Category: Blog

About a month ago, our appliances went on strike. It started with the washing machine flooding twice (the second time right through the floor and into the store room in the basement). Next the dryer started making a horrible sound like someone had shoved boots into it. And finally, the oven just straight up said “NOPE” and stopped even preheating.

I married a brilliant man with a very mechanical mind. We deal with broken appliances in two very different ways, as evidenced by these pictures:

Soon the washer and dryer were up and running. But the oven confounded him. Nothing was blatantly wrong, and ordering a bunch of expensive parts might still leave us with a cold oven that was basically a glorified storage box.

So we bit the bullet, went to Lowe’s, and ordered a shiny new oven. And while we were at it, we upgraded a bit. Switched to gas, and got a double oven.

You guys. A double oven has been my dream since the moment I saw one in real life. Think of all of the cookies! Think of Thanksgiving, a turkey roasting away in one oven, a row of pies in the other.

We waited for three long weeks for that oven to come in. And when it finally did, I sat in the kitchen, reading the instruction manual (because of course I did) and pondered what to make to christen our shiny new appliance.

It was an important decision. For the past ten years, I have explored baking as a ministry, an act of self-care, and a way to make friends and influence people. I’ve brought dozens of Christmas cookies to the office and made bundt cakes for sick friends. My first Thanksgiving with Mike I made not one, not two, but three different pies, and a cake. The week of our wedding, in a flurry of nervous energy I made pumpkin bread, filling the house with the smell of warm spices and chocolate that brought everyone from their corners of the house to sit still for a few minutes.

I finally settled in making chocolate chip cookies to break in the new oven — the same recipe I made for our wedding. For the month before we got married, I made more than 600 cookies (not including the many test batches).

I carefully creamed the butter and sugars, broke in the eggs and splashed in the vanilla. I measured out the dry ingredients by memory, always with a kitchen scale. I poured in the chocolate chips, the mixer shuddering in protest. And then I carefully scooped them out and smoothly slid the pans into the oven.

Soon the house was again filled with delicious smells. When I pulled them out 12 minutes later, I was transported back to those weeks before we were married. These cookies summed up that time. A little bit of work followed by a lot of sweetness.

I placed cookies on little white plates and Mike and I sat together and took a bite. Burned our tongues. And smiled.

I’ve been giving that new oven a workout in the weeks since we got it (to the extent that the repairman has already visited us). I’ve made banana chocolate chip muffins and s’mores cookies and peach pie.

For Mike’s birthday I tucked a dutch oven filled with little white pearl onions, mushrooms and chunks of meat, all smothered in red wine into the bottom oven, and a birthday cake in the top one.

And this weekend, we will fill our home with friends and I will fret and read too many cookbooks and cooking blogs and I will finally settle on something to feed the hearts and souls and stomachs of those who gather in our kitchen.

Well, I certainly didn’t intend to not write anything for the past week. I have some thoughts swirling around in my head, but nothing quite “stuck.” So, I was faced with a conundrum. Do I abandon my “Monday lists” idea after just one week? Or do I stick with it and try to “do better” this week?

I decided I didn’t want to give up on the lists after-all, so here we go! This will be a little “deeper” one than most weeks will likely be 🙂

Weeks after Mike and I began dating, I knew I would marry him. I knew that we needed to lay a strong foundation, but I felt a connection with him, an easiness, that made me believe I would thrive as his wife.

Over and over this past year, there have been so many little moments when I have looked at Mike and literally laughed at these bizarre ways we are connected in random, beautiful ways. Here are the top 10!

10. He likes dry erase boards. This is actually the incident that inspired this list. Mike and I have been talking about going on a road trip for weeks. We mapped it out a few weeks ago, but needed to actually sit down, draw it all out, decide where we’re staying, etc. Last night, we decided to buckle down and do the planning. I was finishing cleaning up the dinner dishes, when I saw Mike walk into our room with a dry erase board. You guys. Dry erase boards are one of my love languages. I mapped out my entire thesis on one in grad school. I feel incredibly accomplished after plotting out something difficult, erasing and moving and erasing again, my fingers stained with marker (I rarely use an eraser). He speaks my language, people.

9. We watch CBS Sunday Morning together. Before I met Mike, I literally knew of one other person under 50 who watched CBS Sunday Morning news. I literally used to set my alarm to watch it on Sunday mornings. It’s all of the human interest news without any of the politics. Every Sunday morning, we get up. make some toast and coffee and spend the morning with Jane Pauley. It’s bliss.

8. He runs circles around me — literally. The first time Mike and I ran together, we realized something quickly. I am a trotter. He is not. My short little legs churned under me at a pace that was literally painful to him. What was his solution? Not to leave me in the dust (which, honestly, I would have been okay with), but to run big looping circles around me so we could run “together.” It was sweet and entertaining and I promptly made him stop after one run.

7. We were both okay with the Game of Thrones ending. I know, it’s controversial. But we were both okay with the series finale of Game of Thrones. Maybe we’ve just both lived enough life to understand that people are defined by both strides and stumbles. So while I wouldn’t say we both loved it, we were both satisfied enough.

6. HE introduced ME to Lizzo. I am an unabashed fan of Lizzo. But it’s a little known fact that Mike is the person who introduced me to this gem. I don’t want to out him too much, but he knows a lot of lyrics to a lot of her songs. I’m just saying.

5. He had a fully stocked spice shelf BEFORE I moved in. Ladies, find yourself a man who knows how to cook! It doesn’t mean that he has to be a chef, but he needs to know how to take care of himself. And for me, that means I swooned a little when I saw some Penzey’s spices in his cabinet!

4. We both hate olives. This may not seem like a big deal, but olives are the ONLY food that I literally pick out of things. I need a man in my life who could understand that kind of hatred.

3. Have you seen my porch swing though? I am an idea person. Mike is an execution person. That means when I told him I would love one of those GIANT porch swing beds, he made it happen. It’s one of my favorite things about our dynamic. How well we play to each other’s strengths. I think it. He builds it. And then I decorate it (yay throw pillows!)

2. He is the goofiest dancer on the planet. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been listening to Lizzo, getting ready for work, and seen Mike dancing across the room towards me. Our future child will be saved from Mike’s and my shared awkwardness and bad dancing if he or she is adopted. And even then the nurture might kick in.

1. Two words. Mac & Cheese. When Mike and I got married, we decided the theme of our wedding would be “Mike and Brandy’s Favorite Things.” Which was really just permission to do whatever the heck we wanted. And that meant a build your own mac & cheese bar. I still remember sitting next to Mike, surrounded by our friends and family, eating macaroni and cheese and thinking “I have never been happier.”

In short, we’re not perfect, but there are so many moments each day that I think “I didn’t even know life could be like this.” I had a rich, full life before Mike and I were married. But now it is rich and full in so many different ways.

Mostly full of mac & cheese though.

In an effort to keep some motivation with my blog, I am going to try posting a “top 10” list every Monday. It’s kind of the equivalent to “never miss a Monday” but writing not the gym. And if it’s something I don’t have to think about as hard, maybe it’ll work 😉

Top 10 Things to do on a Perfect Weekend (plus bonus points!)

10. Take naps. Preferably one each day. Bonus points if one of them is outside on your porch swing.

9. Go to the farmer’s market. Hunt for fresh tomatoes that are specifically marked “home grown.” Squeal with delight when you found lumpy, misshapen ones that still have dirt on them. Bonus points if the farmer tries to explain why they’re dirty and you interrupt him and say “Oh, no, they’re PERFECT!”

8. Go on a hike. I know, it’s not lazy, but it really helps fuel the need for #10. Bonus points if you get lost at least twice but you don’t even care because you have nowhere else to be.

7. Eat cake. Your goal is to make the cake on Friday. Then finish it by Sunday night. So pace yourself accordingly. Bonus points for sprinkles.

6. Make a meal that takes hours (but is very hands off). A perfect example is beef bourguignon. Just a little prep work, but then you pour in a bottle of red wine and stick the dutch oven in the oven and let it fill your house with delicious smells. Bonus points if you can serve it on mashed potatoes.

5. Read a book. Preferably a mindless novel. One that you can take with you on aforementioned porch swing and read and nap and read and nap. Bonus points if you finish your book. But no shame if you don’t!

4. Make a charcuterie board. They’re the best. Just raid your pantry for all things meat, cheese and snacky. Put it on a cutting board. It’s basically glorified snack foods with a fancy name. Bonus points for each kind of cheese. Because, cheese.

3. Listen to good music. You get to define good. Be sure to sing along. Bonus points if its live music.

2. Find one project you can do beginning to end. Maybe it’s unloading the dishwasher or planting flowers or cleaning the bedroom. Or maybe it’s hanging shelves in your bedroom. Bonus points if your finished project makes you feel like you’re really awesome at life.

1. Tell someone “I love you.” It could your best friend or spouse or dog. It could be in person, the phone or a text. No bonus points needed.

Today is this man’s birthday.

If you know me, you know I love birthdays. Probably more than an adult should. I love presents and cake and celebrations.

I also love this man.

But. He does not love birthdays. He doesn’t want any gifts or balloons or streamers. I finally dragged out of him what he would like for a special birthday dinner (beef bourguignon) and cake (yellow cake with chocolate icing, of course!) I HAD to get him a gift, but don’t worry, it’s small and simple. I won’t even put a ribbon on the gift bag.

Mike’s birthday has been a lesson in loving him well. Because that’s just it. I’m a gifts person. A celebration person.

But, stay with me, this is revolutionary: Mike’s birthday is not about me.

So I am learning to love him in the way he needs to be loved. The way he feels it the most deeply. I will write words of affirmation* in his birthday card, and I will speak my celebrations of him, instead of wrapping them in pretty paper.

I will put aside my party hat for him. It messes my hair up anyway.

*In case you couldn’t tell, we got have four copies of Gary Chapman’s book “The Five Love Languages” on our bookshelf. I’m hardcore gifts, he’s definitely words of affirmation. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it. It’s a really enlightening study of how to love and be loved!

My journey as a single woman in church has always been complicated. As a teenager, I was taught to wait for true love — but the focus was on the waiting, not the true love.

As a college student, I was taught the rules of waiting — specifically, both feet on the ground when a boy was in your dorm room, and an overhead light on (none of this dim lamp nonsense). Only, there were no boys coming to my dorm room.

In my 20s, the single women around me prayed for their husbands with passion and fervor. Those prayers caught in my throat, and I berated myself for my lack of faith. I eventually stopped praying those prayers for myself, but found deep hope that dear friends prayed them for me.

By the time I got to my 30s, the church stopped knowing what to do with me. I felt vaguely broken. Most of my friends were married, but when I asked if I could join a “young marrieds” group because those people were my peers, I was told no, because I might “make the wives uncomfortable.”

I am intensely aware of the fact that I was a whole person before I got married. And while my path through singleness has made me the wife I am today, being a wife was never the focus. I traveled, I bought a house, I went to grad school, I wrote a memoir, all while I was single. Not so I would be a good wife one day, but so I would be a good PERSON some day. Who also happens to be a good wife.

I thought of all of this as I was trying to think of a name for this blog. I started by googling for quotes about love and finding love, and I felt my stomach knot up when I saw all of the quotes about “you don’t find love, it finds you,” or “once yous top looking for what you want, you find what you need.”

Those were the messages I had been fed my whole life. And they all made me feel broken. Like I was doing something wrong. Even now as I type them out I can literally feel my chest tighten with that old, crippling fear.

So when I stumbled upon this poem, by the poet Atticus, I felt that pressure lift off my my chest.

Let us embrace these clumsy hearts of ours. Embrace the mystery, the beauty and the journey.

Embrace the dance. Even when you don’t know where your feet should go.

A few weeks ago, I started writing again.

I suppose you can’t say that I ever stopped writing. My day-job is writing, and every day I sit in my office and put words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs and paragraphs into pages.

But nothing personal for a very long time.

That’s why, a few months ago, I signed up for a writing workshop. I clicked register, wrote a check and committed to bring 15 pages of writing for five strangers to read.

I was utterly terrified.

I didn’t have 15 pages of writing. Heck, I didn’t have five pages of writing. I had a few scribbled ideas, but nothing of substance.

The week after I signed up for the writing workshop, I sat down at my new desk in my new home. My new husband gave me a kiss on the cheek and I told him I’d see him in an hour. And for the next 60 minutes, I stared at a blank screen. I literally typed nothing. I stumbled out of the room and when he asked how it went, I shrugged. I couldn’t admit that I had nothing.

This went on for a few weeks. Shut myself in my office, set a timer for 60 minutes, write nothing, shuffle back out into the living room. It was a disaster.

It took me about a month to identify the two things keeping me from writing.

First, I believed I was broken. That I couldn’t write anymore. After 8 hours at work, I often felt like a failure. And I couldn’t switch from bad writer to good.

And the second thing was that all of my brilliant sticky-noted ideas weren’t what I needed to write about. I needed to write about all of the things on my heart. Literally. I needed to write about the broken heart that had healed. The healed heart that found love. And the love that was waiting just outside that closed door.

Three weeks before the writing workshop I started getting up at 5:15 a.m. My husband would lure me out of bed with a steaming cup of coffee and I would join him on the couch. While he read and did his Bible study, I finally began to write.

At 5:15 in the morning I wasn’t a broken writer yet. I was just a tired one. And once I gave in to writing about love, love took over.

So this is the next step in that journey. A shiny new blog in which I will write about love in all its forms. Love lost and love found. A heart wounded and one renewed. A clumsy heart falling and searching and healing.

I’m glad you’re on the journey with me!

Part of my journey to my husband was the flaming out of a 3+ year relationship with a man we’ll call D. I wrote this about my first Easter after our breakup.

After my first heartbreak, I found that I couldn’t walk into church without crying. It was like a Pavlovian experience. Bell rings, dog drools. Sit in pew, girl cries.

Church hadn’t always been a safe space for me to grieve. In churches I had visited in the past, there was a definite vibe of “keep your shit together.” You smiled a lot. If someone said “how are you?” they didn’t really want to hear anything beyond “Good, and yourself?”

But this church, which I had started attending around the time my ex and I met, was a place that encouraged authenticity. And authenticity is messy. And I was nothing if not messy. Literally. I lost count of all the times people passed me tissues because I was somehow incapable of remembering to bring them with me.

I was a snotty, tear-stained mess.

But what really pushed it over the edge was Lent. Lent is a season in the church leading up to Easter. It is a season of preparing. Of sacred spaces and contemplation. It is 40 days of quieting your heart and pondering life in the desert. Lent comes from the same word as “lengthen” and in that season of my life, the days felt impossibly long. Eight hours of work felt impossible. And the nights at home felt long and empty. I went to bed at 8, but was up every few hours.

Lent is all about death and resurrection. And I needed my relationship with D to die. To burn off. Which made Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, particularly meaningful. I started the service sitting in my pew, quietly crying as always, waiting to stand in front of the priest, for him to dip his finger in the little pot of ashes, and smear them in a cross on my forehead. It felt like an outward sign of all that was churning in my heart. Of the way my love for D was burning off. Leaving me filled with ashes and soot.

Then there was the foot washing service on the Thursday before Easter. It’s an uncomfortable service that always reminds me that receiving love has always felt a little uncomfortable for me. I’m far better at giving it. And as the priest cupped warm water in his hands and poured it over my feet, I cried again. I had expected so little from my ex. And had poured out so much. He was content with that. And I was broken from it.

The next night, the sanctuary was dark as the Good Friday service began. It’s the night of Lent when sorrow and joy crash together. It’s a day of contradictions. The day we commemorate a willing sacrifice that was bloody and cruel and, ultimately, beautiful. Even the name feels odd. Why would you call a day of the death of a Savior “Good?” It’s a reminder that things aren’t always good or bad. Light or dark. Sad or happy. They can be both.

On the night of the Easter Vigil, I started crying in the car in the parking lot. This was the night that hit me the hardest. This was the season my heart felt stuck in. Something had died. And now I was just waiting. Not sure what was coming next. Believing the promises that God had something for me in life. But having no idea what those fulfilled promises would look like.

It was dark again in the sanctuary, like a tomb. We sang slow songs together, read scripture, and prayed. There were seats set up on the side if you wanted someone to pray for you. I sat in one, and couldn’t even speak. But I didn’t need to. A woman stood over me, her hands cupped on my head, and she whispered a prayer. I don’t remember the words she spoke. I just remember feeling like something was cracking open inside of me. I cried so hard that my shirt was wet. My head ached. My lips were chapped and my cheeks burned.

And then the next morning, the celebration of Easter. I joined the loud songs of praise. But in my heart, I was still in the tomb. I cried again as the priest stood in front of the church and said “I know some of you aren’t here yet. I know that some of you are waiting for that resurrection in your own life. It may not be here yet. But you can believe it’s coming.”

That’s where I was. Stuck between death and new life. And that’s why I needed to be here. To believe new life was possible. Even as the old life was actively dying. The ashes still smoking.

Just wanted to thank Rich Martinson* for creating this BEAUTIFUL video of our special day. There are so many things I love about it, but the thing that makes me the happiest is how he captured the JOY we felt!

*If you’d like Rich’s contact info, let me know! He’s amazing!

Recently I went on the record proclaiming 2017 a dumpster fire. And I stand by that. It was an incredibly difficult year for me. There were rejections. Health scares. Personal crises. I cried a lot. I screamed a lot. Buried myself under the covers of my bed and vowed to never, ever come out of my room.

But I did come out of my room. Because you always do.

Then New Year’s eve came, I counted down, I stood in the yard with my friend and we toasted and sang as much as we could remember of “Auld Lang Syne,” and I bid 2017 goodbye. Good riddance. Bring on 2018!

Guys. You may be shocked by this. But flipping the calendar did not magically make everything in my life better.

I joke, but not really. Because I think that deep down I thought that a new year would somehow erase all of afflictions the previous 12 months had brought.

There is certainly something beautiful about the fresh start of a new year. And I am still holding tight to that. But it would be foolishness to pretend like the challenges of 2017 didn’t happen. I bear the scars of 2017. But I also bear the lessons of 2017.

I thought of that this morning at church. One of the songs we sometimes sing has the lyric “When all of a sudden, I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory…”

And my tired little heart cried out, yes! That’s it!

My afflictions did not disappear in 2018. But they can be eclipsed by something greater. Bigger. Lovelier. By glory.

I need to let the glory of 2018 overshadow the trials.. Because the trials will come. I do pray and hope they are not as relentless as they felt last year. I am longing for a year of rest and rebuilding. But when bad things happen, may they dwell in the shadow of the good.

May fear be eclipsed by boldness.

Sickness eclipsed by healing.

Loneliness eclipsed by friendship.

Insecurity eclipsed by reassurance.

And most importantly…

Hate eclipsed by love.

This past December, I went with some friends to see the Christmas lights at the botanical gardens in Denver. It’s one of my favorite things to do at the holidays. There’s something about twinkling lights and cinnamon roasted nuts and breaths turned to white puffs in the air.

It was one of the last Saturdays before Christmas though, and we had to push through the crowds, shoulders and elbows bumping.

But the crowd gradually thinned out and we crossed over a covered bridge strung with thousands of white lights.

“Wait,” I said. “Look back.”

And we turned around and looked back over the bridge. People moved around us as we stood still, completely in the way. Facing the wrong direction. But it was beautiful. Away from the crowded bridge, a few steps past it, we could take it all in. The curtain of shimmering lights. The curve of the bridge. The ice sparkling on the wood.

“Everyone forgets to look back,” I whispered in the cold air.

We’re trained to look forward. Eye on the prize. Don’t dwell in the past. And there’s truth in that. But what about looking back to see where you’ve come from. What you’ve traveled through. To celebrate the journey.

Is there a way to rejoice in the past without dwelling in it?

I believe there is.

When I look back to where I was one, two, five years ago, I see a lot of pain. But I see a lot of beauty. Friends who cheered for me. Relationships that surprised me. Strength I didn’t know I had.

I’ve fought hard to get to where I am. And sometimes, I need to turn around. Stop. Let the masses rush by me. And look at where I came from. 

The shimmering promises.

The curve of the path.

The sparkling truth.

Wait. Look back. Everyone forgets to look back.