Friends

The last six months have been Jake and me taking time to re-identify ourselves as married. It's time-consuming, getting used to that new identity. Time-consuming and wonderful; like Song of Songs, we have spent time talking to each other, admiring each other, knowing each other better and better! And, like in Song of Songs, we have had the approval and blessing of our friends.

Those little interludes where the friends say kind things, they're important to me. Our needs will change and shift outward again in due time, and the many thank you notes I write will be forgotten. But there is this overall sweetness to your blessing. I hope our union grows that care and affection. 

Lines for Some of You

Here are disembodied lines I'd like to tell some beloved people, none of whom are likely to ever read this. Though I'll tell you, the first one is for Jake.

"I love you more and more. I want that love to uproot the many fears I have, so I'm constantly entrusting you to Christ."

"I am not sure I ever knew the real you, but I miss you terribly."

"Please, please, put the phone down and talk to me."

"Thank you for the money."

"Are you okay? What do you want from me? I at least want to know, even if I can't do anything about it."

"Forgiving you for what you have done feels like admitting that what I knew about morality and good behavior was not applicable to you. But I also know the truth is ten times more complicated than the version in my head. So I re-forgive you, and ask myself the quarterly question: is it time to call?"

Parables of Ivy

I regret not attacking the ivy sooner.
The roses would have thanked me
because maybe they would have bloomed at all.

It was half ignorance—ivy is pretty enough—
and half negligence as it spread greedily over
everything, cutting all off from the sun.

This afternoon found me ruthlessly pulling
and pulling in the dirt, each time grabbing
stemmy, networked vines all holding onto the earth with many hands.

As I neared the fence, I found a thick root that corkscrewed
deep into the ground at a difficult angle to reach,
for the fence, as I said, was nearly on top of it.

As I worked at it with fork and trowel
many metaphors struck me, all about sin
and how it grows unchecked: demanding hedgemony.

I couldn't get to the bottom of the root.
I knew my constraints would not allow it,
not today, probably not ever.

The tattered ends I could not see would eat and grow.
Perhaps ivy is sin.

Shall we now abandon that line and turn our thoughts to love?

If the ivy is love, then all you have invested in your child's life,
all the relationships you cared about, no matter how they ended,
all the smiles, money, agreements, promises that have been broken off
and you now no longer see,
have a root so deep that earthly instruments cannot remove it.

A few seasons from now will prove that love is no fragile flower bud.
You may not be there to see it.
But there it will be, growing.

Nightmare

I had a nightmare on Saturday night. It was about our wedding this coming weekend. (CAN YOU BELIEVE IT'S THIS WEEKEND!?!)

Everyone was seated around their tables at the reception that was taking place in a gymnasium that somehow resembled the throne room of the Red Keep. And it was entirely silent, because literally everyone was on their phones, scrolling and being bored. When some time had elapsed, I slid my legs from the armrest of my chair in a casual manner, and expressed to my new husband (Still Jake. I guess even my imagination has limits as to whom I can fictionally marry.) "I guess we can go now, right?" So we left the throne room gym full of guests not having fun and not interacting at all. It was terrible.

Things You Can Do in the U.S.

I can turn on a dishwasher, a clothes washer, and a dehumidifier to be sure that work in my home is being done by machines while I leave the house.

I can go to the mall in search of something called "shapewear" in my size.

I can go there wearing "athleisurewear," meaning basically long, stretchy underpants and a top with no sleeves that reveals a colorful bra.

If my hair is wet from a recent shower, that's also okay.

Being Not Catholic

Jake's best friend, we'll call him Michael, had recently returned to habitually attending Catholic mass.

A few weeks ago, Michael and I were both at Jake's family's house for Jake's birthday weekend. It was a time of playing a few games and cooking a lot of food. But we made time to go to mass with Michael, since it was such an important habit, and since there was a Catholic church one block away. We walked there in the drizzle and took seats in a pew by ourselves.

Sidenote: Okay, seriously, it's getting out of hand, churches everywhere, when you are referencing a hymnal, a hymnal supplement, a pewback card, the bulletin, the bulletin insert, and general liturgical knowledge. It's a lot. It's hard. I never thought I'd say this, but it may be time to consider PowerPoint.

Thirty minutes in saw us dutifully fulfilling expectations of the liturgy, attempting to keep up with the responses to the calls and the lyrics to the hymns. We did forget to bring offering, so the basket passed us by. The homily was about the table of God. At the table of God there is "room for everyone. Jews, Hindus, Atheists! There is room," Father Maugham said. This explicit invitation to the table of God convinced Jake that taking the Eucharist would be acceptable, when the time came. I was tuned out, to be honest, and when a churchman in a suit stepped into our pew and tapped me on the shoulder, I felt caught red-handed, absent-minded. He beckoned to us three to come along. He whispered something about "offering," and I wondered if he knew we had not given to the offering. We stumbled out of the pew, I still grasping a hymnal, hoping against hope that it counted as "offering."

We were stopped at a tiny table in the aisle where the elements and a book were sitting. The man in the suit handed each of us one of the items from the table. I was perplexed, afraid, "I... am not Catholic, and I don't understand what's going on," I whispered frantically, for I did not know what I was saying. Luckily, Michael is actually Catholic, and he led the way up the aisle to the waiting Father Maugham, who took each element in its turn, and dismissed us to our seats.

I thought the worst was over. I let the spasms die down within, and enjoyed the dismissing of the rows, one by one, who gathered in two straight lines to receive the Eucharist. I had decided early on that I would receive the body and blood of Christ with any Christians, regardless of smaller differences. So I waited in line, noting how each believer held their hands out, one on top of the other, to receive the wafer. When it was my turn, who should be standing in front of me, dispensing Christ's body one wafer at a time, but the churchman in the suit, who had heard my panicky confession of not being a Catholic. He could not unhear it. Though my hands were outstretched, he whispered, "didn't you say you're not Catholic?"

"Yes," I whispered earnestly, "but I'm a Christian."

"Just hold your hands like this, for a blessing," he instructed. And I crossed my arms, like he said, but I don't remember his giving me a blessing right then. Maybe he had forgotten what words to say. So I turned back to my seat with a red face, fiercely angry at myself for having tried, at the churchman for having asked a stranger to complete the office of altarserver. The anger didn't last long, though, because it was supplanted with admiration for his obedience. He was obeying the rules, even when they made him squirm, not just when it was comfortable.

Bucking Tradition

Because rings seem to me to have a tradition of ownership behind them, when Jake and I started talking about getting engaged, I bulked at the idea of a ring. He was delighted not to have to spend several paychecks (as modern tradition tells it) on a piece of jewelry. So we skipped the ring. 

To be clear, I took and take no issue with a financial declaration of intent, a gift of engagement. In Amish and or other plain communities, a sewing machine or other household item seals the deal perfectly well. I am not that useful of a person. We thought together about what kind of gift we both might enjoy, and I got stuck on the idea of a painting for our home together. 

Looking back at these conversations, I can tell he admired my idea, but it's difficult to tell how much of his heart is in the idea of a painting in general. I researched what I liked, gave links and recommendations of artists' work I liked, but Jake's sister, Hannah, does beautiful watercolor work. Why leave home? We asked her and she agreed to paint us an engagement landscape to be commonly enjoyed. 

Jake asked me to marry him in another blogpost, someday maybe, and I said yes. I am sure I cried, though I can't remember. I just remember being happy, and wanting to pick up rocks and flower petals and leaves to commemorate the moment. 

We began to announce our engagement. (Reader, I'm going to marry him!) In lieu of pictures of us with my left hand proudly pronounced, we just called people and enjoyed bits of conversation. I still appreciate that simplicity of announcement, because it was real and close with nothing fancy happening at all. 

I slept easily, I assure you, after we made the no-ring decision. What a magnanimous, forward-thinking gift maven I have become, I congratulated myself in the car mirror every morning for a week or two. But then, after we were officially engaged, did I look in the car mirror, did I fix a hair, and did my eye linger on my left hand? Far be it from me! 

One morning, at breakfast, I confessed my ringlessness to Rachel. I couldn't believe it mattered. I had no need of Jake to mark his territory (Yeah! And when I say it like that, rings are insulting!)! 

"Or have I been wrong?" I asked. "It seems to me that it would be nice to have a marker of a change in my life, especially when we're still living so far apart."

"... You could just buy a silver ring from Walmart for $15 and stop thinking about it!" Her suggestion seemed like a cheat of the system. Does it count as an engagement ring if it's not expensive? Of course! Does it count if I buy it for myself and give it to myself and don't tell Jake? Uh. Sure!

I bought a $15 ring I liked, and told Jake about it, blushing at my own inconsistency, my admittance of being indeed just as basic as I feared to be. He felt betrayed: "I thought we agreed you didn't want a ring? If you do want a ring, I want to give it to you." Later that week, when we saw each other again, I took off the ring, handed it to him, he presented it to me, and again asked if I'd marry him. I cried again and said yes again, and wear the ring quite happily.

(Yes, we're still getting the painting done.)