Once Upon a Plane (Motion Sick)

I love to fly, but I have a little problem: Motion sickness. So to distract myself when the plane gets bumpy, I look around and ponder strange things. For example:

How come, when you dig through the seat back pocket in front of you, the LAST thing you find is the motion sickness bag? 
(If you find it at all.) Do they want queasy flyers to spew all over the latest edition of Sky Mall, instead? Granted, I could write a whole blog post on the ridiculous items offered in Sky Mall, but that's for another day.

How come the one time I actually puked on a plane, my seat back pocket didn't have a bag?

How come one side of the bag says something like, "I got sick to my stomach and left you a less-than-pleasant present inside" . . . while the other side says, "I'll be back." Seriously? If I wanted to exit the plane on a layover and return to the same seat, why would I reserve it with a bag of regurgitated ginger ale and Biscoff cookies? (No doubt that would be an effective way to keep anyone from stealing my seat, though. I mean, Biscoff cookies are great, but most people don't want to eat them secondhand.)

OK, enough of the motion sickness ponderings . . . after all, the point is to distract myself.

How come even short people like me feel cramped on a plane? How do tall people deal with the severe lack of leg room?

Have you ever been freezing on a plane while the person next to you blasts cold air, or vice-versa? Why don't they make a section for chilly people and a section for overly-warm people?

In fact, why don't they make a section for short people and a section for tall people, a narrow section for super-skinny people and a wider section for soft, huggable people?

Oh, wait. I suppose that would be politically incorrect. After all, pro football players would probably get put in the wider section . . . and we know how emotionally fragile they are (according to last season's new NFL rules).

But could we at least get better padding in the seats? I mean, I have a well-padded derrière and all, but it goes numb within the first 45 minutes of the flight!

Anyway, I think it's time to look out the window as we descend toward our destination . . .

Hmmm . . . If you want to discourage thieves, don't use an LED spotlight in your yard. "LED floodlight" is an oxymoron: It actually lights up just enough area to show burglars where your house is . . . not to reveal that they're stealing you blind.

Speaking of LED lights, the blue and green ones give off a distinctly alien or zombie-like glow that will make those creatures feel right at home during the "coming" Alien Invasion  or Zombie Apocalypse.

Whew! The plane has finally landed, and I've managed not to need the bag from the seat back pocket. So maybe, just maybe . . . I'll be back.

Yankee's Guide to Southern Speak

Any Yankee (non-Southern person) who travels in the South may hear certain phrases and suppose they know the intended meaning. But do they? For example:

1. "How y'all doin' today?" doesn't necessarily mean the inquirer wants to know how you're feeling at the moment. So don't panic at a stranger's seeming interest in your personal life. (I had a great "Yankee" friend in college who was taken aback whenever I asked how she was doing.) This phrase is simply the most common form of greeting in the South. The common response is "fine," and then the conversation may proceed as usual.

2. "What can I get ya, Sugar?" You'll most likely to hear this phrase at Shoney's, O'Charley's or another Southern eating establishment. The waitress, who doesn't know your husband from Jim-Bob, nevertheless addresses him with terms of endearment such as "Honey" or "Sweetie Pie." Don't worry––she's probably not making a pass at your man. That's just how a true Southern waitress talks. She'll probably call you "Sweetie" when she asks if you'd like some more "swait" tea.

3. By the way, "iced tea" is always sweet in the South, unless you ask for un-sweet. If you do, be prepared to have them look at you like you're crazy. Southerners don't understand why people would  want to drink bitter water. But beware––some iced tea is so sweet you could heat it and pour it over pancakes.

4. "Can I get you a coke?" If a Southerner asks if you'd like a coke, they don't mean Coca-Cola. They mean one of the carbonated beverages you call "pop" or "soda" or "soda-pop." So when they ask what kind of coke you'd like, they don't mean regular or diet or caffeine-free. They mean, "Do you want Coke, Dr. Pepper, Sprite, Root Beer, or ____ ?"

5. "I'll just go down yonder a minute, then swing back and hit ya." Don't worry. He's not going to punch you. He's going to leave for a little while, then come back and check with you.

6. "Hi, Miss Julie." Perhaps you're a married lady who's used to being called "Mrs. Smith." Then some Southern chick dares to call you "Miss" and use your first name. She's not trying to insult you. That's just how younger people are supposed to address older people in the South, regardless of marital status. (Again, I've had this happen. My college pastor's wife, who was from a northern state, thought I was being rude when I called her "Miss Rhonda." I meant to be friendly.) 

7. "Yes, sir" or "Yes, ma'am." The person addressing you is not trying to make you feel old. He or she has just been taught to say "sir" or "ma'am" as a term of respect. (When I moved to CO after college, I had a supervisor ask me not to call him "Mr. Tom" or say, "Yes, sir." Took a long time for me to get used to calling older  grown-ups by their first name, without a Mr. or Miss in front of it.)

8. "Bless your heart." When a Southern lady says, "Bless her heart," it may be meant kindly, as in "I'm so sorry she's going through that." But it doesn't always mean the speaker has good feelings toward "her." Loosely translated, "Bless her heart" could also mean, "What a naive person" or "What an idiot!" But of course a lady would never say that in polite company. So "bless her heart" may be a nice way of saying someone's a few dozen watts short of a 40-watt bulb.

What other distinctly Southern phrases have you heard and perhaps wondered at the meaning? Or what other phrases can you translate for those who didn't grow up in the South?

Recognizing "Mr. Right"

I remember when my girl friends and I were about 10 and discussed "the perfect age to get married." Most of the girls decided 19 would be perfect, but I preferred 18 (I like even numbers). Besides, I'd had my husband picked out since I was 5.

Fast forward to when I was 15 . . . the guy of my dreams (who was 5 years older) met and married a girl in college. So that was the end of that.

I went to a Christian college where I half-expected to meet "Mr. Right the Second." He would be tall, mission-minded and incredibly sensitive to my feelings. He would make me feel like the princess I longed to be, though I felt more like Cinderella.

I did meet some great guys in college, and a few of them showed interest in me. One was a red-headed guy named Steve. He was nice, but I didn't feel the same way.

After college I moved to Colorado and was sure Mr. Right the Second would materialize before long. In fact, I was pretty sure I knew who he was. But he didn't seem to see the same signs from God that were so clear to me. He moved away and married someone else.

I was pretty broken-hearted and thought God had forgotten me and my dream--the one I knew He had given me--to be a bride. What was I doing wrong?

Along came two more guys named Steve (a few years apart) who each asked me out. Again, I wasn't interested. Neither fit my list of requirements for a husband.

Then I dated a guy who checked off everything on my list. He was a tall, good-looking Christian who went to church regularly, had a great singing voice, was fiscally responsible . . . But several months into the relationship, I realized something was missing. Where had my joy gone? Why did the thought of a future with this man seem utterly boring? After days of prayer and tears, I ended the relationship . . . and was back at square one.

Now what? I was over 30 and still single, with no "potentials" in sight.

Steve (in green) taught some of "our boys"
how to build a makeshift yet epic raft,
which floated downriver quite nicely!

Enter yet another Steve. He wasn't tall. He couldn't carry a tune in a dump truck. He worked a night shift over the weekends and therefore didn't attend church regularly. 
But he loved God, had a great relationship with his parents, was deeply respected by his close friends. He served others on a weekly basis, pouring into the lives of kids and teens in our community. He told great stories, made me laugh and loved adventure as much (or more) than I did. He got my attention.

Steve's dirt bike in the middle of his bachelor pad.

In May 2011, he posted this photo with the caption:

"I need a wife soon before it's too late."

Months into our deepening friendship, Steve began to relentlessly pursue me. It's a good thing I'd noticed him already, because before I could welcome his pursuit, I'd had to do some soul-searching. Steve wasn't my "ideal." He was 5 years younger than me. Not super tall. Lived in a trailer he didn't keep very clean. Enjoyed a good beer now and then. Played low-stakes poker on guys' nights. Had no desire to serve on the mission field. Wasn't overly sensitive.

But he loved God. He loved others. He loved kids. And he loved me. With those big things in place, I decided I could let go of some of my fairytale dreams and must-haves.

We gave each other snowshoes for a wedding present
and went snowshoeing on our honeymoon.
I love adventures with this man!

I'm so glad I did. Steve is the perfect height for me. He makes me laugh every day. He helps me take life as it comes and not take myself too seriously. He's taught me that it's OK to sometimes spend money for fun things and invite others into our adventures. He's shown me what it's like to not just give to worthy charities, but to give of our time to invest in those around us. He's loved me SO well, every day, and helped me see and believe the value that God places on me.

I'm thankful that my fairytale was "shattered," since my real-life love story is far better than I could have dreamed up for myself!

Adrift

I share this letter, originally written in my journal, in hopes that it will bring some measure of comfort to others who feel alone or adrift on a sea of loss.

God,

As You well know, You created in my womb a baby who is now back in your arms. It's been hard . . . some days much harder than others.

As I told Mom earlier, I've had days when I felt shipwrecked and adrift in a small, dreary boat, bleary-eyed and parched, alone on an open sea.

Boat Adrift, oil painting by Charles Napier Hemy (public domain)

I feel confused and slightly disoriented, because it all happened so fast that I'm not quite sure what happened, exactly.

I just know that a baby--one I already loved and wanted to hold--slipped away before I even met her (or him). So elusive. So mysterious. Almost seems like a bad dream from which I'll eventually wake. 

But it's true. And there's nothing I can do about it.

How are we supposed to handle something that happens to us, that we had no say in, that we wouldn't have chosen?

I don't want to be angry at You, God, for making this decision. After all, I believe You see the bigger picture and know what You're doing. Our baby is safe with You and will not have to struggle through  this messy, heartbreaking world.

But our baby will also never know her terrific, playful daddy who was so excited to have a child. She will never know the wonderful grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who were eager to meet her. Our oldest will never grow up, fall in love, marry and start a family. We'll never know the precious grandchildren this child might have given us.

I know our baby is "in a better place." And the joys of Your presence, God, are said to be greater than every pleasure on earth. But I can't help but wish we'd had a chance to know this little one first.

Would I have chosen to lose our child to heaven at a different time? Surely that would have been no less heart-breaking . . . It probably would have been more so. But why couldn't our oldest live a "normal" life to a "ripe old age"?

I guess I can be happy for our baby to be with You . . . and try to trust that You know best. No doubt there are reasons of which we're not aware, for why You took "our" baby Home so soon. Of course, this child was yours to begin with, so what claim have I?

Oh, but I feel like I do. And like I've been cheated.

What do we do with our loss, our pain? When I compare it to what others have gone through, it seems almost small. Almost. But not really. The fact that another suffers in a way that seems more difficult to me, doesn't mean I haven't suffered, even if I tell myself I shouldn't feel this way.

I want to be brave and strong, joyful and thankful and hopeful. And I have been, many days. But what do I do with a day that sucks, for no particular reason that I can explain? Other than this looming loss that still affects me in ways I'd rather ignore.

What do I do with my sudden bursts of anger over little things that wouldn't normally get to me? What do I do with my shame over how I've treated my husband at times? Over how I blew my car horn long and loud at the people who ambled across a divided highway in front of me this morning?

I know that beneath my seething anger are deeper emotions . . . 

. . . hurt, fear, loneliness.

And confusion.

You gave your Son's life for me, God, and I'm supposed to believe that You love me. I do believe that, in my head. But this doesn't feel like love. It feels like betrayal. Like You decided to hurt me with no good reason that I'm aware of . . . though there probably is one.

I don't understand, God. I'm hurt. I'm angry. 

I feel adrift. And alone.

Please, help me.




After I wrote that letter, I sat still in the coffee shop, listening for God's whispers to my heart. This was His response:


"When you pass through the waters, 
I will be with you;
And through the rivers, 
they will not overflow you.
When you walk through the fire, 
you will not be scorched,
Nor will the flame burn you.
For I am the LORD your God, 
The Holy One of Israel, your Savior. " 
~Isaiah 43:2-3

"You are not alone in the boat. I am with you, and my arms are open for you. Come close, and let Me comfort you. It is not for you to know all the answers in this life. The main thing for you to know right now is that I am with you, that I will never leave you and that my heart and ears and arms are always open to you. Come closer.

"And let Me open your eyes again to all the other little lifeboats around you, carrying others who also feel shipwrecked, who've comforted you and whom you can comfort with the comfort I give you. See my light in each boat? Little lights float around you on this dark sea. You are not alone."

Thank you, Abba.

I Didn't Want to Go to Church Today

As a Christian, I'm supposed to be excited to go to church, right? But when my alarm rudely awakened me this morning, that's the last thing I wanted to do. Exhausted from confusing and conflicting emotions, all I wanted to do was turn off the alarm and go back to sleep.

I had thought I was doing pretty well handling the loss of our first baby (due to miscarriage, a few weeks ago). But on Friday I told someone new about it, and she responded with a kindness and compassion that brought my tears to the surface again.

I had thought I was done crying, at least for now. Sure, I expected grief to hit again when the dates of our planned ultrasounds passed and when my due date arrived. But I didn't realize I had more grieving to do now. I've focused on work and on others and actually felt joy--much more than expected--these past two weeks.

Yet my friend's kind look and understanding words, "That's a huge loss," resonated with me. Yes, it is a huge loss. Thank you, my friend, for acknowledging that. You (and others) have given me permission to feel that loss and face emotions I didn't realize still existed beneath my "doing fine" exterior.

This morning I eventually got up and got ready, and we went to church. We ended up sitting in front of several friends, and I wanted to be OK. But I felt too weak to stand, so I sat. Felt too spent to sing, so I just listened. Pretty soon tears rolled down my cheeks, which embarrassed me.

The way I felt took me back to high school, when my family attended a church more than an hour from home. Since we'd changed churches and I no longer saw most of my friends, my loneliness and depression ran pretty deep. I'd sit there every Sunday morning, feeling like I didn't belong in that place full of smiling people who seemed to have everything together. I knew the darkness of my heart and wondered, What would God want with me?

This morning, the worship leader spoke right to where I was. "God wants our authenticity," he said. "God doesn't want us to just go through the motions, but to come to Him from wherever we are and with whatever we're going through." The leader went back to singing a song with lyrics something like, "With everything I have, I worship You (God)."

At first, I thought I couldn't sing those words. I have nothing to offer You right now, Lord. All I have are these tears and brokenness.

But then I realized that coming to Him with tears and brokenness was enough. "A bruised reed He will not break," (Isaiah 42:3), "and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out."

Sometimes our world gives up on those who are struggling. If someone can't hold it together enough to meet requirements at work, they get fired. If someone shows grief past the time when we expect them to be over it, we back away because we don't know how to respond.

But God is big enough to handle how we're doing--good or bad, angry or accepting, brave or weary--at any time. We don't have to wipe away our tears or square our shoulders or put on a brave front before we go to Him. In fact, He wants us to come to Him "as a little child." And little children don't usually pretend. If they're hurt or upset, they run crying to Mommy or Daddy (as long as they feel safe to do so).

I'm convinced that God wants us to feel safe to run to Him as a little child--with our tears, our anger, our "it's not fair" or "______ is being mean to me." Sure, we might need an attitude adjustment. We might need a nap. We might need to see things from a different perspective. But first we need open arms, a warm hug and an understanding smile from the one who knows us best and loves us most. That's what our heavenly Father stands ready to offer us, and that's why I'm running to Him.

Yes, I sat through church this morning. I didn't sing a word. And I cried more than I have in two weeks. Yes, I went through nearly a dozen tissues and wiped off all my makeup. I looked like a mess, and I felt like one, too.

In fact, I felt far too conspicuous to keep crying in front of people, so I slipped out to the ladies' room and wept in a cold stall for awhile. When I returned to the service, I stood at the back and then sat on the floor. I barely heard a word of the sermon. I know people who saw me must have wondered what was wrong, and I don't know what they thought of my actions. Most of them had no idea what we've been going through, so they probably didn't understand. But God did, and that's enough.

I'm also thankful for a kind pregnant friend who reached out to give me a hug as I stood at the back. She didn't say anything--just gave me a hug--and that was perfect. Another friend asked if I wanted someone to sit with me or needed to be alone. How thoughtful of her! And a third friend sat and talked with me after the service. Others treated me normally afterward, which also meant a lot.

I didn't want to go to church this morning, but I'm glad I did. Not because the people there are perfect (one pastor said a few cheesy things that ticked me off). But because God met me there, where I was, and invited me to spend more time with Him this afternoon. And because a few friends (both long-time ones and fairly new ones) reached out and showed me they care.

I've got a long way to go in this grieving process, and I'm thankful for those who are willing to walk this journey with me. So many have extended kindness and compassion, whether or not they share the same beliefs in God. My heartfelt thanks to each of you.

And to each one who has been through a loss of your own (of spouse, child, parent, other relative or friend) . . . you have my sympathies. Truly, you do.

14 Hints to the Hunter's Wife

A friend suggested I write "14 Hints to the Hunter's Wife." 

I thought that sounded like fun . . . So here goes!

Steve now critiques his form here,
which he's perfected since watching Top Shot.
Incidentally, Top Shot is our favorite show
to watch together, and Steve would love to be on it someday.
Top Shot Dustin Ellermann is one of our heroes, right up there with Chuck Norris!

First, my twist on a Jeff Foxworthy routine:

If your man owns more guns than golf clubs . . .

If he's the proud owner of at least one 4-wheel drive (complete with tow hitch and lift kit)  . . . 

Steve's lifted Jeep on an off-road trip.
This usually gets towed behind his GMC Sierra when hunting.

If his favorite color is camo and his closet is full of it . . .

If he has a drawer stuffed with extra-thick, super-warm, heavy-duty socks . . .

If he's ever worn three or more different patterns of camo at once (and none of it matched) . . .

A small sampling of Steve's camo wardrobe--7 different patterns!

If he wants to work with the Duck Dynasty guys (and look like them) . . .

If he insists on growing out his beard (at least in the fall) . . .

If his favorite season is not winter, spring, summer or fall (it's hunting season) . . .

If he hates reading but could spend hours pouring over Cabela's catalogs and Eastmans' Hunting Journal . . .

On the Cabela's mailing list.
Wishes he had a subscription to Eastmans'.

If he packs more for a weekend hunting trip than teen girls pack for a two-week vacation . . .

If he firmly believes that game meat tastes better than any other form of protein . . .


If he agrees with claims that P.E.T.A. stands for "People Eating Tasty Animals" . . .


If he can't fathom being vegetarian . . .

. . . he might be a hunter!

My hunter with a huge cow elk he shot.

And now for those hints to the hunter's wife:

1. If your man saves vacation time for hunting season, don't feel slighted. Truth is, he needs that time "off the grid" to unwind from life's stresses and pressures, to let his mind relax (even while his senses go on "high alert"), to think things through and to figure things out. Hunting is to him what a hot bubble bath may be to you. Chances are, he'll come home relaxed and happy, regardless of whether or not he was able to fill his tag.

My hunter with his first elk.

2. If your man does fill his tag, be prepared to listen to hunting stories full of adrenaline rushes, difficult stalks over rough terrain, near misses and the perfect shot. You may listen for hours, and you may not understand half of it, and he may repeat the same story a dozen times--but it's important for you to show genuine interest and treat him like the hero and provider he is! If you do, he'll love you for it. 

3. When other wives don't understand why you "let" your husband grow a beard, own deadly weapons and shoot animals, spend hard-earned money on this hobby, hunt for days and come home smelly . . . don't worry about it. You have a manly husband with a healthy hobby that makes him feel alive! He could spend his time, money and passion on less-worthy pursuits. Consider yourself blessed.

The bigger the rabbit, the redder the meat!

4. You're going to be eating game meat, which some people think is disgusting. But keep in mind that the meat your hunter provides meets a lot of those "fancy" terms like hay-fed, organic, free-range and lean. Your man provides top-quality, healthy meat for a good price. (By the way, where you see bunny tracks in the snow and think, "A cute fluffy cottontail was here!" . . . He thinks, "Dinner!")

5. Hunting costs can add up quickly: Firearms, ammo, camo, gear, tags, fuel, food and other supplies . . . Hunting is not a cheap hobby. But as mentioned, it has extra benefits. A happier husband = a happier wife and a happier family. And lots of meat in the freezer means you'll save big bucks on groceries for the next year or more.

This pile of meat is about 2-feet-deep in the freezer
Steve's parents gave us. Of course, there's more in the
inside freezer and more at his parents' house.
Not to mention the meat we gave away.
Ladies, be glad you can't see the deer head under here!

6. If you don't already have an extra freezer, you'll probably need one. One deer will give you dozens of pounds of good meat. An elk? Hundreds. You may find yourself giving gifts of game to friends and family who consider it a real treat. Just ask your hubby to warn you if he plans to use the freezer to store anything other than nicely wrapped, white packages of meat. A deer head, for instance (because he plans to have it mounted). Or deer legs, complete with hooves that stick out of the bag to freak you out (until he can properly dispose of them).

7. Game meat is not only nutritious--it's delicious! And it will taste even better to your man because his blood, sweat and tears went into putting it on the table. Be sure to thank him whenever the family eats it. Yet beware that his chest may expand until he pops a button or two.

8. Not sure what to get your man for a birthday or Christmas? Forget ties, socks or underwear (unless they're camo). Grab a hunting catalog, close your eyes and point.

Your man will like it, no matter what it is, if it comes out of that catalog. Better yet, buy him a gift card to his favorite outdoor store. Then he can spend many happy hunting hours pouring over the options, reading product reviews and deciding just what to get.

9. Think a gift card isn't personal enough? Pick out a T-shirt or hat with large game on it. Even better, personalize the clothing to say something like "Echols Hunting Lodge." Yet be prepared . . . that shirt may give him an idea. Are you ready to run a hunting lodge?

10. Your hubby might think it's hilarious to wear T-shirts that have the potential to traumatize young children. My man has one (from his mom) that features a reindeer and the words "Venison: The Christmas Meat." Beneath the words is an outline of a reindeer labeled with various cuts of meat like "roast" and "tenderloin."

Steve points up the mountain to where
he shot the elk he now pulls (quartered) on a sled.

11. When your man is in pain, he may say things like, "My back straps hurt" or "My roasts are sore." He knows those terms from processing game meat. If your man gets in serious pain and needs to see a physical therapist or doctor, you may need to serve as a cross-cultural interpreter.

12. Your hunter probably hates to dress up. That's because a suit and tie is to him what a straitjacket would be to an active toddler. Prison. If he dresses up for a special occasion, it's because he loves you. (Hint: It's easier to get him to dress up if the suit or vest is camo.) And if he ever skips a day of hunting for a birthday or other family event, it's because he really loves you. Or because he knows you can shoot.

Our wedding day, two years ago.

13. When your hubby comes home from hunting, his beard and chest hair may have grown a full two inches from all that extra testosterone pumping through his veins. Chances are, he'll want a little quality time with his wife. But you'll probably have to insist that he shower first.

Steve teaching me how to shoot. Need to work on my stance.

14. If your man calls a gun "sexy," don't worry. He's not comparing you to the gun and thinking you come up short. But he's a man! He might not feel comfortable putting his affectionate thoughts into words. Fear not, however. You're much nicer to cuddle with than a "sexy" firearm. And if you go target shooting with him, he might even open up and say, "That's hot!"

Yes, your man may spend hours telling hunting stories and pouring over maps (to plan his next hunting trip . . . a year from now). He might want to "decorate" with taxidermy and display a tanned elk hide on the armchair.

Elk hide "Dinner" displayed on the armchair.
Elk hide "Steak" is on the couch.

He may spend big bucks on his hobby and always want more outdoor "toys." But at least he's not wearing skinny jeans and a pink shirt with a purple-striped tie. He's a manly man and he chose you. So go hunt down your hunter husband, kiss him and tell him you're happy he's yours!

Our First Two Years

The thick, fluffy blanket of snow outside reminds me of a certain day almost two years ago. Just such a snow had fallen and threatened to move our wedding from the planned location:
 This historic log church in Green Mountain Falls.

But our wedding day dawned crisp, clear and sunny. While many side roads were still impassible, we decided to go ahead and have our wedding at Church in the Wildwood. Aren't the beams and rafters in this place just beautiful?

Note: All photos by MIO Photography

I'll never forget the drive up the pass that morning. Snow sparkled against a backdrop of winter blue sky, dark red rock formations and stately evergreens. The beauty of the day took my breath away.
What a gift from our Creator!

A couple of hours later, I was married "before God and these witnesses" to the redneck in the camo vest here:

Steve's redneck-edness hasn't changed in the past two years.
In fact, he's become a huge fan of Duck Dynasty and always says, 
"I just wanna go work with those guys!" So it's no surprise that his newest hunting addiction involves ducks.

Anyway, I'm happy to report that the guy who swept me off my feet then still sweeps me off my feet today!

These first two years haven't been without their adjustments, arguments or times when I wanted to go hide in the other room. Poor Steve has gotten the silent treatment more than once, since he is much better at talking through problems, whereas I just want to keep my distance until I figure out what's at the root of it.

Sometimes that's nothing more than the fact that Steve won a number of games in a row and "gloated" about it (he'd say he "was just happy about it") and I'm still learning to take that well.

But Steve has been unendingly patient with me and taught me a lot about communication. (And here I'm the one with the communications degree. Just goes to show that a piece of paper doesn't mean you've mastered the subject--far from it!)

But regardless of the occasional bump in the road of this adventure called marriage, it's been a wonderful ride!
Steve is still the ruggedly handsome and hilarious man I married.

He still has great guy friends who've got his back. 

He still learns from other men and mentors younger ones, 

which makes me want to cheer.

 He still claims that I tried to shove wedding cake up his nose first . . . but look at the photo evidence!

 He's still family-oriented and makes time 

to visit our fun extended families.

 He still loves kiddos and will be a great daddy!

And he's held and comforted me through the loss of our first child to miscarriage this past week.

"Stuncle" still adores his nieces, whom I also adore! 
(Chammyleon, mannequin and kalockalockalocka, girls!)

Steve still makes me feel cherished, every single day.

He still makes me laugh, several times a day!
And he does that while working incredibly hard toward our future goals, mastering both full-time school and part-time work (as a Zamboni driver--how cool is that!). Speaking of school, I have to brag on my President's Honor Roll man!

He still looks at me like this . . . most of the time! 

(Maybe not when I tease him about chipmunks.)

So, after two years of marriage . . . I think I'll keep him.

Steve, thank you for being such an amazing husband . . . 
and my favorite redneck!