My husband still knows how to have fun. He's a grown man who knows how to let go of the uptightness that adulthood brings and tap into the childlike freedom of silliness. Eight years into this marriage, I am learning to love this.
Change is a series of hundreds of small daily choices. Success or failure does not rest on one or some but on the collective whole. I choose new.
I couldn't let go. I was 20 feet up on a climbing wall - the first one I've ever tried - and I was completely frozen. Fear screamed at me not to let go. The longer I stayed there, trying to let go, the more my fear grew.
We are in the midst of a relational Harvey-sized disaster, devastating our fragile construction of a marriage. We’re both being broken apart. Stripped down and laid bare. And it is terribly painful. But there is hope.
My entire life, God has been there, in the background - in the shadow of the monument I've built to my marriage, patiently and politely waiting for me to acknowledge Him.
They weren't panhandling. They weren't holding signs or looking for handouts. They were just there, standing in the middle of an abandoned lot near a Subway. And as Cara put voice to my thoughts, I suspected that God was speaking to my daughter in that moment.
Facebook has officially made Valentines Day my least favorite day of the year. Before I was married, I always assumed I disliked the day because I was single. I assumed when I was no longer single, I'd like it. I was so, so wrong.
She talked about the messiness of marriage in a way that I deeply connected with. She never shied away from the hard stuff. But she always did that in the context of why her marriage - and marriage in general - is worth the fight. Or maybe that's just what I took away from it. Anyway, always until now.