Monthly Archives: February 2012

I’m Riddled with Desire & Tellin’ God All About It

Father God, I’ve got some questions. And just so You know, things are rather foggy down here at the ole ranchola.

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Oh, Lord, what is it? What is this inside of me?

So much, I dare say. There is so much that I want to say (& do) that I feel if I write all day long, I’ll not even scratch the tip of it all.

 

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Is that part of the yearning?

The yearning we have when we want something more, because there is always something more. I reckon it has something to do with the void that we will always have this side of heavens door.

Some want more money, a bigger house, a shiny car, or an updated kitchen; some want a new job, a promotion, a raise; some want recognition, applause, accolades; some want excitement, more fun, a challenge; some want leaner legs, a ripped abdominal wall, less wrinkles, no gray.

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Me? What’s rollicking just beneath my surface?

God, since You already know, why do You want me to figure it out too? Oh, I know, because a traveler without a destination is a rambler, a gypsy, a mere wanderer. You want me to know where I am going. You want me to be certain from where I came. And You want me to tap into my heart’s desires.

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Why?

Oh, because You knit me together before anyone down here on earth even knew what was happening. Before my momma’s belly rounded outward and before anyone laid a gentle hand to feel my kicks; You already knew me as Your daughter. You knew my days, my ways, my wants, my needs, and my desires – before I even gulped my first breath of air.

Okay, I’ve got that part. I know the lineage from where I came: I am a daughter of the King of kings. I am a child of the Creator of the universe. I am an heir to the throne of heaven. I am a descendent of the Almighty. I am precious and beautiful and worthy and forgiven and redeemed and sanctified. I am set aside as a princess of the Most High.

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But what of these desires?

I don’t float with the name-it-n-claim-it crowd. Oh, okay, I’ll tell You, but it is kinda embarrassing because I don’t rightly know how these things fit into Your plan for me.

Why yes, I often wonder what Your plan is for me. And I admit it, I worry too, I worry that I don’t know it, see it, understand it, do it… I know, I know, worry is a sin.

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Sorry. Forgive me?

Well, of course you do. Jesus died to make it so. And yes, I reckon I am doing the best I can with what I have and what I know and who I am. And yes, I think there’s always room for improvement, for refining, for sharpening.

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Okay, let’s get back to the whole plan issue, shall we?

Oh, I see. I oftentimes distract myself with wondering about Your plan and I let my heart’s desires slip away, almost undetected. You are right, I felt the fluttering and instead of gently grasping it beneath the wings, I pushed it out the window.

No, I don’t know what happens to it once I give it the ole heave-ho. Oh, okay, I do know. I admit it. I merely shut the window and tried to forget about it. All right, I didn’t forget, but I tried to.

Yes, I know I am talking circles here.

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You wanna read my list?

Alrighty then, here are my wants; I’ll just do a list without explanations (okay, okay, it’s without condemnations too):

  • I want to finish one of these multiple books I’ve started. Yes, and get it published.
  • I want to know if I can connect with anyone’s heart strings, I want to know if tap anyone’s funny bone, I want to know if anyone agrees or disagrees or feels the same way as me.
  • I want to pick a few images that I have captured with my camera and enlarge them to poster size. And hang them on my wall.
  • I want others to see Your amazing beauty, both on their own and through pictures I take.
  • I want others to know of Your forevermore, better-than-fairytale sorta love.
  • I want to sew aprons out of bandanas.
  • I want to trade our clothes drier in on fridge – cause You know, we only have a dorm sized fridge and I really have no need for a drier, what with the racks & wood cookstove in the winter and outdoor lines in the summer.
  • I want to percolate coffee every day on the wood cookstove.
  • I want to make yogurt and sourdough bread every day too.
  • I want to let go of the tension I’ve held in my shoulders ever since high school.
  • I want to slip back in time and live at the turn of the century, where the lifestyle I love is the norm.
  • I want to hold a baby and fall asleep after he has.
  • I want to dance with my husband, a two-step ‘round the dance floor, or the living room floor.
  • I want to read funny books with my son as we cuddle on the couch and drink cocoa.
  • I want to teeter and splash on a hot inner tube in the middle of a lake.
  • I want to swim underwater with my eyes open.
  • I want to encourage others to be all that God created them to be.
  • I want to live in seclusion, but I want to be around people too; I want to love with an all-encompassing inclusion.
  • I want to laugh till I dang near wet my pants.
  • And I want to have no fear… of failing, of falling, of bawling, of breaking, of shaking, of cracking, of splashing, of flying, of ripping, of crying, of trying.

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So, there You have it. Now that You know (well, You already knew, but now that You know that I know), whatcha gonna do about it?

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Me? What am I gonna do about it?  Are You kidding me?

Oh, that last line in my list, the one about fear. Yeah, You are not the author of fear. Where You exist, there is only love. Love conquers fear. Love is way bigger than fear. You are way bigger than fear.

Really, it’s okay if I fail, fall, or bawl?

If I break, shake, crack or splash, You’ll help me mend?

And if I fly or rip or cry, You’ll be there, right by my side?

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But what about… ?

 Oh, I see. Yep, yes Sir, I’ve just gotta trust, try, and do. And recognize that the results are up to You.

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What’s that? You can see right through my desire-riddled heart and grant me all that I need. 

 

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Monday Muse-ic (Called Out Your Name)

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If the first hours of your Monday started out as mine did, you can bet your britches that you are gonna need some reminding about the joy that is yours. Despite the realities of the week that may have smacked ya upside the head when your warm feet hit the cold floor, God is still asking for you.

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Oh, Lord, help me to be the person You created me to be. This moment, this hour, this day, this week. Let no man, not even my selfish, prideful self, put asunder all that I find in You & all that You find in me. Please keep calling out to me. And let me have the ears to hear. In Jesus’ name, amen.

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Called Out Your Name from Live JUBILEE on Vimeo.

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But now, thus says the Lord, who created you, O Jacob,
And He who formed you, O Israel:
“Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by your name;
You are Mine.

Everyone who is called by My name,
Whom I have created for My glory;
I have formed him, yes, I have made him.”

                                                                                                     ~ Isaiah 43:1,7

How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God!
How great is the sum of them!
If I should count them, they would be more in number than the sand;
When I awake, I am still with You.

                                                                                                      ~ Psalm 139:17-18

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* That beauty-full video is a blessing indeed, is it not? Miss Jeanne Damoff introduced it to me last year. I can’t remember just where, perhaps at All The Church Ladies or maybe on her blog. Anyway, her daughter, granddaughter, and son-by-God’s grace (sounds way better than son-in-law) are joying-out to God on the hardwood floor.

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I most often start my days with this song-n-video combo unit. 

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What is MONDAY MUSE-IC? Oh, I’m glad you asked. Mondays need muse. And music. So, I’m gonna provide both… and invite God to the party. 

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Muse: to think or say reflectively; to reflect; to study; reflect deeply; meditate; wonder (according to assorted online definitions).

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Professors, Pups & Pedigrees

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A simple country girl and a simple country boy left their homes and went to town for college. After we cut the apron stings, moved, unpacked, and mastered our culinary Top Ramen skills, we united in the mayhem of marriage, err, I mean holy matrimony. In our newfound collegiate adulthood, we gained higher levels of knowledge, but occasionally we came across an educational opportunity outside the brick and mortar school walls.

 

And in at least one such case we were the professors…

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One laundry day we left our clothes swirling in soap and water, and instead of reading textbooks during the wash-n-spin cycles, we wandered around the mall. We always found ourselves in the same place and that day was no different; our collective drool dripped down the pet store display case. As we stared at a litter of black lab mutt pups, an pet store employee wrangled another box of puppies and dumped a heap of Rottweilers in with the cute Labradors.

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Immediately, a small lab pup raised up, crawled over the others, and stood before the newcomers, as if she was the self-appointed guard dog for her baby brothers and sisters. She growled, a little, yet effective, guttural threat at the obnoxious Rott-tots. They backed up in wide-eyed dismay at her daring ferocity.

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“Why look at that!” I exclaimed.

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“Yeah. That one black mutt is protecting all her kin,” my husband said.

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“She’s little, but she’s fierce.”

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“And she’s dang cute.”

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I sighed and fixed my eyes on my man. “Hey, she reminds me of me. Does she remind you of me?”

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“Yeah, whatever.”

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“We gotta have her,” we said in unison.

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We looked at one another, I smiled lovingly, and then we began a frantic search for money. We emptied our pockets, we pawned our car’s spare tire and my husband’s belt buckle, and instead of using the quarter-hungry machines to dry our wet clothes back at the laundry mat, my husband dragged three sacks of soggy laundry to our rig. And I grasped one bundle of store-bought, wriggling puppy mutt. The three of us wagged and gave out sloppy kisses whilst my husband drove us home.

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Because I always wanted a dog named Elvis or Earl we had a couple days of heavy debate before we agreed upon a name. Since the pup turned out to be a she instead of a he, my favorite names were nixed until I had the bright idea to insert various letters in front of both names to come up with a gender-friendly girl name.

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We test-drove our alphabetical options: “Here Pelvis! Here Pelvis!” didn’t sound so good but we tried again; P + Earl = Pearl. Bingo! Our first dog was a precious black Pearl.

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Fast-forward a few months. Autumn had sprung. It’s always my favorite time of year, but the serenity of bright blue skies and crisp leaves was shattered by the couple who lived below us as they intensified the training of their mighty, papered, and registered hunting dog, aptly named “Hound.” Secretly though, we were privy to his lack of know-how so we secretly called him “Blockhead.”

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The dog. Not the man.

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Anyway, one afternoon my husband and Pearl snored in our makeshift sleeping bag bed on the floor as I prepped potatoes for the oven. I heard the neighbor man’s wife leave and five minutes later he knocked on our door. Pearl rushed toward the rude awakening with a menacing growl, but stopped short once I opened the door and she saw her wagging canine buddy on the porch with his master.

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Our neighbor convinced my husband to take the dogs for “a mock grouse hunt” in the nearby field. Basically the man wanted to show-off his dog’s dummy retrieving skills and his response to both voice and hand signal commands.

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So my husband followed the man and his pedigreed dog with our eager mutt, who sleeps on our bed, lounges across the backrest of the couch, routinely eats wicker baskets, and who sometimes walks around in t-shirts (cause I think a dog in clothes is funnier than without).

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Because  it’s been said that these here blog posts should be around 1000 words,

you will need to stay tuned for the continuation of this saga on another day.

You’ll come back ’cause you don’t wanna miss the primary lesson do ya?

 Oh forget it! This is my place and I’ll ramble on and on if’n I see fit.

And if’n you see fit to keep reading, look below.

If not, come back another day.

And look below. 

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Within an hour I heard the man put his barking dog into the condo unit below. Our door flew open, Pearl wagged in, followed by my husband, and before I shut the door, the neighbor man squeezed through. He stood stoic and white-faced as he leaned against the entryway wall. From behind his back, my husband then produced a dead grouse and a poorly stifled grin.

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“Hey, honey, look what we got!”

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“Uh, I thought he was only practicing with Hound today,” I said as I nodded at the man.

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My husband said, “Oh, they practiced all right and Hound did a pretty good job until the last dummy toss and retrieval. Hound landed on top of an unsuspecting grouse. The grouse finally freed itself from beneath the dog’s belly and took off.”

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“What did Hound do next? And where was Pearl through all this?” I asked.

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“Oh, Hound barked, chased his tail, and drooled a lot,” my husband said. Near giddy with excitement, my man continued with his story. “And the last time I had seen Pearl she was somewhere across the field following her nose. Anyway, when that grouse took flight, she ripped across the hillside at full tilt, jumped six feet off the ground, and caught that dang bird by the tail feathers.”

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“Yeah, well, she doesn’t have a soft mouth like my dog. She broke its leg,” said our neighbor man in a huff.

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“Well, there’s that. But dude, did you see her run? And what about that jump?!”

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“I did. I did. And you are right, it was spectacular,” said the man as he focused on the floor.

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“So, I’m assuming you have your bird hunting license, right?” I said to the man, who by the way, was enrolled as a second year law student.

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“Uh, not exactly.”

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“Counselor, did you go grousing without a license? Well, at least you had permission from the landowner, right? I reckon you could get kicked out of law school over something like this.”

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The man shook, his knees buckled, and his lower lip quivered just a bit.

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This moment proved to be our first lesson in the School of Country Folk Common Sense. Well, actually it was the second lesson because as I later found out, my husband had already taken to the lectern with instructions on how to put the injured grouse out of its misery.

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Although neither of us had time to make a syllabus, draft an outline, or prepare a handout, we effortlessly continued with our country-tainted, real world instruction.

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“Oh, for Pete’s sake, just leave the evidence here. The oven is still hot from some potatoes I baked. My husband will dress it out, I’ll cook it, and you two can eat the proof. And if we play our cards right, no one will ever know what dastardly dog deeds went on in that field.”

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My husband walked the pale man outside and returned to make the dead bird edible.

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I baked a foul fowl and later that night as the two men ate grouse and ‘taters, they discussed the varied nuances and diverse methodologies of basic dog rearing and birddog training.

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Soon thereafter, I took the feathery trash out to the curb and a saw movement in the downstairs window. The great and mighty hunting dog stared at me with frightened eyes from the cushions of the once-forbidden couch. He wore a white t-shirt and had a party hat strapped to his big, brown blockhead.

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Simply Darlene, is there a moral to this story? I don’t know for sure, but I squeezed out two for ya.

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One:  not all schooling needs books, but all learning needs some sense.

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Two:  it doesn’t matter if your pooch is pampered, papered, pedigreed, or pinstriped, he’s only going to catch what he’s got a mind to bite. Just like us, aye? Whether we comfortably fall in with simple folks, country bumpkins, city slickers, saucy suburbanites, or worldwide wanderers, we’ve got to exercise some mental acuity in our choices to follow God.

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Otherwise, all we are collectively gonna do, is wear dorky t-shirts and chase our little waggy tails.

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* PLEASE HELP!!

Kind folks, please take the time to go here and sign this petition in an effort to save pastor Youcef Nadakhani from a recently issued death sentence in Iran. His crime for imprisonment & perhaps death? Christianity.
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Here I just wrote a funnish story about a goofy set of dogs, some people, and I managed to wrap it up all neat and tidy with a Christian-esque bow. What good did that do? I mean really? Here is a brother in Christ who has been ripped from his family and his pulpit, yet he refuses to be stripped of his faith in God. He won’t recant. I’m glad GOD created such a man that I can call “brother.” 
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Will you add your name to the petition at ACLJ (Americans Center for Law & Justice)? And will you add your voices with mine in prayer?
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Please.
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Did

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do you know?

can you say

the exact time

and place and day

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that God bent your knees

broke your heart

and

gave you a big, big chance

at a fresh

born again

start?

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did it fizzle?

whiz

or bang

you down?

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did it drizzle?

drip

or spin

you around?

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did you land

on your belly,

face down in the dirt?

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did you lift

up your eyes

and admit

all your hurts?

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did you take

to give?

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did you die

to live?

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like Jesus

did

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~ Photo & Poem: by Simply Darlene
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Will the Preacher Wear My Pepper Socks?

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Alrighty then. Last Sunday I wore these socks to church. With a skirt. Oh yeah, baby. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Since it says “pepper” across the top of the socks, I reckon I was hot. Or at least my feet were hot. Well, so were my legs because these are actually some funky snowboarding socks my 8-year old son gave me for Christmas. And since I have not taken to the slippery slopes of the ski mountain one time this year, I figured I needed to wear the socks someplace else. Like to church.

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Well, why not?

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And since I most definitely am not a girly-girl, if I am gonna wear a skirt, it’s gonna be a memorable event.

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You’ll have to excuse the first image’s blur factor. I was trying to take the picture before the puppy bit into my stripy feet. He spent some time getting his head caught in my skirt too so that was a bit uncomfortable. For both of us.  I took to the wooden glider porch swing in the living room for the next image. A porch swing in the living room? Yessiree. Did I ever say anything about normalcy around here? Reckon not. Anyway, I propped up my feet and snapped the second shot before 11-week old canines ripped into my gastrocnemius muscles. Again.

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And I learned a lesson. Stripes that encircle the leg in this manner make me look like I have ginormous tree-trunkish legs. Yikes. It’s a good thing I generally wear Wranglers and wool socks to church. Hey, did I mention that we attend a home church and that I offered the home-owner a ride in my socks? If he dared. He dared so I’ll take these beauties along and we shall see if he will really wear them whilst he preaches Sunday. I’m  not taking my skirt Sunday. No ma’am. Once outta the closet a year is all it I can handle.

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I am serious. I cannot make up this sorta stuff. I don’t have the imagination for it.

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Since I reckon you fancy my footwear diatribe, below is another somewhat related piece that originally appeared online last year at a place called All The Church Ladies. The website had been disbanded so I am taking it upon myself to share my ATCL pieces at Simply Darlene. Hey, maybe I should do one of those drawings here where you can put your name in a hat for a spin in the socks.

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Kidding. They are mine and I don’t share with just anyone. Besides, my husband was so  thrilled when I climbed aboard the church wagon Sunday morning with my striped legs crammed into my 22-year old giant Sorel winter boots that he muttered something about a rodeo clown. He must be looking forward to summer. Whadda man! Anyway, I’m keeping the socks since they elicit such good thoughts for him.

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Hang tight ’cause here’s the ATCL piece of writing:

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One Sunday morning I went to church with my fellas. As usual, I wore Wranglers, I clipped my hair back with a wooden barrette, heck, I even wore a shirt with buttons; and although I am not much of a make-up sorta gal, I even managed to pencil on some eyebrows. Due to a recent job relocation and a couple of moves, my family was fairly new to the little country church that sits just off the highway in eastern Washington. The rural community is nested amid dirt roads, rolling wheat fields, and is twelve miles from a town with a gas pump.

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During our first visit there we learned that the church is the oldest First Christian Church in the state. In fact it also has a tower with a bell almost as old as the church itself and as per tradition, an attending child rings the bell before each Sunday service. The kiddo grabs hold of the ragged rope and pulls with fervor (and oftentimes with the assistance of an adult) to announce the commencement of singing, preaching, praising, and praying.

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Like most families, sometime we arrive early and warm the pews while the neighborhood rooster crows, while at other times we arrive just as the old church bell begins its song and dance routine. On this particular spring morn we arrived as the bell began to clank, so we parked partly in the ditch and scrambled to gather our bibles, coats, water bottles, notebooks, and wallets.

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“Hurry. Hurry! Hurry!! I said.

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My husband and son got out and bee-lined for the door. With bible and coat in my hands, I sat still and stared at my feet. My husband rushed back to see what had happened. He gave me that raised-eyebrow look and pointed to the church. I gave him the same raised- eyebrow look and pointed to my feet. He looked down, laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and pulled me from the truck.

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At the door we were greeted with perfume-tainted hugs, smeared cheeky lipstick kisses, and friendly smiles. My fellas each took a bulletin, weaved their way through elderly knees and ginormous purses, and settled mid-way down a curved wooden pew. I stayed back because I still held the hands of the two perfumed ladies. I must have alarmed them with not only my bone-crushing grip, but with my wrinkled brow and refusal to move along.

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All at once their faces contorted and they barraged me with their concern:

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“What is it?”

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“What’s happened, Darlene?”

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“Is everything okay?”

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“Do you need something to eat?”

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“What can we do?”

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“How can we pray?”

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My only response was to shake my head back and forth and point down to my slippers. Yes, my fuzzy-wuzzy slippers. They didn’t giggle. They didn’t even gasp. They just ushered me toward my boys. As one gently pushed me along she said, “It’s okay, darlin’ because hardly anybody will notice.”

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As the other gal pointed to the many blankets of soft yarn scattered around the pews, she leaned in close and said, “Yeah, we’ve seen worse. Let’s just say if you come to church wrapped only in a towel, we’ll give you one of those.”

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I gasped. And I giggled.

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Then they looked at one another as if they had shared a nice little secret. Together they lowered their heads close to mine and one of them said, “Cause a person gets mighty cold in just a towel.”

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Despite being a tad embarrassed for wearing my slippers to church, I finally scooted in and sat down between my cowboy-booted fellas. Even though our old-fashioned, little bitty church has cows, chickens, and three longhaired yaks for neighbors, the parishioners take seriously the church’s motto of Love God, Love People.

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One Sunday morning I went to church wearing my slippers. Because I had held the hands of two church ladies who love God and His people, I learned the meaning of our new church’s motto. I reckon they’ll keep on loving His people with their perfume-tainted hugs and handmade blankets.

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What about you? Ever go to church wearing your slippers?

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* We’ve moved since that slipper story was first published, but the folks at our new Sunday home don’t seem to mind when I show up being me. I reckon anyone can Love God and Love People and not get all worked up about slippers, socks, and other such nonsense.

* GUESS WHAT?! Although he left his shoes on, he wore the socks and blessed us with bright stripy ankles.

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How Do You Get Hold of God?

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We’ve been studying prayer at church for the last few weeks. And about a week ago I read something Oswald Chambers had to say about it:

“Whenever the insistence is on the point that God answers prayer,

we are off the track.

The meaning of prayer is that

we get hold of God,

not of the answer.”

~ “My Utmost for His Highest;” February 7 devotional reading

Below you will find my study notes, from both church and His Word, written out as a poem. Sometimes things stick better this way for me, a simply country girl trying to make it in God’s big, big world.

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When I talk

to God

I fill heart

and soul

holes

from above.

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For He

has no

need

.

Of my

voice,

my begging

pleas,

or my

desperate cries.

.

Rather

it is I

who has

a multitude

of reasons

.

Why

I ought

hear

Him say,

.

“Child,

not your

will,

but Mine.

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I want

your

heart

 .

More

divine.

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In your

prayers

cease not

and

praise

a lot

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Ask for wisdom

for it shall

be

given.

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Cast another’s

sin far and

away

 .

Just as My Son

did one wretched

blessed

day.

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Seek

My strength,

for you are

way too

weak

 .

To go

it

alone.

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Then praise

My name,

and seek My

kingdom

 .

Give

Me honor

devotion

and give

Me glory.

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For this is

how

you

shall find

 .

A soul

tender and

knit together with

Mine.

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For when you

pray,

it’s not

really about

 .

How you

want

Me

 .

To rule

your

day,

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But about

how

you

should tip

your heart

 .

Back

My

way.”

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* What does prayer do for you?

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L.L. Meets Mister Bean

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Dearest L.L.,

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I have bad news about my brand spanking new copy your book, Rumors of Water. Sharp puppy teeth have disfigured chapters twenty and twenty-one. At the time of said incident I hadn’t even had the book for one full day.

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Saturday, at 5am, our 9-week old, notorious clothes rack raiding fur ball stole a sock, two pairs of underwear, and a washcloth. He displayed blatant disregard for not only my family’s laundry, but for our one day a week ability to sleep beyond the darkness of night. And since I was the only lucid witness to his misbehavior, I had the joy of reprimanding and distracting his wayward puppy mind.

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I dragged a flashlight, some dog toys, your book, and the dog into the bedroom where I set-up camp on the floor. At first we only stared at one another, but soon enough we did our own thing and made at being quiet and nice. Distracted with Rumors of Water, I did not see Calder Bean leave, but when twenty pounds of puppy flesh pounced upon my lap, I jumped several feet into the air. At least while I was up there I saw the hiding place for another pair of escapee underwear.

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Thankfully as I landed I was able to grab ahold of the garment. The pup thought this was a riotous game of tug-o-war. As he wagged and pulled, I yanked. Then he growled. Frustrated, I growled back at the beast. And that’s when it happened, Calder Bean sank his defiant canines into Rumors of Water. I shrieked and shined the flashlight into his scared, fury face.

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“Mister Bean, unhand it. I mean un-tooth it. Just let it go! It’s mine!”

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After I flicked his nose, he relented. I won! I had the book and a riddled pair of my husband’s underwear. And the last I saw of Mister Bean he was doing that proud puppy walk with both is head and tail held high. He fled to the living room.

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Now where did I put my flashlight?

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Mister Bean spreading his love around.

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* Part of L.L.’s On, In and Around Mondays.

* Here’s the book link: Rumors of Water.

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Romance in 500 Words

 

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Romance.

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Intense. Exciting. Mysterious. Love affair. These are some descriptives that I found in the dictionary behind the February word “romance.”

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Apart from a Hollywood movie screen or the pages of a book, I think romance is for the hogs. Slop it to ‘em from a bucket and wash your hands of it as soon as possible.

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Romance is fanciful. It is fantasy. It is fictitious. It is dangerous.

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And by doggies, it ain’t gonna put food on the table or buy diapers for the baby. Oh, indeed it likely influenced the making of said baby, but it does nothing to clothe the mini-pooper-burper.

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So tell me, what happened after the rings got shoved into place, you said the wedding vows, and you licked the last of the cake crumbs from the marriage plate?

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You paid the pastor, the caterer,

the photographer,

the florist,

the dress-maker,

the baker,

and the candlestick maker.

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Then you shared a two dollar burrito at Bubba’s Bean Shack because that’s all the money you found under the floor mat of the get-away car. And you dared not reach across the table to hold hands because it was covered in dried hot sauce and crusty bits of mystery meat.

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Yes, that’s when you realized that Intense & Exciting & Love Affair had excused themselves from the room, never to be found again.

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Oh you, you are a smart cookie! You just realized that Mysterious is still lurking about somewhere. I’m okay with this sneaky straggler because he has existed apart from Romance and has comfortably cohabitated within marriages for years. Who am I to oust this secret agent who brings inexplicable strife delight to couples?

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  • Mysterious are the ways of a husband’s dirty socks and wet towels that smell like the backside of a cow. 
  • Mysterious are the ways of a wife’s mood swings and underwear drawers full of hidden chocolate candy. 
  • Mysterious are the ways of how he rolls brand new toothpaste tubes and how she replaces toilet paper rolls. 
  • And mysterious are the ways to recapture that romantic lovin’ feelin’ once you’ve been married longer than it takes to boil an egg.

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I’m here to simultaneously let the air outta your balloon and burst your bubble. Ppfffffzzzzz.

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Romance like you knew it in your single daze ain’t never ever, ever gonna happen again. What with all the baby-burping & wage-earning & manure-shoveling & homework-helping, that loving feeling is gone, gone, gone.

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 Gone, gone, gone. Whooaaa-whooaaa-whooaaa. Oooh.

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Despite my warnings, I am afraid there are a few Romance Renegades among us. I’ve seen evidence: bouquets of roses, cutesy greeting cards, and heart-shaped boxes of candy. Good night folks, haven’t you been listening?

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Romance is all for naught. It’ll just rot. Go on, toss it out in the hog slop.

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If you haven’t noticed the red flags and you still feel the need to feed the despicable Romance monster, just slowly hand over the chocolates. I’ll do it for ya.

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Come on, you can trust me.

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Actually you cannot really trust me. Or  your very own self. Or your spouse.

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You cannot trust man, or woman, to keep you on track and in-line with everything you thought, said, did, and vowed on your blessed wedding day. But you can and you must, trust God. His Wisdom & heart is way better than ours. 

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Since I already spent myself on an attempted humor piece up there, I am leaving this section up to someone who succinctly said all the right stuff about marriage and love. While imprisoned in 1943, Deitrich Bonhoeffer penned these words as part of a marriage sermon:

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Marriage is more than your love for each other.

It has a higher power, for it is God’s holy ordinance, through which he wills to perpetuate the human race until the end of time.

In your love you see only your two selves in the world, but in marriage you are a link in the chain of the generations, which God causes to come and to pass away to his glory, and calls into his kingdom.

In your love you see only the heaven of your own happiness, but in marriage you are placed at a post of responsibility towards the world and mankind.

Your love is your own private possession, but marriage is more than something personal—it is a status, an office. Just as it is the crown, and not merely the will to rule, that makes the king, so it is marriage, and not merely your love for each other, that joins you together in the sight of God and man.

…so love comes from you, but marriage from above, from God. As high as God is above man, so high are the sanctity, the rights, and the promise of love.

It is not your love that sustains the marriage, but from now on, the marriage that sustains your love.

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May the God of love bless all that you do in His name.

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* This post is part of Peter Polluck’s One Word at a Time Blog Carnival:

ROMANCE.

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* It is also part of Jennifer Dukes Lee’s linky-thing:

This month, at The High Calling, we’re launching a series

exploring the joys and struggles of marriage,

broaching the topic from multiple angles

for the sake of helping,

healing, and considering.

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See ya there.

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* PHOTO CREDIT: my friend, Susan lent me the yummy photo.

Thanks so much!