To my twenty year old self on her wedding day –
You are so young, bursting with hope and ambition. I envy your passion. Your dreamer’s spirit. Take a deep breath. Here we go.
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It’s been nine years. Year one still carries the scent of baked potatoes and cheap apartment life. Of emptied change jars and afternoon naps for no reason at all.
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The year Matt and I got married we were completely broke. We were just kids living off of savings, trying to figure out what our lives ought to look like.
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We don’t always realize what we are missing when we are content with what’s in front of us.
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There will be a thousand posts today on love and romance and couples gushing out their undying devotion to one another. But I can’t help but wonder how many more voices fall silent on this day because the one relationship that was supposed to fulfill has fallen short.
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Last week I had one of those days—the one where mid-way through you wonder where things went terribly awry and wish you could crawl back into hibernation and wake up and start again.
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Does anyone else stop and just say, “Wow, this is my life. This is my husband and these are my kids. This is my house, these are my things, this is my life.”
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One cold February evening, nearly six years ago, when I was at the tail end of my internship at CCM, my dad drove all the way to east Texas to take me out to dinner. He had a small, wrapped bag with him containing
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Matt and I don’t have your run of the mill romance story. I was 17 and he was 24 when we met. He was too old for me at the time, but it was a moot point because
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