized bananas, orange juice in the crystal champagne flutes from our wedding, and a list of marriage-related thoughts and lessons learned from my quickly fleeting newlywed perspective.

1. Nothing changes. 

Sure, we live together and do can married things now, but our day-to-day lives are fairly similar to what they were on June 19, 2014. I still hate waking up in the morning. Matt's running shoes are still weird smelling. The trash can still fills up alarmingly quickly and I still avoid taking it out. Bills still come and the weekends are still far too short. Life is still life after your wedding day. The little daily heartbreaks and triumphs that you experienced before your wedding? Guess what. They're still there. 

Maybe it's just me, but if I really am honest with myself, I can remember thinking up to about junior year of college that if only I could get myself married, I would have it all figured out. Everything would be happily ever after forever and ever amen. I viewed marriage as the end of the journey, where the credits roll to a sweet song then everybody goes home. I conveniently ignored every REAL example of marriage I'd seen - where there are things like car maintenance and never enough hours in the day - and focused instead on the fairy tales. Instead of viewing marriage as what it is (a beautiful and wonderful season of life), I saw it as the end of the story. I blame this on Disney, romantic comedies, and my own dang self.

So I can't stress this point enough. Life, and everything joyful and tiring and amazing it entails, continues almost exactly as it was before you were married. BUUUUUUT............

2. It changes you.

Marriage has given me the clearest view of how my actions affect others. If I am selfish or sarcastic or in a bad mood for absolutely no reason, it affects my husband. But if I am thoughtful or patient or kind, it affects him too. And because we are living in such proximity and intimacy, the aftershocks of my behavior are impossible not to see. When I see how my action and inaction, my words and silence, either can edify or tear down Matt, there is either positive or negative reinforcement. GOOD - do more of that. BAD - you need to apologize and try to stop.

I knew the intention of marriage was to make us more like Christ, but I think I assumed it would come about solely through some kind of spiritual version of diffusion over time (I have never claimed to be wise). And while I don't want to discount prayer or the work of the Holy Spirit, I know God is also using the logic and psychology he so intricately wove into our minds to make us more like him. Day in and day out.

3. It is good.

There's no way around it, marriage is just goodness. Yes, there are bad days. There are fights and misunderstandings and Monday mornings. But it's also a deep sense of belonging. Of seeing his face and feeling home. There's stability and a permanentness that's pure comfort when life keeps changing and swirling around you. There's a hand to hold in the car, an ear to whisper secrets in in the middle of the night, and a heart that loves you more than anything on this earth.

It's having a second opinion on life's biggest questions - how much should I be putting in my 401k each month? Is it ok if my car makes that sound? and Does this outfit make it look like I'm trying too hard? (side note: if you have to ask, the answer is always yes)

It's learning something new about him everyday - be it ear wiggling or his thoughts on current events - and getting a deeper understanding of how that brain of his works.

It's getting little glimpses of who God created him to be and being humbled and awestruck about how blessed you are to have married someone so selfless/wise/kind/AMAZING.

Matt Phillips, I love you more than Diet Coke, kittens, and Parks & Rec combined. Here's to many more days with you.

home alone

My husband left Thursday morning for a four day trip to Cancun for work.

He sent me this picture to announce his arrival.

Between the tail end of a stomach bug and Matt's absence, I spent most of Thursday morning wallowing around Nessie (our home) in indulgent self-pity. After only one episode of House Hunters Renovation, I'd had my fill of stillness and a headache from the boredom.

I had been so excited to recuperate and be still for four days. To have a Netflix marathon. To watch all my Meg Ryan movies back to back to back. To not move for several hours. Instead, I found myself cleaning the windows while staring at the landscapers blow leaves around the parking lot. By the time their bags and leaf blowers were loaded in the truck, I had a realization:

Nothingness is not in my genetic make up.

I am Sue Swanson's daughter. Sue Swanson's proverbial plate is always full. Sue Swanson is a doer. She is in motion until it's time to drink a glass of wine and watch half an episode of the Biggest Loser. Even then she fast forwards through the interviews. Sue Swanson does not have time to "watch fat people cry." She has a bedtime and needs her 6.5 hours of fitful sleep so she can get up and do some more tomorrow.

Peggy Nawrocki, Sue's mother, has to be told to stop cleaning the kitchen and come eat her supper before it gets cold. Peggy Nawrocki will wrap your Christmas presents, wash the stack of plates in the sink, and make your bed, all while your back is turned.

And Elizabeth Rowley is Peggy's mother. I don't have any memories of my great-grandmother, but I do know she had four children and lived on a farm. Given those facts, I can assume she too was a doer. Up before the sun, raising children, making breakfast, dealing with chickens.

All of this is to say, the women in my family are productive. It's in our nature to notice that the orange juice is almost out or that the floor needs a good sweeping. We find peace at the bottom of a pile of clean clothes, in a well stocked fridge, and in the full bellies of those we love.

If this is the reason I can't wile away the hours alone on the couch, then that's fine. I'm proud to have my mother's busy hands and my grandmother's eye for order. And while I can't sit and watch TV for long, I CAN stand and watch TV while covering a pound of pretzels in chocolate.

Fine by me. 

smitten

Maybe it was Tech's win against UGA last weekend.

Or perhaps the music and subsequent gathering we had just left.

Maybe it was the quiet street and cool night air and that all felt right with the world.

Or maybe it was because it was 4 hours past bedtime and I was exhausted.

But at a little past two on Sunday morning in Athens, Georgia, I fell in love with a tree.

In a somewhat stressful meeting today, my mind wandered to this tree. Unlike his deciduous brothers, this tree on Clayton Street was frozen, fully green, in an everlasting summer. His branches reached up and out with purpose and the quiet grace I pray for. His lights twinkled softly in the breeze, calling quietly to the passerby to slow down, if only for a minute, and look up.

I'm glad I did.

bookmarked

Tonight, sitting alone in the office, I discovered my old bookmarks. Somehow, I logged myself into my Google Chrome account, an action that pulled up the pages and pictures and videos I had once deemed important enough to bookmark on a computer I haven't been on in honestly probably a year. Bookmarks from late 2013 all the way back to college.

I organized my life on the bookmarks bar. My hopes and dreams and favorite websites are captured on this bar. There are FOLDERS for goodness sake. I was organized. And had much more space in my life for exploring the internet to find said hopes and dreams and websites. Since I don't journal, this is about as close to re-experiencing a time in my life that I'm going to get. So bear with me.

I think back to senior year/newly employeed me, as she was the lady who'd be making this masterpiece of a bookmarks bar. She was faced with uncertainty (will I get a job? will I ever get married? will I have to move?) and clearly worried about it (evidenced by the bookmarks for the Georgia Tech job search site, the sections of the Good Women Project on Singleness and Waiting, an article called "The Soulmate You Deserve," and ohmygosh ChristianMingle). She was pursuing God (bookmarks for favorite sermons, devotionals, worship songs and faith-based blogs). She had dreams of travel (bookmarks for fancy luggage and several cooking classes in New Orleans) and pretty things (sparkly earrings and a necklace I'm glad I didn't get in hindsight). But mostly, she was still me. 

We have a tendency to look back at ourselves and laugh about how ridiculous we were given our current vantage point. But one of the of the things that disheartens me most is when others don't take me or my words/actions/beliefs/etc. seriously...when they toss them aside or laugh them off. So when I look back at who I was last year or the year before that and laugh or roll my eyes at the bookmarks for culinary schools and hair curling tutorials, I'm acting in a way that belittles who I used to be, casting her to be small and silly and ignorant. 

I am hereby shifting my perspective on self-retrospection to one of gratitude and respect for the person I was. She really had a lot going for her. She dreamed big and had a whole world of possibilities at her feet. She was thoughtful and intentional and generous. She carved out time for things that were beautiful and nurtured her soul, things like the recordings of piano and violin duets and a picture of the imperfectly-perfectly frosted cake. Scriptures for the morning and for the evening. A English-French translator.

So, in an effort to change my ways and make reparations for laughing at who I was, a letter to the past. 

Dearest, sweetest Mary Margaret Swanson of 2012-2013, 

I admire you. 

I admire your sense of independence and adventure. Your love of music, your pursuit of your God, and your passion for beauty. Who you are and what you do matter. Don't forget that. Your little acts of faithfulness and love and kindness matter, and they inspire me to slow down a bit and be more like you.

I hope future us has the grace to look back on me and you and this silly little blog with respect and admiration. And I hope it puts a smile on her face the same way finding these few dozen bookmarks has for me. 

You're turning out fine. So relax a little, but not all the way, because some things in life are worth getting all worked up over. 

Love,

Mary Margaret Phillips

December 2014

Mary Margaret Swanson - Summer 2012 - Innsbruck, Austria 

(where, she would be quick to tell you, she traveled alone)

photographer: some kind Austrian stranger

wiggly ears & thirteen other things

This weekend I learned that my husband can wiggle his ears. He learned that I cannot. It was entirely fascinating to me (probably not to him). Discovering that felt like discovering a jewel; he's not just my husband anymore! He's my husband, man of hidden talents, including, but not limited to, ear wiggling.

Matthew and I got engaged after less than four months of dating and were married less than six months later. The beginning, middle and end of our engagement were all rather rough. Don't be fooled - engagement is not a pleasant time (I was fooled). My parents were very strongly convicted that we should not be getting married yet, and our few months of dating did not prepare us well enough - we didn't even know each other! - and we should be engaged for at least a year and a half before getting married.

Well Mama, you were right. I didn't even know him. Below is just a short list of the things I have learned about this stranger to whom I find myself married:

1. I didn't know about the ear wiggling.
2. I didn't know that he wasn't just a wonderful man, but he was marked with more grace that I could even imagine, which overwhelms me daily and points me to Christ.
3. I didn't know he prefers red wine to white.
4. I didn't know that he would learn my favorite song of the week and surprise me by playing it on the guitar while I unpack groceries.
5. I didn't know that his snack of choice is chips and salsa and that he is more than capable of polishing off a full bag of chips in a sitting, but in all his generosity, will hand feed me chips if I'm letting my newly manicured nails dry.
6. I didn't know that he'd stay up with me far past bedtime so I could finish the scary book I was reading.
7. I didn't know the exact shade of his eyes, and how they change from green to brown to hazel depending on his shirt, the weather, and the position of Mercury relative to Venus.
8. I didn't know that even if he's asleep, he'll answer my questions but won't recall the conversation the next morning.
9. I didn't know that Cinnamon Toast Crunch was his favorite cereal.
10. I didn't know that I would find post-it love notes stuck to my computer screen.
11. I didn't know that I would be fully, 100% supported in whatever silly venture I decided to be interested in that month.
12. I didn't know that he was neater than me, that he would make the bed when he comes home from work because I fail to do so every morning, that he likes his drawers organized, that he will gently scold me for not turning my clothes right side out before throwing them into the hamper.
13. I didn't know he would plan and work and plan some more to give us the best possible future.
14. I didn't know that I would find lint in his belly button far too often.

Matthew David Phillips, man of mystery, I love you.

nessie the homestead

Here's the thing about the word condo.

I hate it.

It conjures up images of dated high rises by a north Florida beach with weird carpets, mismatched spoons, and rowdy spring breaking neighbors. It makes me think of Michael Scott running through the sliding glass door because he thought he heard an ice cream truck, the candle company, and Jan throwing a Dundie at Michael's flat screen (that wasn't even a great episode. Why do I have it memorized?). It makes me think of bachelors and loneliness and cheap appliances.

Not to mention it's one letter short of another word I'd rather not accidentally say when talking about our home to, say, my boss.

So what to do but to christen our 809 square feet of real estate with a new, more suiting name: Nessie. According to Google, Nessie is a nickname for Agnes, meaning lamb. Isn't that sweet? Who doesn't like lambs? But, of course, as Matt so quickly reminded me, Nessie is also a giant Scottish lake monster. Oh so she has a dark side?? I love the name even more.

A little bit about Nessie:

• She is small cozy. Our previous apartment, dubbed Ferdinanda as of now, had one fewer bedroom but 24 more square feet. As my father so astutely stated, we're a little young to be downsizing, but I am an old soul. (Sorry about what Dewey did to your carpets, Ferdinanda...I hope you'll forgive us)
• Her floors and ceilings sag. Her front door had to be specially cut to accommodate the sloping frame. There are cracks along the crown molding. Nothing meets at a 90 degree angle and our side tables wobble. It's okay, old girl. There is so much beauty and wisdom in your age.
• She SHINES. From about 7 am until 7 pm, her 10 windows pour in the most gorgeous sunlight you've ever seen. I love how the light in each room changes throughout the day...going from a soft buttery yellow to crystal bright to a warm gold. Until we got the shower curtain up, you couldn't go in bathroom because the way the light bounced off the white tiles on the wall was blinding. 
• The kitchen is my dreams incarnate, my hopes manifested, my favorite place in the world. Nessie's cabinets are deep, functional, and beautiful. Walking in there, you can feel the care and thought put into the placement and design of each one. Wild props to the previous owner. You done good.
• She bestows a sense of home and security on anyone who walks through her (crooked) door. It is not unlike being small and wrapped up in a hug by your granddad. I'm not kidding. Come over and you'll feel it.
• She is such a blessing. We can't believe we (/the bank) own a home!

This past week, while I've lied awake at night, I think about all the seasons of life that will happen within Nessie's walls.

Currently, as newly weds, where we will learn (sometimes the hard way) about grace and patience and forgiveness and love; where change seems to be a constant and I'm just itching to put down roots and be established already; where everyday is new.

Next, when we have our rhythms set and we've settled into who we are as man and wife and grow closer everyday; when we travel places and have pictures on the walls; where we have matching monogrammed slippers next to our bed (this may be a pipe dream).

And the season after that, where (hopefully, let it BE Lord) our family grows; where our world shifts and the office becomes a nursery; where I get to hear Matt sing quiet little songs to a sleepy baby.

Nessie, we promise to be kind to you. To take care of your cracks, polish your doorknobs, and try not to stomp too hard on your floors. Thank you for your built-ins and windows. For your charm and gas appliances. For being ours.

BEGIN

Pictures are for remembering. They're for grabbing a moment in time and immortalizing it on a shiny piece of paper, in a camera roll on an iphone or in a flickr account. Little pieces of stolen time, frozen forever, never changing. Pictures bring us back to a specific moment, when time and space has removed us from the original circumstances, and allow us, for just a second, to be back on that gray ikea couch with that wiggly kitten. 

But our memory of that moment is so limited to what we can see. When I look back on this picture in ten, five, or even one year, I won't remember how I went to the doctor that morning, then worked from home the rest of the day. I won't remember the lunch I ate with Ellie (La Fonda salad) or the TV show we watched (Virgin Territories, not our best moment). Distance will fade the memory to only what is visible. Me, on a cheap couch, trying to look trendier than I am, feeding my need to mother by holding a kitten like a baby.