(This is Jonathan hijacking Lesley’s blog for a post)

This past year has only confirmed and solidified what I already knew, that I have the most amazing wife ever.  Lesley I am sorry if my writing is not up to your blog’s level of quality, but hopefully you can see past my grammar mistakes and feel special on your 30^th birthday.

Lesley you care for me in a way I did not know possible.  You have nursed my physical needs, and been there for all the blood and guts without blinking an eye.  You have kept me on a good path mentally.  You have encouraged me relentlessly.  You have only deepened your relationship with God and in turn helped me with mine.  You have remained positive in the face of an angry storm named cancer.  You have done all this while raising, and raising very well, a six month old baby.

You clean up poop (Anna’s), throw-up (mine), and all the other messes that have come with a baby and a husband who sometimes acts like one.  You continue to be a good friend to the awesome women in your life.  I love that you are able to use your incredible gift of writing more and more.  You have had to put aside your own wants and desires for a time and for that I am forever grateful.

This past year I have fallen deeper and deeper in love with you.  We’ve been dating or married for over 10 years and I know today more than ever that you are my perfect fit.  I love you, and am excited to see where your 30’s will take you and us.

Now, to all of Lesley’s readers out there, here is a small request.  Knowing how Lesley is so good at encouragement I wanted to give something back to her on her birthday.  I would ask that if you read this leave a comment about Lesley.  It can be as simple as Happy Birthday or as long as this letter.  Let your words be an encouragement to Lesley on her 30^th Birthday.

P.S.  Isn’t Lesley sexier than ever!

We watched The Bachelor last night. It was the third time we’ve watched this season which is a lot because both of us hate it in a very judgmental we don’t like reality tv sorta way.

The entire time the show is on, I say the same things over and over:

“I CANNOT believe we’re watching this.”

“Ew- seriously? She just said that? Ew! She’s so fake. We can’t watch this.”

“This is disgusting TV. Do these women really think this is love? They must have their heads screwed on the wrong way! (Can you pass me the gummy bears, love?)”

“What is wrong with Americans that they’re entertained by this nonsense?”

“We should NOT be watching this. Let’s turn it off.”

This is what Jonathan says:

“Her eyebrows are really weird.”

Usually when we watch TV at night, one of us has our laptop open. It’s a bad habit. (Do you or your husbands do this too?) It’s like we can’t even fully concentrate on television…we have to be bombarding ourselves with multiple forms of entertainment at the same time.

To give us some credit, and so that we don’t appear to be total idiots, we don’t actually watch that much TV. But, when we do, it’s not a cuddle fest the way it could and should be.

Last night though? We wrapped up in a blanket, held hands, touched each other’s hair, and watched The Bachelor in all its insanity.

I’ve decided a couple of things:

Kacie B is his girl.

and

Sometimes reality TV is just what the doctor ordered.

p.s. That couch above does not belong to me. It’s up there because if I tried to take a professional looking photo of my own couch, I’d fail. The above couch is from Pottery Barn. It’s pretty and comfy looking, right? And much better than me posting a yucky picture of BEN or whatever the heck his name is.

This is the sixth and final installment of a series on how Jonathan and I met, fell in love, and got married. You can start the series by clicking here.)

Eight months after we were engaged, Jonathan and I officially tied the knot.  The months leading up to our wedding were full of typical distractions—dress hunting and cake sampling being the most fun of the bunch.

I lived in a little house overlooking the ocean with Lisa, Beall and Beth. Three of the four of us were engaged, so our house had a constant flow of bridal magazines and fiancées. Jonathan lived across town in a house full of rambunctious guys.

On August 14, 2005 I met him at the chapel for the second time. I still remember when the doors to the sanctuary opened, and our friends and family rose to greet my dad and I. The tears, oh the tears, as I walked that aisle.

(I just love this next photo. Doesn’t it just seem to say, “Can you PLEASE leave us alone for a second? I’d like to makeout with my new wife.”)

Jonathan and I worked very hard to plan a meaningful and God centered ceremony.  Neither of us are musically inclined but I knew I wanted my friend Erin to sing. A few months before the wedding I heard a Nichole Nordeman song called Gratitude. Even though the song isn’t exactly a typical wedding song I felt very strongly it needed to be part of our ceremony. In fact, Erin later admitted she thought the song was an odd choice at first.  The song is centered around hard times; in asking for mercy. I knew that every couple faces adversity at some point in marriage, and I loved how the song reminded us to thank God for the ways He provides and for the ways He teaches us to hunger after Him.

Send some rain, would You send some rain?

‘Cause the earth is dry and needs to drink again
And the sun is high and we are sinking in the shade
Would You send a cloud, thunder long and loud?
Let the sky grow black and send some mercy down
Surely You can see that we are thirsty and afraid
But maybe not, not today
Maybe You’ll provide in other ways
And if that’s the case . . .

Daily bread, give us daily bread
Bless our bodies, keep our children fed
Fill our cups, then fill them up again tonight
Wrap us up and warm us through
Tucked away beneath our sturdy roofs
Let us slumber safe from danger’s view this time
Or maybe not, not today
Maybe You’ll provide in other ways
And if that’s the case . . .

We’ll give thanks to You
With gratitude
A lesson learned to hunger after You
That a starry sky offers a better view if no roof is overhead, and if we never taste that bread

For over six years since that August day, we have been given more than just daily bread. You’ve gotten to watch our love story unfold on these blog pages. There have been cozy apartments and worldwide travel, and jobs that pay our bills, and blessed bodies and even a little babe tucked under our new sturdy roof.

And now, a different chapter…a chapter where we are looking out on a cloudy sky as we pray for merciful blessings to come out of pain we don’t really want to live through.

Recently I’ve been reading the book of Ruth. It’s been a great book for me to read because it tells a story of God’s mercy. While reading Ruth I found a John Piper study that’s been a nice accompaniment, and through that study I discovered an old hymn called God Moves in a Mysterious Way (William Cowper). Here’s a line that stood out to me: You fearful saints, fresh courage take: the clouds you so much dread are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head.

I love thinking back to our wedding, and to a song that admitted, and celebrated, the tough parts of life. When I discovered Cowper’s hymn and noticed the similarity in words to the Nichole Nordeman song, I felt confirmation that we are currently standing under big dark clouds of mercy that shall break blessings over us. In the tough moments I have found myself praying over and over: “Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”

So, that’s where our love story is today. We are currently living the part of our vows where it says- “in sickness and in health”-and I think we both consider the job to be the toughest thing we’ve yet faced together. But, that’s the thing—we’re in this life together—and there’s no where else, and no one else, I’d rather be with.

This is the fifth installment of a six part series on how Jonathan and I met, fell in love, and got married. You can start the series by clicking here.)

There are all sorts of stories I could tell about our dating years—like the time he surprised me with a date at the Biltmore for my 20^th birthday, or the time we dressed up as Mario and Luigi for a school dance, or the time we hiked the Grand Canyon with Matt and Anne, or the time I flew to Washington to see his home, or the time he sent me love letters to China, or all the mix CDs and long talks on the big rock in the middle of campus.

Pretty soon we were seniors in college, and I chose to spend a semester far away from him in Europe. We’d both been kind of torn up about it. I didn’t want to deny my travel dreams for a boy; but he wasn’t prepared to join me there. We agreed I should go.

Remember Scott? Jonathan’s bus buddy from our freshman year? Scott was on my trip to Europe along with many of our other dear friends. Lisa and Chase were there—also falling in love—and Sharon—who was missing Sam. I had Mich and Brownie, Beall and Nicole, Becky and Samantha and Elise and Rachel. We were like family and yet I still missed Jonathan. Scott, our group’s elected president, would hand out mail from home whenever we arrived at a new destination. There would always be a letter from Jonathan, and Scott would smirk as he handed it to me. Often he’d beg to open it himself. I never agreed.One day, while walking through the streets of Rome, Scott began boldly asking me how much I missed Jonathan. Something in his questions pushed my heart to a place I hadn’t ever let it wander before.  Later that day I snuck away from the group, found a payphone on the side of the street, and called Jonathan. When he answered I told him I wanted to marry him. He was very quiet for a while, and then, a slow and soft laugh. A smile heard audibly. A confirmation at what I already knew.

It would be a year before he planned a proposal I’d never forget.  You can read all about that proposal here.

The final installment of this series, our wedding and our life now, can be found by clicking here. 

This is the fourth installment of a six part series on how Jonathan and I met, fell in love, and got married. You can start the series by clicking here.)

After our romantic rendezvous seeing U2, things did NOT heat up at the pace Jonathan was hoping for. Besides our very long and flirtatious Old Testament study dates, nothing changed. By now, this doesn’t surprise you. (I know, I know- you’re thinking- WHEN is this love saga going to end? Patience, okay? I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying!)

I’m going to skip quickly over the embarrassing parts: in early December 2001 Jonathan held my hand, on my bunk bed, while a bunch of us were watching Home Alone 2. (How old were we? Junior high age?)

Apparently, the handholding gave him courage to ask me to winter formal.  As evidenced by this picture, it was a very romantic evening of Jonathan feeding me butter sticks:

Later I learned that Jonathan had made a little promise to himself on formal night. He was going to kiss me. NO MATTER WHAT. While walking me back to my dorm room, in mid conversation about nothing related to kissing, he stopped. I stopped. And then he turned and kissed me.

He says I kissed back, which is why he went for it again. I was so shocked, I don’t really remember.

Jonathan went back to his dorm room prouder than a parent on college graduation day. I went back to my dorm room and cried. Then, I did something very mature. I avoided him for two full days.

Avoiding someone for two full days on a campus like Westmont is nearly impossible. I literally had to drive to Los Angeles with my girlfriends just so I didn’t run into Jonathan.  By Monday night he’d caught on to me. Amy had told him I was freaking out, and then she told me I needed to pull it together. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I told her so.

Jonathan showed up in my room that night in a way I’d never seen before. Gone was the guy who gave me my space, who let me call the shots, who waited patiently. Gone was the boy-next-door/I’ll-be-your-best-friend charade. Instead, he laid down the law:

“I’m tired of you messing around with my heart. I want to date you. If you don’t want to date me, I don’t want to hang out. It hurts too much,” he said.

I cried. He left.

About an hour later I ran to the prayer chapel, a beautiful white building in the middle of campus where I always went when I needed answers. I’d curl up on the floor between the pews and journal or whisper. At night the lights illuminate whoever is in there. That night, as I ran up the cobbled path to its door, I caught Jonathan sitting on one of the pews, his head between his hands.

He’d beat me there.

I went back to my dorm room, the image of him so clear in my mind…and still so clear in my mind ten years later.  I thought about my fears of dating him, of taking a risk that I could get hurt again versus the bigger risk of losing him all together. And, I just knew. I knew he was worth the risk.

A few nights later he took me on our first official date as boyfriend and girlfriend.  We sat in the candlelight of La Playa Azul, the first of many romantic dates he’d take me on over the last ten years. Here he is, looking so smug again. Love that hand on his hip!

We gave it a shot, and never looked back.

(Think I’m done? I’m not! There’s still two parts left! I can do that. It’s my blog, after all. Read the next installment here.)

This post is the third in a series of posts about how Jonathan and I fell in love. You can read the first post about how we met by clicking here or the second post here. 

Back in the spring, before things began heating up between Jonathan and I, we decided that together with our friend Rob we’d buy tickets to see U2 at the Staples Center. None of us had seen the band in concert and we’d have to wait months before the anticipated concert date arrived. By fall 2001 a lot of things in the world had changed. Jonathan confessed he wanted to date me. Rob decided to sell his ticket. And, worst of all, two huge towers had fallen from Manhattan’s skyline.

Just a few weeks after September 11, on a cold and rainy Tuesday, the long awaited concert date arrived. Jonathan and I ditched class and slowly made our way down Highway 101 in my Pontiac Sunbird convertible. It was a scary little car in the rain, so he drove. We sat in the chaos of Los Angeles’ congested freeways, excited for the band we’d both been waiting to see but also a bit nervous. I’d seriously considered selling my ticket after learning Rob sold his. I loved spending time with Jonathan, but things were different now that I knew he liked me.  We were just friends, but was there a spark? And, more importantly, could he be the man other boyfriends had not been?

I remember analyzing—“Is this a date?”—and then assuring myself  it wasn’t because we’d planned it so long ago, and I’d paid my own way.

But it was a date, and I knew it as soon as we sat down at our nosebleed seats and gazed down at the heart shaped stage. I knew it when, before the lights went dim, he leaned in close for a photo. And I knew it when the stadium went black, the camera flashes lit up like stars, my heartbeat immediately joined the drum’s familiar rhythm of expectation.

A lot of moments about that concert are still clear to me, but nothing sticks out more than the song One. I’d never heard it until that night, and it begins differently than other U2 songs I grew up listening to. There is no lengthy prelude, no building anticipation. It’s slow and lacks the familiar drums.

Screens dropped down as the song started and names appeared. They belonged to nearly 3,000 people presumed dead in the September 11 attacks. Their names scrolled quickly, one after the next, as a haunting voice filled the arena.

One love, one blood

One life you got to do what you should

One life with each other

Sisters

Brothers

One life but we’re not the same

We get to carry each other

A lot of people think One is a song about romance, to which Bono has responded, “Are you mad?” Instead, the band members have said, “It is a song about coming together…It’s not saying we even want to get along, but that we have to get along together in this world if it is to survive. It’s a reminder that we have no choice.”

My favorite part of the song, a line I have come to love since that moment, is when Bono sings, “We get to carry each other.” We don’t have to carry each other, but we get to. We get to offer grace, if we so choose.

For a brief time after 9/11, we looked up from our familiar, secure lives and realized the world as we knew it had changed.  I think our nation chose to carry each other that fall.  I certainly felt this spirit of unity in an arena filled with thousands—even if it was just for a fleeting moment. And, I felt a connection with a boy who’d been pursuing me so long, who recognized my fears, and offered me grace to heal in the ways I needed. I would still need more time, but that night was when I first felt something bigger than the music itself.

After the concert, the night sky surprisingly clear, we rolled down the top of my convertible. I turned up the heater as we cruised back up the highway towards Santa Barbara. I wanted to reach for his hand, but didn’t. Later he told me he wanted to reach for mine, but didn’t either.  On the radio, U2 played softly. Life was slipping into a new season again. I looked out the window and thought about where we’d come from and where we might go.

{There are so many things wrong with this picture. Let's start with my overalls.}

This post is the second of a series. You can read the first post about how we met by clicking here.

When you go to a Christian college like Westmont, you quickly learn that many people are there to find a mate. Upon arriving, our RA gave us the rundown on dating:

1. Non Committal Take Outs (NCTOs): A section plans a group activity, and each person sets up their roommate.  It’s horribly flirty, somewhat awkward, and usually quite fun.
2. Dorm Date: A section of girls asks a section of boys on a group date. People aren’t matched up one-on-one, everyone just hangs out together.
3. Traditional Date: Guy takes girl out to coffee. Both parties act like they aren’t actually on a date. It goes nowhere…probably because both guy and girl act as awkwardly as we look in the above picture.

In January 2001, the start of the spring semester, my section of girls began planning a “NCTO” to Six Flags, Magic Mountain. Me, being dramatic and mopey, could not think of a single boy I might want to date. Instead, I requested that Lori ask someone who would just be easy to spend time with, someone fun. Someone like Jonathan.

There is no better way to get to know someone than spending an entire day with them, screaming your head off, eating horrible food, and singing songs on the radio at the top of your lungs. At one point, as we were walking through the park, he began showing me how he could fake fall. I laughed so hard that I began peeing my pants! Fortunately, it wasn’t enough to show… and my pride and ego weren’t bruised any more than his knees were from the fake falls.

From that day forward we became fast friends—and that was it. Or at least, that’s what I thought. With him I felt safe to be myself; safe to laugh, to sing out loud, to be real.  There was chemistry, but it wasn’t the flirtatious kind. It was a comfortable friendship that existed from the beginning. Unlike other boys, there weren’t any games. I think that’s why I never believed he was chasing me; which was a good thing because at the time I didn’t want to be chased.

Later that spring, the real pursuit began. Jonathan borrowed his roommate’s car and asked to take me to Pascucci for A REAL DINNER DATE. Most normal 19 year old women would recognize that dinner alone with a man equals a date. But we went to Westmont, remember? And I was an idiot when it came to dating, remember? Oblivious to his intentions, I agreed. On the way back to campus he nervously shared his feelings for me. I can’t even remember what he said or how I responded, I just know I basically changed the subject and pretended he hadn’t said a thing. And, for some reason, he let me get away with this game.  I was in such denial that I didn’t even think anything of it when he “just happened to be coming to California” that summer. I remember my mother questioning his visit. “No boy from Seattle just drops by California unless he’s chasing a girl.”

Clearly my mother was much wiser to Jonathan’s intentions than I was.

And so, the chase continued until the fall of 2001 when everything started to change.

Read the next part of the series by clicking here. 

This month marks 10 years since Jonathan and I started dating, and 11 years since we met. And that, I believe, calls for a walk down memory lane. Yup, this gal is writing our love story.

As most good love stories will go, it started with an ordinary girl, an ordinary boy, and a big yellow school bus. He was 17, almost 18. She was 18, almost 19. He was single. She was not.

We were on our way to Forest Home during the first month of college. The weekend away was planned by student government as an opportunity to get to know other freshman. Lori and I decided to go together, and we plopped down on the bus in front of two clowns who appeared to be only interested in meeting girls. One such clown was Jonathan, and the other such clown was his friend, Scott.  They immediately began flirting with us. I don’t think they were flirting because they were interested in us. I think they were flirting because they were teenage boys and they would have flirted with any female who sat in front of them for a four-hour bus ride.

They asked if we were single. I told them I was dating a guy who was cute and drove a big truck. Obviously that made him cool. Jonathan told me it was obvious my boyfriend was gay.

For obvious reasons, it was not love at first sight.

For the remainder of that fall, Jonathan and I would occasionally see each other on Sunday nights at a Vespers service. He introduced me to some of his friends. He told me they met in a Dave Matthews Band chat room. I couldn’t tell if he was joking. (He was.) One Sunday night he asked about my “gay boyfriend.”

“He dumped me,” I said. I was basically devastated, but pretended not to be. He felt bad for asking, and told me so.

Before everyone headed home for the Christmas break, Jonathan and I ran into each other in the Page dorm main stairwell. Neither of us can remember why we were in the stairwell at the same time. My best educated guess would say that I was sitting on the steps talking to a girlfriend or “studying” while in actuality just hoping to watch all the Page boys bound up to their rooms. Jonathan and I chatted for awhile, and I remember thinking he was a good guy. A nice guy. A friend. After all, I was still mopey over a guy with a truck who dated me for a month, and then dumped me, all while I thought he was the love of my life.

Ahhhhh, the drama of being 18.

So, because of my broken heart, I’d made all sorts of ultimatums and covenants with God. I told God I was done with men breaking my heart. At the ripe age of 18, I’d had enough. I said, “God? You know what? I’m not dating anyone until that person is the man I’m going to marry. I’m not giving anymore kisses and ‘I love yous’ away.”

I still think the desire to guard my heart was a good one, but what I forgot at the time is how dating someone is usually the way to see if you want to marry that person…not the other way around.

Which is why I had a really hard time being convinced to date Jonathan. And that’s where the second part of our love story begins.

Read more by clicking here. 

There’s something I didn’t mention in my last post about friendship. Those pregnant girls I referred to? Well, I’m one of them.

I’ve been holding our little secret safe from the web since November. A part of me wanted to tell the whole world immediately because it seemed like too big of news to hold in. But, another part of me wanted to protect this little secret as long as possible…to hold it sacred between just Jonathan and I. With this secret came a lot of happiness, some fear, some sadness. There were days in the beginning when I didn’t recognize my own emotions, and I found comfort in not yet having to answer how I felt about such a huge change in our lives. We sat  in the quiet moment and soaked in the miracle of it all. I processed long and hard. I worried lots. I googled signs and symptoms, and searched for excuses as to why I wasn’t drinking alcohol. December was a long month full of transition and, inevitably, a lot of eating.

And now we are almost done with January. Last week my still-skinny-tummy got covered in goo just like I’ve seen so many times in the movies. We watched the little one dance around on a screen, proving this change is most certainly happening. It’s beginning to feel real now even though I look the same physically. The months will fly by until late July arrives and we bring home baby to a place with freshly painted walls, new ceiling fans, and a kitchen ready for visiting guests who want to cook, hold and cuddle.

Until then, I’m pretty sure we have just about every weekend booked with trips, unpacking, visitors, weddings, baby showers, birthday parties and church retreats. I plan to soak up this busy season and write all about it. Thanks for being part of our next big thing.

p.s. I took the above picture with my iPhone after opening a very appropriate fortune cookie just a few days after we found out about baby. Funny, right?

This is the story of how we got engaged. It’s a story I like telling, but have never fully told here. A rainy night like tonight, exactly five years later, seems like a perfect time to tell the tale.

We were sitting at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant when my cell phone rang. It was November 2004 and I’d just spent the entire weekend in San Clemente with friends. Jonathan was sitting next to me shoving down a huge burrito. My college roomate’s voice chirped up on the other end of the phone, “Guess what?! Long story short, I won a radio contest and the prize is a three day trip to New York City for two people. It’s all expenses paid plus a shopping spree. The only problem is it’s only for one particular weekend in December and Matt can’t go! So, I’m wondering, do you want to go with me?!”

My heart just about dropped down to the floor. I’d wanted to visit NYC at Christmas time ever since watching Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. And, all expenses paid? How could I say no?

None of my friends could believe my good luck, including Jonathan. A few weeks later, Anne emailed me my plane ticket along with a copy of hers. She’d fly from Chicago, where she lived, and I’d fly from Los Angeles.

On December 9 I said goodbye to Jonathan for the weekend. He was leaving that night to go out of town with friends. They’d be in the mountains, far far away from cell phone reception. We’d have to catch up when I returned. The next morning I boarded a bus to Los Angeles for my weekend getaway. Anne phoned while I was on my way and told me she’d arrived at the Chicago airport early. Her plane was overbooked so the airline offered her a voucher if she’d leave on an earlier flight. Could I just meet her at the hotel in Manhattan?

Six hours later I arrived at JFK. I called her when I landed for instructions. “The radio station got us transportation,” she said. “I’m at Rockefeller Center picking up our vouchers for tomorrow. The driver will know where to take you. Just change into dinner clothes and we can go straight to dinner.”

I changed in the airport bathroom, dropping my cell phone into the toilet during the process. It was one mistake that could have thrown the plan completely off course. Fortunately, I shook the phone off and turned it back on just long enough to write Anne’s number down. Then it died, again.

I walked down the airport concourse, found a driver holding a sign with my name on it, and confidently plopped myself into the back of a Lincoln towncar. This was the THE LIFE, I thought. He let me use his cell phone to call Anne. I watched a light rain fall as we inched closer to the city of lights. She was waiting for me anxiously.

When the driver pulled up to Rockefeller Center, I called Anne one more time. “Go up the steps and I’ll be right at the bottom of the tree. You can’t miss me,” she said.

And so I made my way up the steps, into the crowd, and into my boyfriend. What? Jonathan? What was HE doing here?

My mouth dropped at the sight of him, all dressed up on a new jacket and pants from J. Crew. He was beaming. I got closer and he dropped to one knee. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I do remember the rain beginning to fall as he asked me to be his wife. I don’t remember choking out the word YES. After peppering him with questions (“did you ask my dad?!?!”) we walked to St Patrick’s Cathedral where we stood in the back to soak up the sounds and scents of such a holy place.

That night he took me to One if by Land, Two if by Sea–one of New York City’s best restaurants. We called our parents in the taxi, and listened to Katie’s roommates cheer for us from their dorm room in Santa Barbara. Tolan sent us a bottle of wine to the restaurant, and we giggled like kids but pretended to be grownups. That night, alone in my room at the Hephzibah House, I woke up from a dream wondering if it was all real. I felt for the ring then got up in those cold sleepy hours and trudged to the bathroom for a look. Yup. Still there.

We took in New York that weekend in a way I will never forget: a carriage ride through Central Park, FAO Shwartz, The Rockettes’ Christmas Show at Radio City Music Hall, Macys, The Met, Ground Zero, the Empire State Building. It was, to sound cliche, a whirlwind of romance and adventure. The best part is that five years later, it remains as so.  I love my husband for wanting to give me a surprise I could never have hoped for or dreamed of myself. Pictures here.

photo credit to: szlea