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.