Mark and I are married 11 years today, a year that has been the most difficult and yet binding; the kind of year that forces our heart roots, once shallow and neatly divided, deeper into a tangled labyrinth desperate for living water. We know now we’ll forever reference this year; the year we weathered the storm together, searching the troughs of our souls for the Truth to speak and sing in shadowed corners, learning to rule over our souls by the Spirit, and waiting for the God who sees all to plunge us from the dark. And he is coming to us. Daily. Like Manna.

For our anniversary, my parents gave us money for a nice date and Kristen and Tim watched the kids for us; we spent the afternoon together watching a movie, eating sushi, perusing the used book store, and drinking wine. My phone died so I didn’t take any pictures, and for those of you who don’t know my husband, he still uses a Nokia brick phone — you know that gold or blue one from a decade ago? That’s just his style, and one of my favorite things about him, except when my phone dies. But tonight it seemed appropriate to have just us with no distracting devices, time to absorb each other and the decade plus already ingested. And here’s part of it. Mark gifted me with such beauty this afternoon: lilies weighted in steel BBs and the words that bind it all together. (I asked him if I could share them here.) Enjoy.

ELEVEN

Bethany – If you wanted to — if you were so inclined — you could split my heart like a melon rind and watch thousands of tiny silver balls stream to the ground bouncing across this room like our little girls do in the evening — swooshing away grief and heaviness, stomping away our souring moods. These buckshot BBs, shiny silver balls, are each one a memory collected and stored away from the one hundred thirty-two months of this union, this great indivisible union, assaulted and assailed along every line — a union underfunded and stressed at the joints. I’ve swallowed the steel drops down, gulped them in the Grayton Beach gulf and found five in the Kansas City fountains; I inhaled three on the hike near Glasgow and choked on hundreds, glutton that I am, in Sonoma County. This heart has grown fat and full and heavy with the small metallic delights you’ve patiently fed me for years — basted in butter, crested in creme, a flambe in fine wine. I am full. I am swollen-chested, my silver pearls thump and compress with electric pulses ordained by the Silversmith who fans the flames. Timed and numbered. Once thumping and clanging, these ball-bearing memories have begun to smolder and fuse with the rising temperatures of your love for eleven full years. Just now underway, hot liquid metal will soon magma flow out of the ventricles and chambers and will warm your cold feet in a winter’s bed when you’re 78 and shriveled. I will still look pretty damn good, but I will permit you to bask in my bald-headed glory on my arm at dinner parties or when we argue over canteloupe in the produce aisle. I will radiate my silver steel warmth to these children of ours if they will just be quiet for one minute — good gosh, one minute. I will syphon off some of my silver pulse to fashion a ring one day to replace the misshapen, weak, young token of our early love — a ring built from borrowed coin and stressed by the weight you’ve endured through the years. It will be better, stronger, perfectly round and thick in refined platinum — one day. The Great Alchemist will have turned our weakness and untested love caught kissing in a park into something pure — an heirloom love polished by our blood, sweat, and avalanche tears. And it will shine because it is stifling, smoldering hot this year and because we swoon from this rising heat. So do not fret, my love, keep feeding me your strength of steel, and I will burn in my love for you. And together we’ll discover what might be forged in one platinum lifetime. 

All my love, all my life — Mark

I originally edited out the last part of Mark’s letter because I wasn’t sure he wanted everything so public, and he wasn’t nearby to ask. Turns out, he wanted all of it together. Imagine. Sorry, Love. So now the full letter stands.

{this moment}: A Friday ritual. A single photo (or group of photos) capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor, and remember. (Inspired by soulemama) 

Find more of our week’s {this moments} here on Instagram.

Mom,

You blew into our daily lives for a brief three days last week to help Kristen and me collect pieces of our days and time. With each visit, I try to take more of you in, savoring the rest and wisdom you bring for our family, for like a cool Texas breeze in the midst of summer, you are gone again, leaving behind lingers of hope that the hot seasons of life are not forever. And we’re grateful for your breezes whenever they come.  I only had one snapshot from last week when you took the grandkids to Chick-fil-a for lunch and chocolate sundaes. Blurred hands nourishing. For now, this picture said more of you than a shouldered smile ever could. This is the way you serve people: with a table and food. (And of course, your phone.)

As a child, I took for granted those sacred meals, too young to understand their real worth, and now I wonder, how many people have touched Jesus because of your table and food, taking him in as we share ourselves and our food together? Mark once asked you; you laughed, knowing you had no way to even begin counting. You and dad paved roads out of rough earth for our family’s daily communion, bringing us and so many others to the table, teaching with your life the Father’s heart: there’s always room for everyone at the table. And now it is your grand/children’s heritage, a legacy that permeates every corner of our hearts still; there’s always room for us at the Table. Thank you, mom, for always making room at your table and in your heart for your children, grandchildren, and so many more, feeding our spirits with our true legacy in Jesus.

I love you, mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

{this moment}: A Friday ritual. A single photo (or group of photos) capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor, and remember. (inspired by soulemama) 

{this moment}: A Friday ritual. A single photo (or group of photos) capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor, and remember. (inspired by soulemama) 

1. soaking up tender moments with the kids.

2. keeping meals simple at home.

3. inspired by pink.

4. reading My Ántonia by Willa Cather.

5. pocketing advice from the walls of Jimmy John’s.

6. receiving gifts of wild spring flowers.

7. rolling through the streets with the kids.

8. taking my girls to eat in public places barefoot. (Yes, I’m that mom. The one forgetting to double-check before they hop in the car.)

9. snatching style tips from the ranch.

*to see more, you can now follow me on Instagram @cloisteredaway 

{this moment}: A Friday ritual. A single photo (or group of photos) capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor, and remember. (inspired by soulemama)

Mark,

I wonder if I’ll ever forget that moment. That phone call. That evening, sitting by the pool at my parent’s house, talking about American Beauty, interrupted. Life, interrupted. I had only spent days with her, maybe best counted in hours, hearing her deep-belly laugh as she shared stories about your childhood, now locked up somewhere in your heart and hers. Gone.  She, along with a million unfinished moments, snatched from our lives in a vapor, our hearts still covered with the dew of what was, and all this, just three brief months before we married. Had it been a gust of wind, we might have seen it coming, blowing across the plains, rustling the trees, but there were no winds, only a vapor: one moment with us, planning the future, talking about grandchildren and dancing lessons, the next moment vanished, memories and dreams formed from mist. She was your mother, your heart and friend, the one who hid with you in a closet during childhood thunderstorms and who easily left the dirty kitchen just to sit and talk with you and your brothers. These were our first tears shared together, the two of us wailing (with family and friends) over what we always assumed we’d have, who we always assumed we’d have. That was the first, and still the greatest, loss in our marriage. But we have endured.

I smile now, as I think back to those early months of marriage, when the words sandwiched within that infamous passage about love (I Corinthians 13) tasted so sugary and palatable: bearing, believing, hoping, enduring. We choke them down these days, understanding their weight, their glory, receiving what Love has already done, rather than something we must muster up. And now, we’re suffering a great loss again, not the loss of a person, but the loss of expectation, the loss of things we always assumed would be, and we’re unraveling, as Yeats aptly writes, “turning, turning in the widening gyre . . . things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.” Our fingers slide from our plans and expectations, and I wonder, is this not love? Enduring a great unraveling together? Allowing the One who calls himself Love to undo us through suffering? To reveal himself in our broken-ness, our ashes, our undone-ness? It sounded so much prettier clothed in a suit and white gown. Here, 11 years later we’re learning about the real Love buried beneath those charming descriptions. The messy, broken Love bought with blood, tears, and prayer.

In all our shambles, I’m grateful to endure the loss together with you. I love you.

——–

Another {Marriage Letter}: Joining Amber, Seth, Joy, and Scott in upholding our marriages.

—–

6am: Mark’s alarm goes off. After several minutes, we muster ourselves out of bed and turn on the lights. Mark jumps in the shower. I finally decide to fold the two baskets of laundry that have been littering my room for two days. I get dressed for the day, then force myself to gather the dirty laundry always accumulating in our home. I start a load.

7:00 am Liam’s up and making himself breakfast. I begin making coffee and the usual eggs, spinach, and tomato breakfast. The other kids meander out to join us. When the boys finish, they sneak off to their beds to read. Soon after, I get the boys back out of bed to begin their morning routine: make their bed, brush their teeth, and put their clothes away (since I had finally folded them). They’re disgruntled. Olive’s already scaling the drawers to get herself dressed, and Blythe joins her, choosing what clothes they will begin their day in (because we all know they’ll finish the day in something else). Have I mentioned the laundry around here?

8:00 am We listen to our CC memory work while the older kids help unload the dishwasher; I play with Olive. We recite our memory work together using many of the “tools” their tutors gave us in class. When we finish, the kids fill their water bottles and head back to the school room. They play with Legos and color until I get back there. I make my coffee, check my email, and skim news articles.

9:00 am Liam and I alternate reading a story from the Children’s Illustrated Bible aloud; we all talk about the story together. Some days there’s no application (especially since we’re in the Old Testament right now), but today we read about Elijah healing Namaan of leprosy. So we spend some time talking about healing, and God as our healer. We each speak at least one thing we’re thankful for this morning (we recently started writing them down in a journal — shown above) and next talk about the people we know who also need healing. Then we each pray out loud, together and informally (meaning kids on the floor, in our indoor swing, at the table coloring).

I read a chapter out of the Story of the World: the Middle Ages (sometimes we don’t make it through a whole chapter, but we did today). The kids listen about the kingdom of the Franks while they color & build with Legos. Olive, who has been laying on the floor with her blankie and pillow pet, heads to refrigerator. We stop for snack time.

10:00 am I send the kids to the backyard to run while I switch over laundry, chop some oranges, and grab cheese sticks. We eat our snack outside, and then play Red Light, Green Light and Mother May I.

10:30 am We head back to the school room again. The boys practice handwriting (I’ve already torn out their sheets ahead of time) and each picks four lines of poetry to copy from any of our children’s poetry books (one, two, three, and any of this series). After they finish, they enjoy free time in their room. Meanwhile, I sing about, read Mat Man Shapes, and build Mat Man with the girls, which works until Blythe corrects Mat Man’s mouth (Olive had placed the small curve wood piece down like a frown) upsetting Olive who then screams and tears Mat Man’s hands. The girls end up in time out, and I put Mat Man away for the day. Everyone reconciles, eventually.

11 am I set Blythe up to work on a phonics folder game. Liam reads out loud to Olive while I work through a Math lesson with Burke. I give Burke his math fact sheet and worksheet to finish on his own, and move Liam to the kitchen to begin his math lesson. Olive and Blythe play dress-up together. I fold clothes while I help Liam. I check Burke’s work and hand him and Liam clothes to put away. They play outside again. I sit down with Blythe for a spelling lesson and give Olive some color cards to sort.

12:00 pm The kids are climbing in our trees while I make lunch. We eat outside again (The weather’s been so fantastic here!) and spend time exploring a wooded lot nearby.

1:30 pm Olive goes down for a nap. I have a spelling lesson with Burke. Liam draws at the table, until it’s his turn for spelling. Burke and Blythe return outside again to finish working on a rope swing they (and Liam) had begun a few days ago. I call Blythe in for reading; Liam joins Burke.

2:30 pm “Rest time” for everyone. We each find our own quiet spot with our book(s) for 30 minutes of reading alone/30 minutes of quiet activity on your own. (We’re still working on this.) I make myself a second cup of coffee, grab an old sheet, and head to the backyard for my quiet spot. Instead of reading, I have to finish up my lesson plan for my Essentials class.

3:30 pm I have to wake up Olive (which usually means she’s screaming or kicking me). She hates being woken up, but I can’t have her sleep longer than two hours during the day or it starts to affect her bedtime. The kids are ready for a snack again. I let them make their own this time. And I wrap up my own work.

4:30 pm The kids “clean up” the school room while I wash the day’s dishes. They begin chasing each other around the house, so I send them outside again while I gather dinner.

5:00 pm Mark’s home from work and outside with kids. Kristen & Tim arrive with Shepherd  for dinner.  I shred zucchini to make “noodles” for her homemade red sauce (grandmother’s recipe). We throw together some veggies for a salad and eat!

6:00 pm We eat dinner. The boys wrestle in the backyard, then play on the computer for 30-45 minutes. The babies and Blythe are playing dress-up, chasing each other around the table and out into the yard. We (adults) try to have conversation.

7:15 pm We begin our bedtime routine: baths/showers, PJs, brush teeth, and read aloud.

8:30 pm Lights out for the kids. I head to the shower and get ready for bed.

9:00 pm Mark and I talk briefly, recapping our day and discussing any plans for the upcoming ones (you know, romantic stuff). He takes an important phone call, and I sit down to write.

10:00 pm Mark heads to bed. I’m enjoying the quiet stream-lined thinking too much and continue writing.

11:00 pm I make myself go to bed. Lights out.

—

Everyday is different. This day didn’t include any errands, appointments, or playdates, and for the most part it went pretty smoothly, unlike this morning when Olive cried the entire way through Blythe’s spelling lesson because I put her blankie in the wash.  Or the morning she painted herself, her doll, and the hallway floor with nail polish. Or the day Burke split his leg open and had to get stitches. Or the days I get too distracted by the computer or phone calls. We all have those days. This just happen to be the one I recorded.

{this moment}: A Friday ritual. A single photo (or group of photos) capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor, and remember. (inspired by soulemama)