THE EXCEPTION TO THE RULE

...Except for me.

Did you know that there are such things as tonsil stones? Yup. They’re white and gross and stink to high heavens, and like to live it up in the pits and crevices of your teenaged son’s infected throat. And then he has two choices: either he picks them out of his throat himself, every day of his life, or has a surgeon do it for him permanently. 

We chose the latter. Thus, a tonsillectomy was scheduled.

Of course, everybody we mentioned this to had a horror story. Not one person had a joyful experience, or knew of anyone who hadn’t answered the door to Death, and slammed it closed, just in time.

“I knew a girl that went riding her four wheeler, like a week after her surgery, and nearly bled to death out on the desert terrain.”

“I knew a guy who died a couple of days later. He just told his wife he didn’t feel well and had to lie down, and bam. Dead.”

Even I joined in, whispering ominously, “I remember a girl who had her tonsils out right before she got married. And then the night before her wedding, she started to hemorrhage with the beat of her heart.” Followed by a thumb drag across my neck and cryptic nod.

But in the end, we dismissed all of the warnings with a wave of our hand and a mocking eyeball roll, because we knew we were different. 

Day 1—FANTASTIC! Hardly even noticed he’d had surgery.

Day 2—Even better than day one! Keepin’ up on the pain killers and life is a bowl of ice cream.

Day 3—Whoa. Ouch. Little bit of blood.

Day 4—FULL BLOWN HEMORRHAGING AND CLOT THE SIZE OF A SOFTBALL RESTRICTING AIRFLOW! RUSH TO THE ER, GET DOCTOR OUT OF SURGERY AND CHEMICAL CAUTERIZATION FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR!

As we sat there in the emergency room, watching the surgeon pull chunks of coagulated blood out of our son’s throat, we had to face the reality: Seems we are not different. As much as we’d like to think we’re the exception, about 99% of the time, we’re the rule.

This made me think of some other times I’ve thought I was immune. 

“I’m pretty sure I can eat a five pound bag of Hot Tamales (every day of my life) and look good in a swimming suit.”

“I do my best work under pressure.”

“If I ignore the problem, it will solve itself.”

Turns out the actual real world application of eating Hot Tamales is your gut gets fat. And so does your back and your bum and your chins and your earlobes. Then you become a liability to that lycra, and the swimsuit would rather not be seen with you.

Also, let’s be honest—NOBODY does their best work under pressure...except for mothers giving birth and coal. And coal is not a person.

Then that last one about ignoring the problem, expecting it to go away? Yeah, no. It doesn’t. Like a blemish turns to a boil, it gets bigger and more devastating. Recently, I had an impression that my child, who had just arrived home, had been out doing something he was warned not to do. So I laid in bed and argued with myself. 

“Stupid kid. I’m not going to talk to him. He knows it’s wrong. And he’s grown. And he’s stupid. Stupid kid.” 

“Sorry, but you have to. You’re his mom. Moms have to save stupid kids from themselves until they can find a wife to pawn him off on. Just save us the trouble and get up.”

Back and forth we went, until finally, I dragged my weary head out of bed and confronted the stupid kid. And just like I thought, he WAS doing something wrong, but he was convinced he was the exception, not the rule, so no harm would come to him. Sound familiar? Fortunately, his father and I popped that zit before it got out of hand, and I just know he’ll thank us...later on.

Well, anyway, I guess we’d all rather make the rules than follow them, bless our hearts. And sure, maybe 99% of the time we are the rule, but there’s always that elusive 1% roaming around out there...and I think it has my name on it.  

CHEESIE WEEDS

I credit my svelte childhood figure to a steady diet of Cheesies (belly buttons). You could probably say the same thing—

SNIFF A DITCH

I decided to get some exercise the other day. Pulled on my pink hoodie, threw on a pair of ugly tennis shoes and opened my heart and nostrils along with the front door to embrace the sweet spirit of spring.

About three houses down, I threw out my hip. But because I’d fortified myself with a couple sleeves of Thin Mint cookies, I shook it off and kept on keeping on. Why? Because a spring day such as this called for some ditch sniffing. Which is how I discovered a terrible tragedy, you guys: The ditches are gone.

Seriously. They’re gone. The ditches are gone. The six foot wide, six foot deep, open mouthed, running water, spider infested attractive nuisances that used to line every country road (and have been mentioned before in my column) are...gone.

Now I don’t know why for sure, but I suspect they killed one child too many, as every one of us, from the beginning of time, were known to be found in them often, either walking or floating or wading through the brown sludge to pick up and carry home a diseased carcass of some sort or another.

So okay, yes. Maybe in covering them up a few lives were saved, which some people might call progress, and that’s fine, I guess—if you like that sort of thing. But as I walked along, missing the ditches, I couldn’t help but recall when sidewalks were scarce, cheesies were food, and every stretch of road was a pathway for cattails and irrigation.

Which leads me to ask: How in the WORLD does every child born have an innate knowledge that cheesie weeds are edible? I’m pretty sure I heard the siren song of the cheesie in my crib. Then when I was old enough to grab my own Cool Whip bowl, I went foraging. To find a sizable clump meant a feast would be held, and I screamed and yelled for my friends to, “COME HELP PEEL THE CHEESIES!” Somebody could always be counted on to supply the Otter Pops, and after the meal, we all returned home, coughing on Otter Pop syrup, with a belly full of weed buttons.

Back then, very few of us qualified to ride the bus, so we spent eternity walking to and from school. One thing that made it bearable was coming upon somebody’s flooded yard. We didn't know this phenomenon was connected to farming or water turns. We just knew we got to stop, splash and jump until the grass turned to mud. I would imagine there were many lawns completely destroyed by the pitter patter STOMP of little feet.

We loved collecting pods, especially those most noxious, and pulling them apart to let the innards explode in a giant puff of seedlings. We had no idea until we were grown ups that we were responsible for the fields of dandelions that colored the landscape and tormented our parents.

Well, anyway, as I said, the ditches are gone. Which means a fair amount of my childhood was buried in the dirt with the pipes. But as long as there are cheesies to peel and dandelions to curse, we can rest our blessed hearts, knowing that the things that matter are still okay.

        Now excuse me while I get my Cool Whip bowl, cuz I see a really nice patch over there...

NO, THAT IS NOT ALLOWED!

This week's article in the paper received a little "What the H?" editing, losing a couple of imperative paragraphs for the sake of space. So here it is as it was intended to be. And yes, my husband really did give me permission to speak of this episode...after a wee bit of cajoling:

“SHOT THROUGH THE HAND, AND YOU’RE TO BLAME—” I’m pretty sure that’s how it goes. In my home, anyway. You see, a few days ago, my husband was reassembling one of his guns and accidentally shot himself in the hand. And I don’t like to look for conspiracies, but it just so happened to coincide with the week he was supposed to be collecting for Friends of Scouting. Coincidence—or perfectly orchestrated? You be the judge.

Now I know what you’re all thinking—“Seriously? So like, is that allowed?” 

But before you go flying off to the bullet store, let me assure you that no, that is NOT allowed. You still have to collect. And if, in fact, you DO drive a bullet into the wall of your own house—for WHATEVER reason—you had cuss well better make sure it goes through your own hand first, because this will shock the nurturing side of your wife into action. And then her hysterical outrage will be slightly tempered, because she will feel sorry for you. But she will still be angry. Because she WARNED you!

Now I’m pretty sure that I have never made a mistake, which is why it’s so easy for me to point out yours. And even easier to spy my own children’s.

Just recently my daughter received access to Facebook, and was given strict parental and sibling guidelines: “No duck face. No bathroom mirror shots. And no cryptic status updates.”

She crossed her heart and hoped to die, then went directly into the bathroom, and proceeded to break every commandment before the lock even clicked. But she couldn’t help herself. Because she’s twelve. 

  One day, we were all lamenting her lack of social media inhibitions, and decided to look up the beginnings of our own status updates to self-righteously prove that we were never like that. 

“See? Look at this. Here’s what I wrote back in...ummm....wait, let’s try...here’s one that...no...that’s not...just a sec...holyyyyyy...you know what, never mind. HEY! WHO WANTS PIE FOR DINNER?”

But it was too late. For all of us. Because the duck face, mirror shot, cryptic status proof was right there on our timelines for all the world to see. And we were condemned, because we were NOT twelve.

Recently, I was talking with my mom and sister about times that we wish we could forget. Days of being loud and proud about things which should have been spoken of in hushed tones. 

My mother told me of when she and my dad were first married, and her mother-in-law gifted them with a piano to put in their home, because my dad was a wonderful pianist and loved to play. 

Well, Mom was very aware that the old mirrored upright didn’t “go” with her new gold velvet couch. Thus, rather than let people think she had questionable taste, she did what any dingbat newlywed would do—she put the piano out in the garage and never spoke of it again.

This reminded Kara about early in her marriage, when some family members were moving a piano into her new home. They stood at the door, sweating profusely and coughing up blood, eager to be let in so they could complete the job. But she came out with her finger to her lips, whispering that her baby was still napping, and could they maybe wait there until he woke up? 

Then I told about when Sterling and I were moving into our first apartment, and we tore in and out of the driveway going a minimum of 45 mph. Our new neighbors asked us to slow down a little bit, so as not to kill their children. And we thought they were SO DUMB, because we didn’t HAVE any children of our own, so why should we VALUE them? 

On and on went the humiliating stories, until our cheeks were in flames. Then, trying to save a small shred of my dignity, I ended one tale with, “I mean, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t COMPLETELY stupid about how I said it.” 

Unbelieving crickets chirped. 

“Never mind,” I admitted. “I’m not at all sure that I wasn’t completely stupid about how I said it.”

Well, anyway, as I said earlier on, I have never made “a” mistake. Rather, I have made MANY mistakes. 

And as I help bandage my husband’s wound or stand watch on my street, resisting the urge to grab speeding teenagers by their ears and yank them out of their stupid cars so I can drop-kick them into nearby cornfields before they kill all of the children, I truly understand the debt of gratitude which I owe to the merciful, tolerant people in my life.

Benevolent, wise people who, over the years, dismissed my stupidity by blessing my heart, (even if they secretly rolled their eyeballs,) instead of calling me out and doing irreparable harm to our relationship. And this they did, believing that one day, I would DO better, because I  would KNOW better.

Unfortunately  “better” is a very subjective term. ;)

WE NAMED HIM WHITNEY

There have been an awful lot of difficult chapters in many of our lives, lately. Makes me think of the term, "read 'em and weep" a little bit differently.

Our first son was a girl. We named him Whitney, and filled his closet with pastel frocks and patent leather shoes and sticky corn syrup for when it came time to attach bows to his head. We felt secure in our “baby girl” knowledge because we had an ultrasound, and the doctor could tell the gender, but we told him not to tell us because we were above that sort of thing. 

Then we remembered that we weren’t above that sort of thing, so we went home and popped the 10 pixel VHS into our tape player, pressed our noses to the screen and watched the black and white grainy smudges morph into...some kind of indiscernible smear. Which meant IT’S A GIRL!...because a mother just knows these things. (heart pound, eyes closed and reverently pursed lips)

Of course I believed what I wanted to believe for as long as I could, mostly because I wanted to decorate—I mean dress—a baby girl. And since the only options for boy clothing back in the early 90‘s were sweats and more sweats with hippos-driving-monster-truck-appliques, you can’t really blame me for the aspiration.

Right before delivery, my workplace threw me a shower, wherein the southern belle, Etheleen Holt, conspired with my nurse to give me false hope in the form of a darling pink polka dot outfit. Her dimpled smile led me down the primrose path of misconception...all the while, the stem grew on the apple without my knowledge.

We were startled at his birth. My mom ran home to replace the pink rosebuds with blue, we threw a dart at the Baby Names book to settle on Ashton, and I penned a strongly worded letter of reprimand to Etheleen for her intentional bum steer. 

But things have a way of working out okay. Turns out boys are WAY more fun than you might think. All it takes is a teensy pair of 501’s, a red plaid vest and a whispy blond bowl cut, and YOU CAN ROCK THE HECK OUT OF THAT LITTLE BOY SCENE! Which I did. Three times over. And every other boy-mom ate my dust, (she said with humility.)

Well, of course, our lives have a way of taking twists and turns that we never intended. Or wanted. Or deserved. As one friend put it, “I never, ever thought we’d be opening up this chapter.”

Seems that every life is a novel, but many of us—myself included—would prefer them to be a fairytale. Mine would begin, “Once Upon a Time,” and immediately end with, “Happily ever after.” And maybe I’d write a few benign, effortless chapters in between:

Ch. 1—“No goodbyes.” Because I don’t want to experience the death of a loved one or painful parting. I don’t want to breathe the sickening smell of hospitals or divide up assets or friends. It will hurt. I will feel forsaken. I will miss them and dream about them and wake up in the night, sobbing in my sleep.

Then I will start to think of life and love differently. I’ll have greater empathy for other’s sorrow, and I will hold their hand to keep them company as we walk together down a path I already know.

Ch. 2—“Only success.” Because I don’t want to be disappointed in my spouse or children or my own diminishing opportunities. I don’t want to find out they didn’t like me enough to vote for me. I don’t want to stand by while they crown the other girl. It will crush me to see my son lower his head in shame as unrealized expectations hang heavy on his shoulders.

Then I will be compelled to learn. I will forgive and start over and become wise enough not to repeat the same mistakes. And we will climb back up, dust off our spirits and grab each other’s hands as we race back up the hill.

Ch. 3—“I want a baby girl.” Forget about three boys in a row. They’re going to be rowdy, and wrestle and pee on the walls and ceiling. They’re going to be strong willed and try my patience and make me yell and karate kick when they crash into brick mailboxes. They’re going to kiss too many girls and be found in the Principal’s office and make me look like a fool when I profess their innocence. 

Then they’re going to sit in front of the student body while an electric razor slides across their skull, removing piles of “ridiculously awesome” hair for a fundraising effort. They’re going to dress up as Dracula and escort a girl with special needs to the Halloween dance. And they’re going to roll up their white missionary sleeves to pick up and hold a crippled child who is sitting helpless in the dirt, covered with flies, while her diseased father lays in a bed made of cardboard nearby.

Oh...okay, I see. So HE writes the chapters. And the only way through the book is to read every verse—every exhausting, disappointing, tragic, exhilarating, triumphant, redeeming word. Then it’s up to us to either ROCK THE HECK OUT OF THAT SCENE, or...not. Which means the “Happy Ever After” is up to us. The hope is that someday, no matter how many goodbyes, how many failures and how many boys, we will thank the good Lord that every line has been written upon our very blessed hearts.

AT LEAST HE CALLED ME PRINCESS

I dreamed a dream...

When my husband and I were first dating, we were discussing bodily functions. I don’t know why—we just were. That was when he made a very serious claim that went something like this:

“All I know is, when I get married, my wife will never hear me, smell me or see me. And I would hope for the same respect from her.”

And I was sad. Because I knew it could never work out between us, since I was completely unwilling to suffer a stomach ache for the rest of my life.

Of course this “respect” only lasted until the vows were made and it was too late to back out, which is also when I finally let him see my bare feet that were covered with quarter-inch-deep splits in my heels, because of some sort of family skin curse which would likely be passed on to his children. But as I said, too late to back out.

And then after filling the house with mostly boys, the hearing, smelling and seeing became the song that never ends...yes it goes on and on, my friends. Which is why I burn candles.

So as I was thinking about it, I realized that a lot of our lives are made up of unrealistic expectations. Take for instance when I was about four years old, I had a beautiful doll that sat upon my dresser, wearing a dress made of blue velvet. This set my imagination soaring, and every night I would lull myself to sleep with this story in my head:

I was a princess. One summer’s afternoon, I decided to step outside to stand in the middle of my lawn. Wearing my midnight blue velvet gown, fluttering eyelashes and my hair in an upsweep, I opened the screen door of my 1970’s tract house and walked several paces. 

Suddenly, the warmth of the sun became too much for my delicate nature, and holding the back of my hand to my forehead, I fainted into a beautiful puddle of crinoline. Sensing my plight, all of the neighborhood boys came running to see the exquisite princess. And they were bearing gifts. 

Silently they laid the presents at my feet, and then returned to their homes to adore me from their front windows. When I awoke, I gathered up their offerings and went back inside where I could prepare to do the whole thing over again the next day. 

Fast forward forty years. My husband and I decided we were going to get in shape, so we joined a gym. Throwing on oversized sweats, my hair in a ponytail and only just washed the sleep from my eyes, we arrived for our hourlong exertion with Emil, our personal trainer, which culminated in being weighed in public.

Now I don’t know if that’s what threw me over the edge or what, but what I do know is that a radio plays in your head when you’re out cold. And guess what you don’t do when you faint? You don’t suck in. Guess what else? When one leg of your sweats rides up to your upper thigh, you don’t have enough presence to pull it back down. 

Also, your lashes don’t flutter and your lips aren’t pouty and your dead weight is faaaarrr toooooo much for your husband to lift, so he just kind of lets you slump over and shakes you hard, calling your name loudly, which introduces you to all of the people on the treadmills who are watching the show.

This brings to mind the words of a wise, dear man, Gordon B. Hinckley; “Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he has been robbed.”

But I think you and I both know that I REALLY WAS ROBBED, YOU GUYS! I MEAN REALLY, REALLY ROBBED, BECAUSE THAT IS NOT A DAINTY FAINT!

However, here’s the bright side; while I was coming to, Emil called me Princess. As in, “Hey there, princess. You wakin’ up now? See, Sterling–I told you it would just be a minute or two. CAN SOMEBODY BRING ME A COLD RAG? SHE’S SWEATING QUITE A BIT HERE!”

So you see? Although the circumstances weren’t quite what I originally had in mind, a princess did faint. And I kind of think a cold rag on a sweaty brow could be considered a gift. And the people on the treadmills were a lot like the neighborhood boys admiring me from their windows. Chhh...ch ch ch. (Eyes closed, shaking head and  my finger to your lips) It doesn’t matter what you say. I see things the way I want to.

No, bliss is not normal. Husbands emit fumes, wive’s feet are gross and princesses sweat. But as long as we’re willing to toss on a pair of rose colored glasses...or hold a rose under our noses, for that matter...the less offended we will be when we see, hear or smell something we didn’t want to. 

And the faster we lower those expectations, the more pleasantly surprised we can be. Bless our sweaty, stinky hearts.

PANTYHOSE AND LIPSTICK

Last week my child left Utah, flew over 30 hours with stops in Chicago, Belgium, Africa and Uganda before ending up in Ethiopia, where he was surprised to find out they speak Amharic. His words; "My apartment is...gaaaaahhhh! But I'm not complaining, because I have a roof over my head and running water—sometimes."

It's called an LDS mission, and you will all want to sign up for this program that makes boys into men. :) This week's article below:

So guess what I just found out? Apparently, I am the ONLY MISSIONARY MOTHER IN THE WORLD who doesn’t love her son.

That’s right. I am the ONLY MOTHER HE’S EVER HEARD OF who, after kissing her son goodbye at the Missionary Training Center curb, didn’t head directly to the nearest post office to mail his first of 18 packages, so that not a moment passed without him being reassured that yes, the Earth’s axis does go directly through him. At least that’s what was insinuated in our first letter from Elder Bingham.

In case you couldn’t tell by the subtle foreshadowing in the above paragraphs, Chris was just recently wrenched from my arms and thrown like a bag of flour into a big, giant spiritual vat of teenaged boys, processed meats and care packages containing Cheetos and Mountain Dew. Which means that if somebody walked past the MTC and lit a match, well, let’s just say that thing would likely go up in a blaze of methane glory. 

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Now initially, when I received word that I was an epic mother failure, my first instinct was to point a finger. So I told him it was his own fault. Then I blamed all those other women who like to make me look bad. Then I tried to backdate a bunch of letters to make it seem as if they had just gotten lost in the delivery truck, but it turns out you can’t really do that with email. (You might want to keep that in mind for future reference.) 

An hour later, my mother’s guilt kicked in, and I felt terrible about the emotional pain I had caused him (even though I had actually sent him a letter AND a package, he just hadn’t received them yet.) This led me to start bandaging the wound by way of packages made up of completely unnecessary items, like pantyhose and lipstick, because I had them on hand and really, it just seemed vitally important to QUICKLY GET SOMETHING OFF TO THAT KID, you know? 

But then I started thinking, is it really so bad that this child should go a few days without? I mean, here we are expecting him to go two years without games and computers and texting the bejebus out of friends and family, and he’s already feeling the pangs of detox. 

This reminded me of years ago, when my oldest son received his first cell phone, and we took it away on a weekly basis. Just for fun. This infuriated him, but delighted us, because we could see his tendency to use it as a crutch, as we’d already noticed him pulling it out in awkward social situations. And okay, I’ll admit I myself have held a dead phone to my ear on numerous occasions when passing kiosks in the mall, but that doesn’t mean it’s right.

Later on, when our boys had real jobs, we noticed they often brought home sacks of overpriced, unnecessary clothing to add to the pile on their bedroom floor. When we got after them, they asked why. “Why can’t we spend the money if we have it?”

We tried to explain to them what happens in a life...in a marriage especially...when somebody doesn’t know how to tell themselves no, recalling a turning point in our own marriage when Sterling brought home a brand new, shiny black gun that cost enough to cause an argument. His solution? “Go ahead and buy yourself something, Lis. Then we’ll be even.”

Fortunately, I just rolled my eyes at his suggestion. Which is not to say I didn’t go buy myself something anyway. But it was on sale, and everybody knows that if it’s on sale, you can’t afford NOT to buy it. Duh.

I guess my point is, sometimes a lack of comfort leads us to search for solace in places we might not have ever thought to look. No phone in your hand might lead  your mouth and your eyes to communicate. No expensive clothing might lead you to an incredible personality. No controllers, computers and games might lead you to imagining, creating and becoming. 

And finally, no care packages from home might just lead a missionary to drop to his knees, where he is sure to find another member of his family who will always be there with him, even when his own mother cannot.

Besides, let’s be honest; Missionary Mothers can only survive if they lock the memory of that child away in their hearts. Thus, the sooner we pretend they don’t exist, the sooner the lump in our throats will stop restricting airflow. 

Next week, he will arrive halfway across the world as a pale faced, blonde haired, timid, gassy boy in a land of wild gorillas, red bananas and people with smiles that spread clear across a nation. And when this happens, the sooner he forgets himself, the better off he’ll be. 

Bless his beautiful, missionary heart. 

FAIR WEATHER LOVE

My husband and I had a whirlwind romance. From first date to ring on the finger was 30 days...maybe 29. In fact, it was April Fool’s Day when I came back to work after our engagement and I slapped my heavy hand down on every person’s desk I could find, letting the diamond do the talking. The response was the same over and over again;

“Oh, yeah, right. APRIL FOOLS!” 

And I could have been offended, but seeing as how they might have sneezed and missed the courtship, their surprise was understandable.

Everything was perfect. The ring was fantastic, we loved to kiss and he was a good foot taller than me, so I would never have to tell a pair of high heels, “No.” And I could see the forecast—blue skies, light breezes and 72 degrees. Forever more.

Then came the honeymoon.

Sterling held open the truck door for me, and I promptly sat on his prescription sunglasses, breaking them in two. We spent the first night in Salt Lake then headed off to Disneyland in a small cab with no air conditioning. We got lost, and at 2:00 am, decided to spend the night in Vegas. Imagine my surprise when he exited off the freeway, drove one block, then promptly rolled right back up the onramp. 

“Wait. What are you doing? I though we were spending the night in Las Vegas?”

“Wow, I uh, I just can’t do that, Lis. That whole thing was...bad. That’s bad. That whole thing is really bad. Way too many cars and buildings and there’s no way I’ll ever find our hotel, so I think we’ll just drive to another city, okay?”

Turns out there is no other city. What there IS, is a rest stop for truckers. And newlyweds. And as I lay in a bed made of luggage, while mosquitos and exhaust fumes fanned me unconscious, I just remember one thought ever present in my mind:

“Touch me and die, Sterling.”

The honeymoon got a little bit worse every day. Perpetual traffic jams, a hotel housekeeping staff that didn’t understand locked doors and searing desert heat that drove me to instruct Sterling to pull over, so I could get out of the truck to scream.  

We drove home three days early and nearly silent—the only sound being the muscles twitching around our eyeballs. About five minutes from our apartment, he pulled into a convenience store to top off his Big Gulp, which had held, and I am NOT exaggerating, THREE MILLION OUNCES of Pepsi over the five day trip. 

So I said, “Don’t you think you’ve had enough Pepsi?” And he replied, “I’ll have as damn well many Pepsis as I please.”

And that was it. 

We knew we had passed the test, and it could only get better from that point on.

Turns out that wasn’t actually true. But being babes in our relationship, that was the most adversity we could handle, and Heavenly Father wisely kept the boils at bay, until we were tempered.

‘Course, the boils do come. This week, I’ll be attending a fund raising event for a friend who is struggling through his third critical illness in as many years, while an anxious wife and children stand steady by his side, wondering how many more months...or weeks...or days...they get to keep him as their own. 

I also watch from afar as a young couple takes their firstborn son daily to the hospital, planning for painful surgeries that weigh down their shoulders with financial and emotional burdens which far surpass truck stops and desert heat and too many ounces of caffeine and carbonation.

And I know there was a time when fluffy wedding dresses and small kitchen appliances were all they had on their minds. Their skies were blue and their love was untried and the fact that she had pretty white teeth seemed reason enough to fall in love...

...which leads to the conversation we had with our eldest son who mourned an abrupt end to his own recent whirlwind romance, bless his heart. Yes, you can fall in love with many, many people. And you can make it work—be happy, in fact—with many, many people. As long as skies are fair and conditions are favorable. 

However, there will surely come a time when the blue sky turns mottled, gray and purply black with storm clouds on the horizon. And when that happens, trust will trump teeth and laughter must heal...and the hand you hold will be a lot warmer if it belongs to your best friend.

Mottled, gray, purply black and blue. Basically, a giant bruise. But everyone who has ever suffered a bruise knows it is a source of tenderness. And tender marriages make for tender hearts which have the most difficult time crusting over with hardness.

Yes, you can fall in love with many people. As long as skies are fair and conditions are favorable. But to STAY in love, when your journey together has left your souls bruised and battered? Well, that’s the sort of thing eternity is made of.

And what good is love, if you can’t have it forever?