A Better Marriage

This weekend, Clint and I attended our first ever marriage retreat. Funny to think that after 17 years of marriage, this is our first, but there you have it. It was sponsored by our church, and we weren't sure what to expect; in fact, I had to do a bit of dragging and guilting to get him to go. There are so many things he likes to do on weekends, things like hauling firewood and playing with his new lathe bits and (ahem) cleaning the basement. That last is one thing he really, really loves to do. It warms my heart, actually, to see how eagerly he volunteers weekend after weekend to clean the basement. Sometimes, I just have to tell him no, but then the next weekend he commences his begging anew. So then I give in and let him clean it.

Okay, truthfully, the retreat was surprisingly funny and inspirational, even though right now, we're doing what we usually do in the evenings: I'm blogging or reading and he's watching a movie on his computer. But still, there have been moments of wonder--and a few small steps forward in our relationship because of it. Here are some tidbits of wisdom to ponder:

1. In case you didn't already realize it, I will tell you firmly again that women's brains and
men's brains are fundamentally different. They want different things, they speak different languages, and they operate on different settings. Both husband and wife need to realize and recognize these differences.
2. Women need to understand that their husbands, especially after a day's work, want nothing more than to do nothing. They can happily do nothing for hours. If we ask them to do something and give them an option, they will say no. Of course they do not want to do something; they want to do nothing.
3. Men need to understand that their wives don't want huge, extravagant declarations and expressions of love on major holidays. What they really want is frequent, simple acts of kindness. These small acts take just a little time--leaving the husband more time to do nothing when he's finished--and can have tremendous reward.
4. Men should also understand that their wives need and want to talk to them--and to feel like they are being listened to, not just heard. Wives do not air their grievances because they want their husbands to solve them; they just need to air them.
5. Women should understand that their husbands want--more than anything else--for their wives to apreciate them and support their dreams. When your husband shares his dreams with you, you should support him and encourage him, not tell him all the many reasons those dreams can't or won't come true. If your husband isn't sharing his dreams with you, that's a bad sign. It means you've shot him down so many times, he has given up on sharing what is most important to him with you.

It was an inspirational and moving retreat as well because so many of the participants--over one-half, maybe three-quarters?--had been married for more than 50 years. At first, I wondered what they were even doing there. Shouldn't they be teaching us?


But as I sat and talked with them (and thanks, mlive.com, for this great photo!), I realized that inspiration and learning go hand in hand. They may have come to learn something new, for sure. But I think they also came to remember why they got married in the first place, to remember all the joys and struggles they've had, and to remember with others how integral God is in a marriage that lasts. For me, their presence was blessing and inspiration. I don't cry often, but as I listened to Art and Marian (and others) talk about all they have experienced in their many years of marriage, I sensed a love that, precisely because of those joys and struggles, has become strong as stone. They truly are, as Scripture says, no longer two but one flesh. As Clint and I traveled home afterward and talked about what we'd learned, we took one more step toward that oneness that transcends the physical and the emotional levels we have already attained--and moved toward the spiritual, the divine wholeness of marital union. I am so blessed to have been his wife for 17 years already, and I cannot wait to see what God has in store for us in the next 17, and the 17 after that as well.

Rest In Tattered Peace

I remember the day we met. It was crowded in that store, and I was deeply focused. I knew what I wanted; I was tenacious; I was prepared to do some serious business. At first glance, I missed you. You were shy then, hiding behind your big sister, and she's the one I picked up and took into that room. I tried her on. She was TOO BIG. Gleeful, I tossed her aside and pranced out (re-clad for modesty's sake) to find something smaller. That's when I met you. Do you remember?
You fit me like a glove. I hugged you tight and bought you. (I'm talking about a pair of jeans, here, people. That's all: a pair of jeans.)
For three years we were together, and I wore you to so many momentous moments. Shopping trips frenzied enough to bring chaos to a peaceful world. Birthday parties. Dance parties. The glorious, long-anticipated dress-down Fridays at school.
And remember that one day? The day Ilona told you my $#@ looked nice in you? Yeah. I remember that too. Probably why I wore you so often because she was RIGHT. I did look good.
Alas, I knew the end was at hand. The signs were all there: the worn spot high on my left thigh where the pocket lining was beginning to wear through. The long tangled frayed hem that tickled the tops of my bare feet and dragged behind me. The thin thin knees. I shouldn't have worn you so much; I shouldn't have loved you so much.
And then last night the inevitable happened. I don't know why I was so careless, but as I bent my knee and leaned down into my seat on the couch, I felt the split. I felt you tear at the knee, and that's when I knew you had given up the ghost.
For in the world of Kirstin's propriety, a 34 and a half year old woman is too old for torn jeans. At least this 34.5 year old woman is.
So it is with great sadness that I lay you, my favorite pair of jeans, aside. I will wear you no longer. And if I can bypass my hesitance to desecrate your substance, I may cut you apart and use the pieces for craft projects. Is that heartless of me? Or is it what you would have wanted?

Finding Joy

If I had a dollar for every time someone has told me how calm I am, I'd stop shopping the clearance racks at Gap and sighing as I replace anything with a tag over 19.99. I'd be wearing stuff that's BRAND NEW! JUST IN! Everybody's gotta have it. Full price queen. The girl all the salespeople want to help. That would be me.
But nope, no dollars poking out of my back pocket for my calmness factor. Instead, as I'm sitting here ruminating on my day, I have begun to think that I might like to trade up all my calmness for a little joy. Because I really want to feel joy, and I have a suspicion the calmness gets in joy's way. I have this suspicion that my level feelings are a hindrance to the necessary high that lets joy flood in. I want something to be really excited about, even if it's nothing that exciting, and I want to feel that joy in anticipation swelling up in my throat like a bright yellow balloon, swelling so large it reflects a bit of its shine onto my face. And when I am in the moment, when the anticipation is done and the good thing is happening now, I want to feel the electric rush of joy jangling its way down my nerves, all the way down to my fingers, toes, to the ridges and hollows of my ears, to the ends of each hair.
Is this an impossible wish? We wrote about emotions today in one of my English classes, and I shared my desire for joy with my students. One of them suggested that those who feel joy best are children. So they suggested I should throw off the heavy mantle of adulthood (my words, here, not theirs) and do something really crazy, let myself find my inner child. They suggested taking my life into my hands, risking death. I'm sure they were imagining me bungee jumping, cliff diving, hot rodding, riding a bronco.
I'm thinking that maybe I don't need to get quite that close to Death--I don't need to see the whites of his eyes to find my joy. But going back to childhood and throwing off my adult self: now that's an idea.
So for the rest of this evening, as I'm getting ready for bed, I'm going to think about where I might be a little less staid and a little more silly. Somewhere in that middle ground, I'm hoping a pocket of joy might be waiting for me.

Beware the tall dark

I don't know exactly what I was thinking. I'm good at many things, but making a snap decision whilst in the midst of a group of friends is not one of them. And when the nice waitress asked me what I wanted to drink at the CHURCH committee meeting I just returned home from, I asked for a beer. Not a big deal. I figured, we were in a restaurant/bar, and I didn't need dinner (had just eaten), and I'm a LUTHERAN for Pete's sake, so a beer was a logical choice. I guess I would have preferred a glass of water, but that sounded too cheap. It IS too cheap.
And she asked me if I wanted a tall. Now in coffee shop lingo, a tall is the smallest size! Maybe I was thinking of that--yeah, I can use that as my excuse for the beer I got.
I am telling you no lie: this tall Leiny was ENORMOUS. I'm thinking the glass was at least 16 inches tall, and it was full to the brim with rich, smooth, creamy dark beer. And of course, as a product of my clean-your-plate upbringing, I had to drink (nearly) the whole thing.
Let's just say it was an interesting meeting, and by the end, I was feeling very friendly. And desperately in need of a bathroom. And somehow, I seem to have volunteered to make a giant calendar to hang in the narthex and call a bunch of people. Again. For the second time in a week. But right now, I'm feeling pretty mellow--not really tipsy at all. But mellow, certainly.
Clint would have known better than to order a TALL beer. He chided me when I told him about it a few minutes ago. Maybe I should drag him along to the next meeting, just to help me order.

Finding My Strength

Today I met a good friend for coffee, and amidst our talk about Christmas and kids and teacherly things, she told me something that really made me think.
She said she's been reading this book by Marcus Buckingham about finding your strengths. According to the book, so many of us focus on our weaknesses and try to work on them instead of focusing on our strengths and building them. Seems silly, right? But how many times have I looked in the mirror and seen the new red spot that will probably erupt into a pimple instead of my cute round cheeks? When I look at my hair, why do I see the gray hairs instead of the blondish--okay, mostly brown hairs? When I listen to myself sing, why do I focus on the missed notes intead of all the good ones?
And I know I do this when I grade students' papers: I write maybe one sentence or even just half a sentence about what the student did well on his or her paper, and then I spend the next four sentences dissecting his or her mistakes. Why do we do this?
My friend said the book claims that if we dwell on our strengths and praise ourselves for what we do well--and if we try to do MORE of those things we're good at, we'll be well--physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally.
So what are you good at? What am I good at? How can we improve ourselves by focusing on our strenghts. Good thoughts for New Year's Eve-Eve.

Merry Christmas!

So I'm not a bah humbug sort of girl at all, not even close. I love Christmas, love spending time with family and eating good food. It's just that right now, all the kids are watching a movie, all the last minute cookie decorating has been done (Swedish Cremes and Hedgehog Truffles and Baked Pecan Truffles, in case you're curious), and most of the adults are working on a puzzle.
Of course, since I've started typing, the quiet has shattered and Sam has a poopy diaper and he doesn't want to get changed; the puzzle has been completed and the puzzlers dispersed; judging by the noise of children, I'm guessing the movie's finished; and Gretchen's playing piano and singing. Clint's standing next to the computer desk, tapping. I think he wants to get on the internet.
The presents have all been unwrapped and the paper cleaned up. It feels like Christmas is done. And here's my big admission: sometimes I feel like the holidays are not so fun. I like parts of the season. I like sitting in my living room in the evening with all the lights off except for those on the Christmas tree. I like singing "Silent Night" at the Christmas Eve service, especially the verse we usually sing a capella, when everyone is holding a candle and the lights are dim. I like--no I LOVE cookies and candy. I like watching my kids open presents.
But it's like the feeling you get when you spend a long, dedicated time in the kitchen making dinner, and you set the table beautifully, and then the meal is done in twenty minutes. I have spent maybe four to six weeks preparing for this one day, and now it's almost over. Is there some place where people spread gift giving out over a period of time? I'm not talking about in-law and step-family Christmas celebrations. I'm just saying (and maybe it's because Jared is two and a half and he's really INTO presents) that it felt a little frenzied, and the meal was good and all, but now it's over and all I am is tired.
Not a great way to end a post, but I'm too lethargic to think of anything else to say. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Killing the Zombie in Me

I was shopping around again on Curly Girl and I found this card that made me think. You can look at it here (I can't copy this one) but here's what it says: "The world is full of people who will go their whole lives and not actually live one day. She did not intend on being one of them."
Wow, I thought. I am one of THOSE people. I spend all my free time with my nose in a book. Yeah, it's what I like to do, but I'm not really living.
I was talking to C about it last night and he says he'd been thinking I've been a bit zombie-ish lately. Focused on day-to-day stuff, boring stuff like crumbs on the kitchen floor and ironing and junk like that. Who really cares about crumbs and wrinkles?
What would happen if I just let some of it go? And stopped reading so much? How would I spend my time? What would I do with myself?
I've got to admit, I'm a little afraid to let go. But very very curious.
What should I do first in my adventure of living?