August 27th (or The Story of Our Life) - the beginning of Anniversary Week

So far back in the day it might not even be funny.
Oh wait. It is kind of funny.

It's anniversary week this week, so you may see me writing about marriage, and weddings, and dates, and things like that. In the process of beginning the fall cleaning in my house and making the discovery that I need stop saving for special days and celebrate life now, I found an old copy of an online journal that I had been published in years ago. You'll have to keep that in mind when you read the poem below because it talks about "eight years ago" which was more like thirteen years when this was published and is actually nineteen years this year. Whew.

I always have more to say about this amazing man I married. You can read a little bit more about our story here, and discover some of the things that keep us close. You'll find out that our story is framed in grace, and how grateful I am for that grace. You'll also learn that some of the little things — like we haven't had cable television in over two years (is that all?) and that we're doing just fine without it.

But mainly what you should know is that I didn't believe in a lot before I met him. I did't believe in love any more. I was burned out and done. I didn't have any hope. And then he came along ...

August 27th (or the Story of Our Life)

It was eight years ago yesterday
That I walked through shoulder-high dahlias
Next to a tall blonde I really didn’t know—
And found a new use for my kitchen counter.

I remember the me back then,
Why trust? Why hope? Why bother?
Thought the walk in the flowers would be
Just another thing.

But before I knew it, my toothbrush had a roommate
And 350 square feet seemed far too small
For six feet two plus five foot seven,
And a dinning room table became a necessity.

Two years later after brushing death with a comb
And three bees in a blue bonnet,
I rode back and forth between city and ocean
Trying to decide if trust, hope, and bother were real.

Fast-forward three years to a garden—
Technicolor green grass like a carpet that only comes from Washington rains
Barefoot with hijacked hydrangeas—the perfect shade of purple.
I cried. I can’t believe I cried. Hope.

If you had told me eight years ago yesterday
That a superwonderful flip on my kitchen counter
Would have led to bestfriendship and love
I would have laughed and rolled my eyes twice into
the back of my head.

Now I just laugh because I can’t believe
The showers of blessing that came to the cynic
Who didn’t believe
In Hope.

Not that there’s not a cynic left (don’t kid yourself, this is not Cinderella),
But not about this. The path that started eight years ago yesterday
Had been a-hell-a-bumpy and twisty
But I still have two arms around me and my best
friend by my side.

And dahlias still bloom.
And rains in Washington still paint the grass
Green like I’ve never seen.
And hope lives here.