CwC: The Blog

I started leading the women’s bible study at my church on 1 Samuel about three weeks ago. I didn’t know at the time what was going on, but I was on the Struggle Bus.

I struggled with the material.
I struggled with motivation.
I even struggled with the Scripture.

Attendance was a lot lower than usual, which I was perfectly fine with since I was struggling.

The bottom line: Everything around the study felt forced, like we were tilling hard soil.

Do you know what I mean?

I even had to cancel one night (which I have never done in 2 years of teaching) because I was ill.

Frustration abounded.

This past week, I walking into the room with low expectations. I’d thrown a lesson together out of necessity and felt guilty about it.

I sat on the couch waiting to see who would join us. Before I knew what was happening 3 people showed up who were unable to attend the first three weeks of class.

It became VERY clear to me: the last 3 weeks were hard because we were not on God’s calendar, we were on ours.

So, I made the executive decision to reboot the class. We completely started over.

I am thankful for the ladies who showed up that day.
I am thankful for the flexibility of the ladies who had been coming.
I am grateful for the reminders that my calendar is NOT God’s calendar.
And I am grateful for the reminder that when I am tilling hard soil and feel like I cannot get any traction, it is happening for a reason.

Most people say the first year of marriage is the hardest, and I hope they are right. If they are, well, we did it!  We survived, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

This year, we certainly had our share of struggles, illnesses, dramas, adult conversations, and growing pains, but here we are…still standing.

In my mind, this year has been the hardest I’ve been through.  At times, I was overwhelmed with the amount of transitions required of us.  All at once, I had to got to learn to be 1) a wife and 2) a bonus mom to teenage boys in a new-to-me house with multiplying chores all the while trying to get dogs and cats to get along and still keep my day job.

Here are some thoughts on the first year of marriage from a 42-year old first time bride:

I love being called Mrs. Jones

I don’t like it because it means I am married.  It means so much more.  Some people think it is old fashioned to take your husband’s last name.

I think it is an honor.

It is the name his father gave to him, and the name he trusts me to carry.  It is the family I’ve been grafted into.  I pray I bear it well.

 

Being around each other was easier than I thought.

As someone who had not had a roommate in two decades, I was concerned about my capacity to not only live under the same roof as someone but with my capacity to share a bedroom and a bed.

I like my space.

But it turns out, when you marry someone you adore, it really isn’t that difficult [most of the time].

I could not get enough of our wedding photos.

My profuse apologies to my social media peeps and my co-workers for the amount of sharing.  In the beginning, I loved how they turned out. Only a year into this thing, I cry when I see them because I now know a little bit of what that commitment takes.

I lost myself at first.

Two becoming one flesh seems like a no-brainer, but in all actuality, it is a marvelous mystery, and I’m quite certain I’ve only scratched the surface.  It is becoming one team…one unit… one organism, but at the same time, it is somehow even more.

You work as one body so…

what injures one, injures the other;

what builds one up, builds up the other.

When one is at war with the other, both are impacted.

When two become one flesh, part of each dies.  It is a beautiful and painful process. Hopefully, I lost [and will continue to lose] the parts that need to be refined.

I had to learn how to live life even though I thought I was already pretty good at it.

Single Nikol, well, she could pretty much rock the snot out of knowing how to live life.  I mean…she had it together (somewhat).  She had this adorable house decorated exactly like she liked it.  She had her routines.  She knew how to load a dishwasher and do laundry. She knew how to hire people for things she didn’t have the expertise to do and the knowledge to learn the things she could. She knew how to juggle work and home and friends and everything in between.

Newlywed Nikol…well…she had a lot to learn.

I was completely unprepared for balancing all that was required with married life and work life.  I’m an overachiever and – come to find out – a people-pleaser, so “letting things go” or frequently disappointing others were arts in which I was unfamiliar but am rapidly learning.

Not being able to keep up with chores, not knowing what to cook for dinners; or not knowing what drinks the boys liked felt like momumental failures.  Not to mention, I had no idea there was a correct way of laoding the dishwasher…or that my husband folded towels all wrong…or that separating lights from darks was a complicated laundry strategy.  Every little detail of life was evaluated and relearned in the context of marriage.  It was exhausting.

Yep.  Newlywed Nikol was clueless.

PURGE…PURGE IT ALL BEFORE YOU’RE MARRIED

If I could go back and tell Single Nikol one thing it would be to purge everything to the bare minimum and get your fiance to do the same.  The amount of stuff two 40-year-old lives bring to the relationship was staggering.  I feel like we could purge for a decade and never get through it all.

Laundry…laundry…laundry

Multiply every load of laundry you do by the number of people who wear clothing, use towels, and lie on sheets in the house. Then, account for the mysterious people who live in your house that you haven’t even met yet.

My identity was wrapped up in things I never imagined.

This was a big one, and it snuck up on me.  Surprisingly, closing checking accounts I had since I was 15 years old was harder than it seemed.  Selling the house I adored and worked hard for, well, it was excruciating.  Learning that you are dependent on being surrounded by familiar things is disappointing.

I screwed up A LOT.

I pride myself on being able to handle relationships fairly well.   I’d say I am average to above average in this capacity.

I try to be kind.
I try to be loving.
I try to be helpful.
I’m fairly self-aware.

But my, oh my, the countless times I failed at being a spouse.

I’ve said shocking things to my husband.  At times…I’ve treated his heart poorly, apologized badly, and fought terribly.

Marriage takes forgiveness to a whole nother level.

You want to hear my theory?  Forgiveness, not love, is the key to a successful marriage.  I’m not saying love isn’t important, and I am certainly not talking about surface level forgiveness where you forgive the person and then hold it against them at a later date which will ultimately lead to resentment.  I’m talking about forgiving when you don’t feel like it and holding yourself accountable to keep that promise.

Honestly, I thought I was a good forgiver mainly because I have a terrible memory, but if your memory is long and your forgiveness is feeble, your marriage will struggle because both of you will screw up far beyond what you think your current screw up capabilities are [And I’m only a year in, y’all.  Can you image the magnitude of forgiveness required in a 20 year marriage?  Or 40?]

Not only will you be called on to forgive things you never thought you’d be asked to forgive, but you will be forgiven in ways that are simply stunning.  Each time my husband forgives me for an offense, he reminds me of the remarkable forgiveness God extends to us day-in and day-out.  And each time I am called on to forgive, I am reminded of the monumental sacrifice it requires.

It is humbling…and beautiful…and miraculous…and precious beyond words.

Your commitment will be tested! 

Hunker down, y’all.  If you are striving for a godly marriage [whatever that looks like], you become Satan’s playground.

He will mess with your head.
He will tempt you to fight about stupid things.
He will bring up old wounds from years gone by – over and over and over again.
He will bring fear and terror and anxieties.
He will prey on your vulnerabilities.
He will try to convince you that your spouse is the enemy.
He will come to steal your peace.
He will come to kill your love and devotion.
He will come to destroy your kindness and respect for one another.
He will come after your marriage with everything he has.

I mean it.  Hunker down and cling to your spouse and, more importantly, to Jesus because you will not stand a chance if you don’t.

Eventually, I got me back.

Slowly, but ever so surely, I’m getting back to other things I love. New routines and responsibilities are becoming familiar. I no longer feel like I am in some sort of weird survival mode, and with that comes permitting myself some free time and energy to get back to friends and hobbies which had to momentarily take a backseat.  I’m lucky enough to have some top-notch friends who were OK with the backseat for awhile and who are happy to welcome me back into their world even if mine looks a bit different.

It is worth it all. 

I said at the beginning of this post that this was one of the hardest years for me, yet I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world because the best things are fought for.  The good times and the stressful, messy times are all blessings.  The good times bring fresh air and the not-go-great times build strength for us individually and as a couple.  And by having fought for what we do have, we are encouraged to fight in order to keep it.

My husband knew how difficult the first year could be.  He knew it, and yet he loved me enough to go through it again.  I am astounded at his bravery.

He is a brilliant, wonderful man who is equally flawed and perfect, who has scars and wisdom beyond his years.  He is a rock with a quiet and persistent patience I will likely never possess.  He teaches me more than I could’ve imagined both about love and about life.  He is full of love and adventure and devotion.  He loves his children fiercely, and me just the same.

He is my favorite face…

my favorite place…

and my favorite friend.

I am grateful for this journey we share.

So, cheers to 365 days together, and may God bless us with thousands more in each others arms until we return to His.

I thought I’d talked myself out of working out, but I found myself putting on my running clothes to head to the gym.

When I walked outside, it was stunning. A bit of chill was in the air which we’ve missed this Winter. Bright blue skies and glorious sunshine smiled at me.  I couldn’t resist the loveliness, so, I headed to an outdoor track nearby.

It’s been a while since I stepped on that track. I can’t even remember the last time. So, you can imagine I was a bit unsure of myself.

Before getting out of my car, I surveyed the situation.

There was a tall, slender man with a Mercedes Marathon Finisher shirt sprinting down the track doing speed work.
There was another man with a lady who was speed walking. We’ll call her Speed Walking Sally.

It seemed safe enough.

I eased out of the car and made my way into a lane feeling more than a little self-conscious because of the extra weight I’m carrying.

I started my wog. (That’s where you walk more than you jog for those unfamiliar with Nikolisms.) I struggled at first and was totally out of breath by the time the interval ended.

Negative thoughts bombarded me.

“You’re so fat.”
“How could you let yourself get this out of shape?”
“You did a half Ironman, and now you can’t even run a lap without stopping!”
“You’re never going to get back into shape!”

But I kept going.

By about the third interval, I started to get into a groove. I could feel my runner’s feet beneath me again. After all, there is an athlete in there somewhere trying to get out again.

And then it happened.

I was about half-way into the interval approaching Speed Walking Sally from behind. She turned and looked back. I saw her mouth move and a smile on her face, but I had no idea what she was saying. I took my earbuds out and said, “Pardon?”

She said, “I want to run, and I can’t yet. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” I said gasping for air.

All at once, I was hit by encouragement and shame.

I was encouraged by her words.
But ashamed by my pity party.

There I was running (if only in short intervals) and here was a lady who couldn’t even run, and I was feeling sorry for myself. Instead of relishing in what I could do, I focused on what I couldn’t.

I thought about those I know who cannot run.  I’m going to start running for those people.

I’m going to run for my friend who has nerve pain and can’t be as active as she’d like.
I’m going to run for my friend who has Cystic Fibrosis.
I’m going to run for my friend who in slowly making a comeback from a terrible car accident.
I’m going to run for my co-worker who just had knee surgery.
I’m going to run for Speed Walking Sally.
And I’m going to run for myself simply because I can run.

And when I do run, I’m going to be excited about it no matter how badly my lungs burn or how loud my legs scream.

I’m going to run, and I’m going to be grateful.

I felt like an idiot as I drove down the road with big gigantic tears streaming down my face. I was anxiously and silently holding back a wave of emotion which gripped me. I knew as soon as I opened my mouth the words would be unintelligible for the sobs.

What was I crying about?
What made me feel such emotion?

Well, before I tell the rest of the story, you need to know something about me: I’m a heavy duty crier. I cry for basically any emotion that exists.

Think of an emotion in your head.
Any emotion.

Seriously.
Go ahead.

Do you have it in your mind?

I cry at that.

It’s ridiculous.

I often apologize for my tears because they seem so misplaced, but the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced I need to stop apologizing for who God made me to be: a tender-hearted soul.

Anyway…the rest of the story…

So here we are driving down the road, and I am seriously fighting back some big sobs.

Why?

Well, because I watched my husband teach his youngest son how to change the windshield wiper blades on the car the night before.

Confused yet?

Yea. The hubs was too.

Basically, I was touched by the privilege of being able to witness a dad teaching his son how to be a man. I’d watched it on Christmas Day too:

For Christmas the youngest received a BB gun. His older brother wanted to teach him how to load it; how to make it ready to fire; how best to hold it. It hit me that I was watching something incredibly beautiful: A father watching his oldest son teach his younger son how to do something he taught the eldest to do not too terribly long ago.

It sounds silly to say I was proud, and honored, and privileged to get to witness such pivotal moments. I’m tearing up even now as I remember it [yes, seriously].

I wish I had some spiritual insight for you today, but I don’t. I mainly wanted to share with you part of the joy I have of being a bonus mom. Not even a year ago, I didn’t get to observe such things, or maybe I didn’t pay attention to them.

Maybe you’re a parent worn down by the demands of life.
Maybe you’re a bonus mom too who beats herself up trying to figure out how to do this bonus parenting business.
Maybe you’re single and know exactly what I’m talking about from watching nieces or nephews or cousins.

Whatever your situation, I hope you have moments where you step back and observe the ordinary become extraordinarily beautiful.

Confession: I love the TV show Nashville.

I’ll sit here patiently while you judge me.

Love is, perhaps, a strong word for my feelings toward the show, but I watch it regularly even though it is horribly cheesy at times – particularly when Rayna takes the stage in her seriously overrated voice and her awkward dance moves.

Just don’t get me started on…

Scarlett’s whining which makes me want to put a gag in her mouth…
and Juliette’s self-loathing that makes me want to make bad decisions…
and Avery’s martyrdom which makes me want to shout, “Get off the cross! We need the wood!”

It has some good music {typically not performed by Rayna James}. And it has Deacon who 1) has such a cool name I gave it to my dog and 2) is not unfortunate to look at.  And so I watch it almost every week.

I was watching it recently when Deacon [sigh] said to bemoaning Scarlett:

“You’re fighting because you’re in pain.”

That sentence hit me softly in a familiar place where hurt had landed. I let it roll around in my head.

“You’re fighting because you’re in pain.”

It might be Nashville, but it was truth.

In our inability to constructively communicate hurt in our hearts, it comes boiling to the surface in anger.

We hurt those we love because we are hurting.

We stab them with words we don’t mean.
We injure them with our hate.
We slice them with huffs and puffs and sighs.

It doesn’t matter if the pain is physical, mental, or spiritual: There is friction in our hearts and bodies and minds.

It burns and throbs and aches and screams.
It bites and pounds and smarts and stings.

Relentlessly, it beats down our facades.  We lash out only to then be surprised when the person we just injured retaliates from their own set of pain.

So…how do we handle our pain before it hurts others?

I don’t know the answer, but I’m almost positive it is not easy whatever it is, because, let’s face it, easy is not God’s priority: Refining us is.

Durn it.

And it is in the pain where we are refined.

That makes me want to cuss.

And yet in some weird way, it makes me want to worship because I understand, as does the US Marine Corp who coined it:

Pain in weakness leaving the body.

And when the weakness leaves, strength takes its place.

So, don’t fight the pain.

Feel it.
Scream it.
Shout it.

But direct it to the One who allowed it and to the One who loves you perfectly and completely.

Your words won’t offend Him.
Your sobs won’t surprise Him.
Your grief won’t repulse Him.
He will not think you irreverent.

Let the Healer heal your pain.
Let His word be a balm to Your soul.
Let His character be Your comfort.
Let His Justice be Your confidence.

Maybe by suppressing the pain, we are prolonging it by not giving our wounds space to heal.  The wound remains raw and bleeding. Maybe if we experience the pain, letting it rise and fall, we’ll find the brokenness mended and that strength, indeed, has taken its place.