James Bond Romance Antithesis

Our love
Is not a stampede of horses
Or tidal wave
Or explosion
Or fire
Or drug
Or battlefield
Or any other dangerous metaphor once scrawled madly into song.

Our love
Is rather
A quiet inhale
That takes in all of you –
Your breath from dinner
Your wrinkled shirt
Your five o’clock shadow
     Your aging body
       Your imperfect everything 
– and finds there

oxygen.

On meeting a new soul

I’ll never forget that morning.

I watched the sky outside turn from dark to gray to a quiet pink that illuminated every corner of our backyard.  I’d never been patient or alert enough to watch heaven make this transition; completing its daily ritual with a wakeful blue that triggers the hustle and bustle of the day. 

But this morning wasn’t like other mornings. There would be no hustle and bustle for me today; there would be only counting to twenty a thousand times with a thousand prayers of gratitude and pleas for strength in between.  There would be only a strawberry blonde and her dark curly-haired man, working together through each twenty-second count and kissing giddily and nervously when each one was over.  It was the beginning of a 24-hour long journey that would prove both exhausting and exhilarating.  It would end with us meeting our son. 

A thousand more twenty-second counts. A batch of cookies to distract my body. The blue started to fade from the sky when I questioned aloud whether I was capable, burying my head into a future father’s chest and soaking his t-shirt as we swayed back and forth and he whispered words of strength in my ear.  We felt heaven encircle us as the sky became gray again and my curly-haired man said a prayer – a blessing – that assured me in the most simple and beautiful way that my body was strong and prepared.  His words were close and far away at once – my yoga ball had become a raft in a clear and vast sea, bouncing gently as each crystal wave lapped against its sides.

The pink morning was a distant memory as the future father helped me into the car and drove me swiftly and silently through the black stillness of a sleeping town.  More twenty second counts. Four hands helping me out of the car.  A brief exam and whoops of joy as someone said the number “8.”  Counting faster now, struggling to focus and not flee, stepping into a steaming hot bathtub and letting a synergic team take over: a husband, two midwives, a doula, my body, my baby, and God.  My eyes were closed now, almost permanently, but I felt everyone’s indispensible presence with each new ice pack on my forehead, each whispered “I love you,” each soothing pressure point, each beat of a tiny heart, and each strained breath that left my body. 

Time was an illusion – it stood still and sped by and my body took over to do the work Mother Nature has trained it to do over a million years of sacred nights like this one.  I was a distant onlooker – There was a team of support, surrounding and coaching and holding and whispering to and kissing a frightened-looking strawberry blonde as she pushed and screamed and cried and mentally counted to twenty, merely out of habit now. 

And then it was over.  A tiny dark-haired person was placed gently into the strawberry blonde’s arms, and she was back inside her body, no longer an onlooker but a mother now, staring into a pair of wide and alert dusky eyes that stared calmly and curiously back.  I stroked his curly hair and rubbed my fingers across his rosy round cheeks. His smell was intoxicating and his skin was smooth and his features were tiny and perfect.  I could have laid in that now-cold water for hours more, locking eyes with this new person – my son – and telling him in a hoarse whisper a million times that I love him more than life. 

And now we’re a family and sometimes it’s as though I’m not in my own body again, but watching myself from the eyes of a little strawberry blonde girl whose dream of this life has always been too far away to see clearly until now: She watches as a strawberry blonde, grown-up mother puts the tiniest little body against hers to feed while she hums a Lithuanian lullaby. She smiles as the woman hands the tiny person to her grown-up, handsome, dark-haired husband, who begins to rock his son and read the same story aloud that he’s been reading to a growing belly for months now: “How to Train Your Dragon.” She wonders, does that strawberry blonde really have all this?  Does one life deserve this much love and happiness?  Is that person with her two dark-haired boys and dog and backyard really me?

After another late night, the strawberry blonde turns and sees the sky outside unveiling another perfect summer morning. She kisses a smooth, rosy forehead that has finally bobbed to sleep and inhales his fresh baby smell.  Deserving or not, it’s another one of those gifts that can only follow a long dark night.

World, meet Clark.

Memories of puppy love

Focus.

Geography test Tuesday.  I’ll write that in my planner. Later.
We stayed up talking until 4:30 this morning.  I wonder if he made it to work on time.  The way his hands feel resting on my leg while staring at me with those deep, brown eyes…

Focus.

What’s the difference between political realism and constructivism?  Houghton is looking at me like he wants me to volunteer a comment. I raise my hand and share an idea from Alexander Wendt.  We could be together right now. We could run away to the beach for a day.  I’d let his hand go up, up, up my leg…

Focus.

We’re on to liberalism.  The democratic peace theory. Current explorations in globalization and interdependence.  We talked about politics. Movies. Us.  I’m picturing us in an airport, where we sit side by side on the floor and wait for our next flight, our own agents of globalization.

The role of international law in constraining state behavior…

Last night he said I love you. Whispered it so closely it tickled my ear.

Focus. Focus. Focus….

The Allegory of Materialism

December 24.

Her daughter wanted a digital camera and “Viva La Juicy” perfume; her son wanted a skateboard and new ear buds.  She had been up late comparing prices, now it was time to hit the stores.

She was frazzled, exhausted, anxious. So much to buy, so little time. She honked her frustrations out at slow drivers on her way to the mall.

She got everything she wanted.  She yelled at the groggy-looking salesman in the tech store until the ear buds went down to the online price. She snatched the last box of Viva la Juicy from right under the nose of another woman who was eying it greedily.  She came home and shooed her children out of the kitchen so she could throw together some confections for the neighbors and create a picture-perfect Christmas Eve dinner for her family.  “Peace on Earth,” read a greeting card on her refrigerator.  She didn’t have time to read it.  She was too busy fighting a war in her heart.  A war for perfection.

The neighbors came caroling a few hours later.  Her children ate her Christmas feast.  They read the Christmas story. She stayed up late and wrapped each present with color-matching bows.  She had a headache that night when she went to bed, but she felt relieved. Everything, indeed, was perfect.

December 24.

Her son was away in the city at university.  During the few hours of Internet she got each day, she checked her emails to see if he’d be able to make it home.  The tribal warfare in her village had gone on for three days now, and all she wanted was to have her family all together safely.

She had been up late discussing peace talks with the tribal leaders, and she was frazzled, exhausted, anxious.  Eight people had died already, and if the leaders didn’t hurry and act, it would surely be more.

She had no money, but she had a phone that worked during the hours of electricity, and she called her friends and asked about their families. She visited the elderly in her village to make sure they were OK.  She found out at last that her son was on his way, and she rejoiced.

When her son arrived, she prepared a small feast to the abrasive carol of gunshots outside.  She clicked her tongue. Sometimes she felt that the whole world was at war, but in her heart this night, she felt peace.

She had almost nothing, and nothing was perfect. But she had her family and friends.  She had the good Lord watching over her. And she was happy.

Sickiversary

Kendon and I have been married for a year.  A YEAR.  So to celebrate 365 days of still liking each other, we got all dressed up and reserved our own private table at Beni Hana’s, where Ramon from Mexico gave us the most spectacular display of dancing shrimp and juggling knives and onion volcanoes that a person on their first anniversary could ever possibly hope for.  We held hands under the table and tasted garlicky meat off each other’s plate and reminisced and gave each other presents.  Besides the fact that neither of us announced it on Facebook, I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what a first anniversary is supposed to look like. 

These festivities came and went over a week ago.  Oddly enough, though, today is the day I feel like I truly understand what it means to be married for a year. 

That’s because today I’m the opposite of all dressed up.  In fact, I bear a striking resemblance today to the creature from the black lagoon… minus the fangs and with a bathrobe instead of green teutonic armor.    Currently I am stopping after each sentence to make my now-customary fog horn sound into a dwindling roll of toilet paper, creating a pile of snot rags that is creeping steadily up to the ceiling.   I haven’t combed my hair in two days, my lips are cracking off my face, and I rotate at night between being feverishly hot and ripping off the blankets, to shivering so hard that our room shakes and pictures fall off the wall.

Oh yeah. And the husband still finds me sexy.

Over the last few days, he’s remained by my side through three Disney movies and several chapters of Ender’s Game (our post-Harry read-a-thon).  He’s made me soup and bought me medicines.  He tucks me in and massages my sore muscles and forces me to gargle salt water.  I’ve started to call him Nurse Bagley, but then again, a mere nurse would not go so disgustingly far as to steal slimy kisses in between foghorn blasts. 

So that’s how I know what first-anniversary love feels like.  It’s a feeling that the tallest onion volcano could never hope to replace.  It’s the kind of love that really does endure in sickness and in health. 

So while I avoided Facebook on the anniversary, today I would like to publicly express to the Internet that I have been married for a YEAR to the kindest, bravest, most disgusting man on this good planet.  (I had to throw in the last one.  Seriously.  Only a grossy would want to kiss THIS on the mouth.)

Oh, and in case you're interested, here's some photographic documentation of our actual anniversary:

We are in love.

Can you find the onion volcano among the shrimp and raw beef?

Ramon was a good chef.  We're thinking of adopting him.

Guess who I made this for as a happy anniversary gift? (Hint: It was not Ramon.)

The consequences of forgetfulness

Today, children, we will look at the very silly Bagley family and their naughty habits of forgetting. You see, when you grow up, it’s most important to remember things, because when you don’t, you soon find yourself penniless, homeless, and smelling like pee. Is that what you want, children? No no no. Let’s begin.

Once upon a time Mrs. Bagley drove to work on a Monday morning. She hummed a happy tune, for on this particularly special Monday morning, she was on time for work! It was a pleasant 15-minute drive, with pleasant slow-downs and pleasant allowances for even the most unpleasant of drivers. A pleasant Monday. A pleasant walk up the stairs to her office. She gave a pleasant greeting to all she saw. Then… SCREECH! She stopped at her desk. She had forgotten her computer at home. Mrs. Bagley very much needed her computer to do whatever it was she did at that job.

Mrs. Bagley had an unpleasant drive back to her house. She made unpleasant gestures at the drivers around her. She kept glancing at the unpleasant downward movements of her car’s gas level. She drove unpleasantly fast. And when she arrived back at the office 30 minutes later, she was unpleasantly late and unpleasantly behind. It was going to be an unpleasant Monday.

Once upon another time, Mrs. Bagley forgot where she had put her belt, and because she had forgotten to do laundry, she only had clown pants that would fall to her ankles if she forgot to secure them around her waist. So, ever so sneakily, Mrs. Bagley put on Mr. Bagley’s belt while Mr. Bagley was sleeping. It was a clever plan. It would redeem her from witlessly forgetting her own belt’s location. Mrs. Bagley hummed a happy tune on her way to work again.

By around noon o’clock, Mrs. Bagley had filled her bladder with three cups of water, a Tupperware of grapes, and a glass of passion-orange-guava juice! Yum! So, humming a happy tune, Mrs. Bagley made her way to the restroom.

It was then that Mrs. Bagley realized her error. The belt was stuck. It would not come off. It required a manly flick of the wrist and maneuvering of buckles to remove this belt from her giant clown pants. Mrs. Bagley tried and tried… but she could not avoid the consequences of forgetfulness. With a heavy heart and bladder, Mrs. Bagley called Mr. Bagley and confessed her sneaky thievery. Try as he might, the forgiving Mr. Bagley could not explain the rules of manly belt removal very well. But drastic times called for drastic measures. Mr. Bagley, in a loving sacrifice, did explain how to disassemble his beloved belt and remove it altogether. Forever. And so that is just what Mrs. Bagley did! And how relieved she was 30 seconds later!

Another time, children, Mr. Bagley and Mrs. Bagley went on an adventurous date, wherein they raced around and around and around and around on some very fast things called go-karts that make you want to vomit and give you a bad back when you are as old as those old Bagleys. Then, hand in hand, those Bagleys skipped to dinner and to other grown-up errands and finally arrived home, very thirsty and very excited to collapse from go-kart/bad pizza nausea. They skipped up to their front door, and that is when Mr. Bagley realized he had forgotten to check his pockets before embarking on that naughty go-kart ride, and in so doing had plum lost the keys to the Bagley house.

Those old forgetful Bagleys did not skip to the go-kart place. They did not skip to the bad pizza place or to the other grown-up errand places. They just dragged those old feet along behind them in a sulky sort of way that made people think, “Ah, that must be a forgetful old couple.” The keys, it seemed, had jumped off that very fast go-kart and run away as fast as they could. At long last, those almost-homeless Bagleys punched through their screen and climbed through a window, like bandits in their own house. And the next day, they spent their piggy bank monies to buy some new doorknobs. Those poor, forgetful Bagleys.

But there are some things the Bagleys don’t forget. For example, when Mrs. Bagley had an unpleasantly forgetful Monday, Mr. Bagley didn’t forget to kiss her right on the mouth the moment she came home. And when she nearly wet her pants from forgetting not to wear that cursed belt, Mr. Bagley didn’t forget to laugh a little and tell her it was OK and that she was cute and promise he would never ever tell anyone about her very close call. And when Mr. Bagley forgot to check his pockets, Mrs. Bagley didn’t forget to make him some delicious no-bake cookies and read Harry Potter with him. Two nights ago, those Bagleys didn’t forget that they had been married for nine whole months. They didn’t forget to say a thank-you prayer for each very happy and forgetful day of those months. And then, at the end of their nine-month day, they didn’t forget to kiss each other good night.

And children, those are the things you must never, ever forget.

The end.

Empty bed, lonely soul

When God created love, he created bodies that could perfectly accommodate this emotion. The idea, thought God, is that when two human beings fell in love, they would inevitably find that they fit each other like two long-lost puzzle pieces; pieces that, when placed together, would mesh naturally into one soul.

The top of my head was made to nuzzle underneath his chin. And my lips invite his lips which invite my lips. The two sets are inseparable at times. And the way a loving whisper slides so naturally into my ear proves that our secrets belong to each other.

Our eyes can interlock for long periods, mine taking in his brown and his taking in my blue... until they feel such a completeness of the other color that they slowly hide beneath eyelid blankets and drift to sleep.

There is the perfect amount of space between each of my fingers to accommodate each of his five. My hand has never felt so complete as when it's settled upon the foundation of his palm. And our arms in their different sizes are the perfect length to wrap around the other's torso with the most blissful ease.

Even our toes are the ideal size to rub the other's toes back and forth absentmindedly, like a fleshy washboard.

When we rest, we spoon. But it's more than that. To me it is evidence that God created everything to fit. I believe it is the way I was always meant to slumber.

Tonight I won't sleep well. Tonight I am missing the piece of me that makes me whole.

Good night, Kendon. I love you.

Some things I failed to mention

Once upon a time, on a blazing hot morning in the desert, there was matrimony.

And while we're on the topic of major life events, I recently realized I rarely include them when I'm writing about my life. So let's do this like a resume, shall we? Most recent first. List style. But with photos.

1. July 30, 2011. Scott (my brother) and Jayne (my new sister) were absolutely BEAMING yesterday. They couldn't keep their eyes (or hands) off each other. Totally legal, though, since it was their wedding day. I'm so happy to welcome this gorgeous, confident, loving, bargain-shopping woman into our family, to see my brother in such a blissful state, and to pass along the "grandkids question" to someone else.

2. June 2010. I graduated from college. I know, I know, all the kids are doing it. To me, however, this was a long time coming. It feels good to say I did it. I did it! I'm done! *Sigh of immense relief.

3. November 26, 2010. Once upon a time, on a humid morning on the islands, there was another matrimony. Mine. 'Twas the most unforgettable day of my life, though it came and went like a blur... Does that make sense? We rode away into the sunset (literally) on Kendon's yellow motorcycle (which died the next day... my parents had to pick us up from our honeymoon). Can it get any better than a tropical island wedding and a remote mountaintop cottage? Oh, yes. Every day.

P.S. The rumors about in-laws? All lies. These Bagleys are the bee's knees.

4. November 2010. Shortly before my big day, brother Neal had his own big day... and I don't mean with a woman. This commitment was to God, for two years, and he continues to commit on a daily basis, all the way over in Bolivia. Neal has white hair and blue eyes. Bolivians don't. I wish I could delight in this contrast by seeing it for myself. Instead I just daydream about it. I couldn't be prouder of my towhead Bolivian hermano.

5. September 10, 2010. Once upon a time, on a slightly chilly morning in Logan, Utah, there was also matrimony. Brother Alan made the wisest choice he's ever made by finding someone who will force him to make wise choices for the rest of his days. Heidi is the most organized, devoted, and domestic 20-year-old I've ever met. When I was her age I was still failing at tuna melts. I'm proud to call her my sister.

6. July 2010. I went to France on Bastille Day. Then to Lithuania for friendship purposes (see why in item 8), where my camera got stolen. So no photos here.

7. November 2009. I went to New Zealand with great friends and ate white bait with eggs.

8. October 2009. I also did a gig where I committed to God. It was for 18 months in the wee country of Lithuania (Labas visiems!), and it ended one sad, tear-filled October afternoon. I will never, ever, ever forget the beautiful people of this country. I will never stop loving them. And if I can't meet them again in this life, I hope to be a good enough girl to see them in the next, where I will give big, "thank-you" tackle-hugs to all the people who changed my life and perspective in this lush, resilient nation.

Note: I went to Ireland too. For six weeks. And gained memories to last a lifetime.

Yes. There. I'm glad to have gotten that all off my chest. Now perhaps, dear readers, you will know a deeper side of me. You will understand my reasons for loving the things I love (like family), and hating the things I hate (like bigotry), and not really caring about certain things (like white bait). Seriously. Don't try the white bait.

An oldie for the kids

I'm getting stupider. Can't. Think. Stuff. Write. So instead I'm posting an old story that I wrote months ago. It's mostly true. I submitted it to a thing. They hated it. Maybe you won't.

I woke up with a start to the most horrible smell on earth. I sat up, sniffed, and felt the night's collection of mucous jiggle loosely in my nostrils. Putting my hand up to my cotton-stuffed right ear, I grimaced and remembered. It was me.

The ibuprofen hadn't been sufficiently dulling my ear infection pain, and a woman from church had told me to press half an onion up to my ear. I don't eat vegetables, and I especially tend to avoid onions. I skip over them as ingredients entirely, in fact, on the rare occasions I open a recipe book. Still, something about the boy's locker room odor and the tear-jerking fumes made my friend's remedy almost logical. Pressing a disgusting vegetable against a disgustingly painful part of my body seemed completely natural. So I had called my husband and, for the first time in our marriage, added a vegetable to his list of things to pick up after work.

I had tried the magical cure last night, trying to ignore my watering eyes, the smirks from my husband, and the onion juice that ran down my neck. My mind had been taken off the ear pain and onto that awful smell momentarily, kind of like how biting bullets makes men in war movies think less on their legs being amputated. I buried my head in my pillow to escape the lingering odor pervading our small studio apartment. It was soaked in onion smell.

I looked over at my husband, still sleeping peacefully, then down at my slobber-soaked t-shirt and the pile of crinkled toilet paper on our nightstand. I had always thought newlywed women woke up in freshly ironed, silky lingerie, smelling like Coco Chanel, waking their husbands with a minty-fresh kiss and breakfast in bed. I grimaced again, then coughed, successfully stirring my husband and the phlegm that was stuck in my throat all night.

He opened his eyes. "Hey, onion girl," he said, sitting up. I had always thought newlywed men woke up and said, "Hey there, gorgeous woman of my dreams."

"Ha, ha," I replied. "Will you get me some pudding?"

"No pudding for you," he said, hopping out of bed and opening the fridge, which stood a foot away from our sleeping quarters. "Pudding is a dairy product. It will make your cold worse."

"It is not a dairy product!" I countered in my deep cold-induced rasp. "It's just a pudding product." I pointed at the snack pack of chocolate vanilla swirl on the top shelf of our refrigerator. "I'll have one of those, please."

He shut the fridge after downing half of our milk carton. "Nope."

Hm, I thought. Aren't newlywed men supposed to give their sick wives everything they ask for?

I blew my nose several times as I watched him get ready for work from my spot on the bed. He quickly ate two bowls of the Life cereal I had purchased a few days before but wasn't allowed to eat, threw his dishes in the sink, then slipped on his navy blue polo shirt with the Chem-Dry logo in the corner. "Bye, dear," he said, kissing my cheek. His breath smelled like cereal. "Have a good day at school."

"I don't have class on Tuesdays," I responded in my man voice. But he had already raced out the door.

I called in sick for work and spent the afternoon staring at class reading assignments and mindlessly surfing the Internet. I couldn't figure out the speakers on our desktop computer, so I watched several silent YouTube videos before deciding to knock back some Nyquil and get some sleep. At around four o'clock I was awakened by my phone ringing. "Hey, honey," said my husband's voice on the other end. "I'm on my way sleivlsal welfkwe..." My grogginess was making his voice more and more distant. He was on his way home, I guessed. "OK," I mumbled.

"See you in lodkobil faleivil," I could hear him saying from the top of a giant purple building. Must stay awake for 10 more seconds. I knew the drill. He was off work and would be home in an hour. For now I wanted to explore that purple skyscraper, which was starting to shoot giant onions from its rooftop like fireworks into the sky. "Love you, bye," I mustered, and rolled back over.

I woke up with a start. Our computer's screensaver was the only light in the room, the only sound the hum of our refrigerator. I reached for my cell phone, lying next to me on my onion-scented pillow. It was 8:30 p.m.

The laughing wallpaper photo of my husband and myself stared at me as I speed dialed his number. I took it five months ago, minutes after he proposed. Despite the threatening sound of thunder earlier that day, we had gone to our favorite spot up a Utah canyon, where he popped the question and we danced and kissed in the biggest rainstorm of the summer. We're both soaking wet in the photo, and mascara is smudged in odd places on my face. These details become invisible, however, against how in love we look and how big we're smiling.

I redialed his number once, twice, five times. Each time it went straight to the brassy recording of his professional voice: "Hi, this is Kendon with Great White Chem-Dry..." I stood up too quickly and dizzily wondered what to do next. In the darkness I started to wash my husband's breakfast bowl, then quickly changed my mind and started sorting laundry. The half onion from the night before still sat on our kitchen counter, mocking me, and in disgust I hurled it into the trash, glass plate and all. I heard the plate shatter as it hit the bottom of the bin, and redialed my husband's number.

I raced barefoot outside into the chilly night, across our empty driveway and into the street. It was completely void of any vehicles, most especially Chem-Dry utility vans. My stomach growled and my eyes began to water. This time, however, my tears came from fear and frustration, not fumes. I wanted chicken noodle soup with extra vegetables. I wanted my husband.

It was 9:13 p.m. and approximately 4,000 imagined scenarios later when he walked through the door. The smell of carpet cleaner and sweat that accompanied him was more beautiful than the finest 300-dollar bottle of Coco Chanel. "Where have you been?" I sobbed, and tried to wrap my arms around every inch of him. "I called you," he said, attempting to pat me on the back and balance four bags of groceries. "But my phone ran out of batteries on the way home. I had an extra job on the other side of the island tonight, and I stopped after work to buy us some food."

He pulled my chin up so he could look at me, then wiped at my now free-flowing tears with his thumb. "I was so scared!" I said, trying to sound angry, but knowing this misunderstanding was entirely my fault... and a little bit Nyquil's. I looked deeply into his half-laughing, half-sympathetic brown eyes, grateful that I wasn't a widow. Grateful to belong to this nearly-perfect man.

"Hey, onion girl." The way he said it made me feel sexy, even though I had just soaked his t-shirt in tears, day-old mascara, and a little bit of snot. "I bought you some chicken noodle soup." How do newlywed men always know exactly what their wives need? I got butterflies as he leaned down and kissed me, both of us soaking wet from my body fluids. I didn't smell onions anymore. Details had become invisible.

Lessons from hikes

Life is a hike.

A miserable, grueling, pain-inflicting hike.

This is the conclusion I drew yesterday after embarking on one of Hawaii’s most difficult hikes: the Crouching Lion.

Actually, come to find out, we went above and beyond the Crouching Lion hike. We missed a turn that would bring us back the happy safe way, and found ourselves wandering for six hours in a dark and dreary wilderness.

At least that’s what I thought for most of the second half. My legs were shaking. I was out of water. My skin was lobster-red. We had to balance narrow ridges, climb rock walls, and grab onto trees to stop gravity from pulling us straight down the mountain all at once. Sounds fun, yes? Only when one is in shape. And folks, this hike confirmed that I do not at present fit in this category.

It was during the most difficult parts of this journey that I had to remind myself now and then to look up from my muddy, cut-up, quivering feet. Doing so rewarded me every time with the most breathtaking views on Oahu’s North Shore: views that many who live here their whole lives will never witness. A lush, green, uninhabited valley stretched out below us, comfortably sheltered from the rest of the world by the watch of the towering tree-filled mountains around it. At other points I could see where the blue of the ocean turned dark before kissing a bright, cloud-free sky. I saw a mountain goat grazing on an opposite cliff. I saw moss-covered paths and stairways so perfect they looked like they’d been constructed by fairy-tale creatures. I discovered plant life that seemed to know it was too wonderful and strange to allow its seeds to spread past these mountainous ridges. These elements combined in my most grueling moments to assure me that there was still much to be appreciated; that beauty still existed; that God still loved me.

And so it is with life. When we least expect it, we are certain to be met with rocky ridges and wrong turns and, at times, unimaginable pain. Our weaknesses will slap us in the face. And it is in these moments that we need only look up. When we look beyond the pain, we find beauty. We find it in the people who love us, in the experiences we’re gaining, and in the promise of increased strength when it’s all over. We find beauty, most of all, in the constancy of a loving God.

I thought of all this on that punishing, merciless trail. And when Kendon and I emerged and slowly limped, hand in hand, back to the car, I had a flash-forward to the future of us doing this very thing together, on some distant day, when the long hike of our life begins to come to a close.