To All Of Us With Rings

Photo credit to K. Overson

There's something about watching wedding vows from shiny wooden benches in the sunlight. Grey storm clouds that hung ominously overhead all afternoon, suddenly slipped away, and family and friends straightened in the unexpected heat. The bride, with a cut-out lacy back repeated her "I do" vows in giddy joy, and I watched her fair skin pinken in the hot September sun. The groom in swirled dark hair stared steady at his bride, proud wonder and amazement seeping from him.

A violinist, guitarist and pianist joined several vocalists in the golden grass to our left, and music floated under blue skies. Bride and groom spoke promises to each other, and I leaned into my husband's side, tracing his gold ring on his tanned finger. He turned and glanced at me, smiling softly, brown hair streaked with slight silver now. We kissed gently, and turned back to watch the vows.

There's something about watching wedding vows from shiny wooden benches in the sunlight that raises in me joy, nostalgia, and gratitude, and yet an awareness this weekend of my own brokenness and flaws. The pastor spoke of sacrificial love that was willing to die for a spouse, and yet often our hardest sacrificial choices are the day-to-day smaller ones. I sat in sunlight, a light flashed onto my own discrepancies.

We huddled close that afternoon as twilight fell, the sunlight disappeared, and grey clouds rushed in. Over wedding toasts, bride and groom games, and guest laughter and conversations, the cold crept in. We dug out fleeces and blankets, sharing between friends, and draping ourselves in overly-large jackets to stay warm. Sipping caramel coffee creations and Indian spiced chai's, my man and I sat close, laughing with others, and exchanging glances through the night.

On the car ride home that night, we talked quietly, affirming love for each other, apologizing for our brokenness some days, and leaning in close. "God is bigger than all this, Jen," Mark said, picturing my struggles, his struggles, and everyone's struggles. "He is patient and good."

This morning, he melts chocolate chips into our home-made hot chocolates, and we hug and pray together before I head out the door. We text a few times, intentional and kind, building each other up, and speaking truth into our relationship.

God is bigger than any of our sins or bad habits or attitudes. He is patient with us, forgiving, and good. He is fighting for us, friend. And marriages are worth it.

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience. 

Smoldering Brown Eyes and a Neck that Smells Like Toothpaste

A few weekends ago, I was getting ready to attend a Friday night wedding several hours' drive away. I chose an outfit, combed my hair, and laughed about the incongruity of applying evening make up at 1:30 in the afternoon. (Men, you'll just have to take our word on this.) Realizing my necklace looked tarnished, I remembered a home tip I had heard of applying toothpaste to tarnished metal for a fast shine. 

Minutes later, with goopy blue Colgate gel congealing into the crevices of my necklace, I realized with horror that the home remedy probably meant white tooth paste. Laughing at myself, I submerged the necklace into the sink and tried to wash away the blue. "Look for me at the wedding," I chuckled to myself. "I'll be the one with smoldering brown eyes and a neck that smells of toothpaste!"

Later that night, smelling minty fresh, I watched from a pew as the bride and groom stood before us all and made promises. Their eyes stared deeply into each other's eyes, obviously having faded away from all other sounds and sights, save the words and the promise and the looks that asked, "Really? Just me? You mean this?" 

I sat enraptured by the glimpse into their minds and hearts. There is a vulnerability in a man's and woman's eyes at that point, when they ask, "Really? You mean this? You are promised to me, and I am promising myself to you, and this is a vow before God, before this church full of people." Beautiful, tender, and then they kiss, and the eyes shine out, and the view in their eyes is different, less vulnerable, because the conversation for now has passed, and their attention is turned. 

It strikes me later, after the glistening soap bubbles floated into the night air, amid laughter and spills; and the horse-drawn carriage pulled away, and the reception ended. My God whispers his vows to me, and I so often stare back at him, eyes wide and vulnerable, "Really? Me? Forever?" 

Too often I forget the radiance and the glistening wonder, and still feel like the girl on the pew with the neck that smells like toothpaste, striving instead of resting.

Hi, thanks for stopping by. What has God been talking to you about this week? Can you relate to feeling like the girl on the pew sometimes?