On Perfection

Practice makes perfect.

Is there anything more deeply, utterly false?

Lately, things have been crazy: becoming parents, moving into a new house, struggling to find time for the rest and quiet that our introverted souls crave. Ellis has been sick twice; I got to enjoy an icky 48-hour flu, which basically turned me into a miserable, helpless blob.

And the icing on the bittersweet, lopsided cake: four days after we closed on our house, the basement flooded. Like, bad flooding. Like, rip up all the carpet and pay our entire deductible and thank God we hadn't stored anything in the basement yet flooding. Apparently, tree roots had invaded the pipes--impeccable timing, tree. Thanks a bunch.

But we're human, which means we're no stranger to small losses.

We bought a dining room table on clearance, a little splurge. Beautiful mango wood, with a gleaming surface.

Within a day, we had accidentally scratched up one of the corners.

The next night, I prepared some dinner, a new recipe I was excited to try.

Halfway through, in a fleeting moment of forgetfulness, I tried to pick up a crockpot full of hot liquid--without unplugging it--and sloshed grease and broth all over my hand and wrist. It hurt (a LOT), and the burn still looks terrible; pretty sure there will be some scarring.

Today, I took Ellis for a walk on the first gorgeous day of almost-spring. My heart danced with joy; the sun warmed my face.

Somewhere along the way, I lost one of my favorite earrings, the pair that Phil got me for our anniversary. I spent ten minutes searching, but then Ellis began to fuss for milk, and I was forced to abandon the blue teardrop earring to a limbo of melting snow and wet pavement.

(Picture taken approximately fifteen minutes before my left earring was lost forever.)

And there's more. Oh, so much more. It feels like the past couple weeks have been a litany of small, unimportant, but overwhelmingly persistent disasters. Too many to list. Why does this keep happening? What about all our meticulous planning? Our carefully measured steps?

I'm learning more and more about the temporal nature of this world. Nothing stays perfect; it can't. It's not meant to. We're so fragile in this life--like cars accumulating dents and dings, going into the shop, getting fixed up each time, but everybody knows it's only a patch job. The raindrops keep falling. Pregnancy and childbirth, burns and bruises and wrinkles, scars that fade but never disappear.

Our earthly bodies are not built to last.

And that's why I'm so thankful for the reason God put us on this earth. Perfection is impossible, but it's also not the point. A neat and tidy life, a body without scratches or dents, a house full of spotless furniture like a Good Housekeeping magazine or a Pinterest board--this is not our destiny.

In my weakness, everything becomes clear. There have been so many gifts. My Madison mama coming over to take care of Ellis when I was so sick that I could barely stand. A Sabbath spent lying on the couch in my darkened living room, listening to hymns and my baby's happy squeals, being thankful, being still. My aunt Karen dropping everything to come rescue me, with a special delivery of soy formula and chicken noodle soup and a giant bottle of Gatorade. My parents--already starting the seven hour drive back to Detroit--turning back without a second thought and helping us rip out the drenched, ruined carpet from our flooded basement.

Through all these mishaps, I'm startled by a new sense of clarity. Things happen, and it's okay. I don't need comforting. There was a time when the possibility of permanent scarring would have filled me with dread. When the flooded basement and financial cost would've reduced me to tears.

But despite it all, my body is beautiful, my home is beautiful, my family is beautiful, and my God--He is perfection.

(Love this boy like crazy.)

Someday, I want to think of that one missing earring and remember my first walk with Ellis in our new neighborhood beneath the March sun, all those years ago.

I want to notice the scratches on our old, well-loved table and laugh with Phil about the bottle of wine that just refused to open.

I want to look in the mirror and delight at the scars on my shoulder and (maybe) my wrist, the new shape of a body that has brought forth a little life, the wrinkles and blemishes that come hand-in-hand with the fast, beautiful years.

God, be with us. And let it rain.

Ellis Michael Biller

I am exhausted, and so thankful.

Ellis is here. Phil and I have waited for him for so long, feeling his kicks and wiggles through my belly. We sang to him and read him stories as we lay together on the couch, Phil's head resting on my lap and his words moving through the womb cushioning our little peanut. As I tried to fall asleep each night, tossing and turning thanks to all the discomforts of pregnancy, I felt our baby's hiccups shake my whole middle. Sometimes I laughed, pressing my hands against my watermelon belly--other times I lay still and hoped he would stop soon, so that both of us could get some sleep.

As the due date drew closer, we became excited and (in my case) secretly impatient for labor to start. We wondered what our son would look like, who he would be.

Now he's here, and those words still feel unreal. Our son.

It has been the most amazing month ever--and yet, at the same time, the most difficult. Apparently, even when your baby is born, you don't magically become a super-mom with flawless breastfeeding technique, baby-soothing powers, and the ability to wake up fresh-faced and cheerful on two hours of sleep.

I'm quickly realizing how difficult it is to be a parent, what an insane and time-consuming job it is--the world's most obvious secret. Of course, I knew it wouldn't be easy. I knew it would mean totally abandoning my own desires, putting Ellis's needs before my own.

But until it actually happened, I had no idea how HARD it would be.

(Plus, the postpartum blues are a real thing. I broke down crying because I thought Ellis's bathwater for his first bath had been too cold; I panicked when he got a cold after two weeks, blaming myself, my heart pounding fast with every cough and sniffle.)

But it was all worth it--the morning sickness and heartburn, the wild storm of emotions, the intensity of labor without any pain medications, the stitches and week-long recovery, the jiggly tummy that still remains five weeks after delivery.

It's all worth it still. The miserable first few weeks of breastfeeding, when his latch made me grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut against tears. The long nights of sleep caught in desperate snatches--forty-five minutes here, a half hour there. The moments when I'm so tired that I can do nothing except sit and breathe.

Because Ellis was only the size of a poppyseed, a tiny promise, and now he's dozing in his crib.

Because our son has his daddy's nose and his mama's lips, and rock star hair, and the cutest big dark eyes I've ever seen.

Because there is nothing more humbling than knowing that this tiny, sweet baby looks to us for everything--needs us, trusts us, loves us unconditionally.

I pray that, whoever he becomes, wherever he goes, Ellis will always know he is loved--by us, by his grandparents and aunts and uncles, and most of all, by the God of all creation.

And I pray for help and grace in this journey--I'm definitely going to need it. :)

Anne Lamott, on writing (and life)

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it.”

"Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you're 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn't go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It's going to break your heart. Don't let this happen."

"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better."

550 Square Feet of Joy

As fall colors start to appear, as the air turns crisp and cool in the warm sunshine, it seems like the whole world is breathing a sigh of relief.

Our new apartment, which was nothing short of disaster on move-in day, is finally clean and settled. I wish I had "Before" and "After" pictures--the place was just not pretty. There was grime and mildew in the bathroom, food residue caked on the fridge, dirty floors, dust everywhere . . . the "clean freak" tenant who lived here before (landlord's words, not mine) must've let himself go in the days before move-out. And even after we cleaned everything, it seemed impossible that the accumulation of our lives--the endless boxes of books, clothes, kitchen junk, art supplies--would ever fit. Picture the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, but with less floorspace.

Now we've been here more than a month, and the place is cozy and beautiful: thoughtfully-arranged furniture, ocean-themed bathroom, organized cupboards, warm light, all our books comfy on a new bookshelf, and the lake waiting for us right across the street. It's the perfect little nest.

At least, it seemed that way until I started to tell people about it.

Apparently, most people aren't enamored with our decision to move into a small one-bedroom when expecting a new baby. Who would've thought. ;)

Reactions have ranged from concern, disapproval, superiority, confusion, "to each her own" (thank you!), indifference (thank you!!) and genuine encouragement/agreement (thank you, so much!!)

Truly, I'm not annoyed at those who don't understand, or just don't agree. I know everyone is different. But I didn't expect such a strong reaction to our decision to live simply and cut costs for a while. So for those who don't understand how it could be possible to intentionally downsize to a 550-square foot one bedroom in the months before having a baby, here is, without further ado:

Tips on preparing a tiny apartment for a year of baby-themed chaos

1. Secure the bookcase to the wall. (This is called baby-proofing.) Arrange the closets so that you aren't crushed beneath an avalanche of coats and basketballs and guitar cases EVERY time you open the door . . . only every other time. (This is also called baby-proofing.)

2. Store overflow items, like posters and yet-to-be-used baby toys, in the kitchen cupboards. You don't buy that much food, anyway.

3. Buy curtains. These will make the space feel more grown-up and less like a dorm room.

Money-saving tip: If you can't afford real curtains, go with the $7 white sheers that are supposed to hang between the real curtains and the windows. Let's be serious--you live a few blocks away from students who use milk crates for coffee tables, who drink beer that costs $2 for a 6-pack and tastes like soapy water. Nobody will expect real curtains.

4. Abandon the illusion of personal space. It will only confuse you later.

5. Find a willing parent or relative, and give them your extra stuff to put in "storage" (i.e. their basement).

6. Door hooks. Everywhere.

7. Make a detailed list of where you will store everything: crib, baby swing, stroller, car seat, play gym, toys, etc. (It's okay to throw some things away, in blind panic. Or just to throw things.)

And as a bonus....

How to respond to people who think you are crazy, or attention-seeking, or both:

At first, when people ask if you've moved to a bigger place yet to prepare for Baby's arrival, tell them cheerfully that you've actually moved to a SMALLER place . . . because a simple lifestyle is worth pursuing. Because you don't even need a baby monitor when you can get from one side of the house to the other in six steps. Because we all know that, no matter how much space you fill with vintage wooden toys and Fisher Price play sets, your baby will probably still end up playing with a shoebox.

When people still don't understand, when they keep asking the same question, try to defend yourself: it's only for a couple years, while we pay down my student loans and save up for a down payment. There's still plenty of space. Gradually, start to worry that maybe they're right . . . maybe you've made a catastrophic mistake . . . maybe you'll spend the next two years sobbing on the floor amid a mountain of toys and diapers and Phil's random stacks of paper. (No home is complete without random stacks of paper.)

When people ask a third time, "So, have you moved into a bigger place yet?" just smile and nod.

The living room. (Actual size.)

The kitchen. (Look at all those cupboards! Compared to our last place, this is luxury!)

The bathroom. (Amazing shower. OMG. It doesn't randomly turn ice-cold, or lose water pressure, or spurt water at the ceiling. The shower makes the whole place worth it.)

This is not okay.

So. Where to begin. Last night, I decided to walk from our apartment to Mother Fool's--a fifteen minute stroll down Paterson and Willy Street--to get some work done.

This was an exciting prospect. I love coffee shops. And especially, with Baby all comfy inside me, coffee shops that offer decaf espresso.

But as I approached Mother Fool's, I saw a middle-aged man at the corner, sitting on a ledge on my side of the street, just . . . staring. Of course, I tried to act like I hadn't noticed. The whole thing felt very icky, very uncomfortable, but it would've been too obvious to cross to the other side of the street to avoid him. Especially since my destination was on this side of the block, literally twenty feet past the staring creeper.

I thanked God for my sunglasses, so he couldn't see where I was looking. I prayed, or maybe just chanted to myself: please just don't say anything. Please leave me alone. Please surprise me.

But as I drew closer, he leered at me--an ugly, rude sort of leer--and flashed a big thumbs up. "I'm giving you one of these," he said, still with an open and hungry-looking stare. "Yeah. You earned it."

I mumbled something stupid and kept walking. I felt disgusted, embarrassed, threatened.

But not surprised.

And before anyone starts asking, well, what were you wearing . . .

YES. I was wearing a sundress. It was bright and feminine, with a swishy skirt. It wasn't high necked, or formless and baggy.

But it doesn't matter.

I am tired (read: exhausted) of things like this happening. Just drained, saddened, wiped out.

And I am sick to death of some Christians pointing out that, well, if you don't dress modestly, what can you expect?

I try to dress modestly. I care about finding clothes that fit my style and make me feel fun, colorful, and comfortable without showing too much. But in situations like the above, it's deeply irrelevant. I've been hit on while wearing jeans and a T-shirt, a cute high-necked dress, a cute scoop-necked dress, a baggy jacket, shorts and a plain tank top, whatever. It doesn't matter.

I truly believe that blaming a man's rude, harassing behavior (or other, much worse things) on a woman's appearance is just silly and ignorant.

If a man (or any person) got their Corvette stolen, would the police file a report and look for the thief? Or would they say, "Well, why the heck did you buy such a nice car? What were you thinking, going out in something so flashy? Shouldn't you have realized that someone would want to steal it? If you didn't want this to happen, shouldn't you have just kept your Corvette locked up in the garage, where it belongs?"

That is victim-blaming, and to be perfectly honest, it makes me really sad.

So please, please, stop it.

I believe that modesty is beautiful. And my attempts to dress appropriately--which, for me, means the fingertip rule for skirts, the ol' lean-over-and-check-out-the-view test for tops, and not wearing a bikini around anyone except my hubby--are largely out of respect for guys.

Boyfriends, husbands, or just guys in general.

Because I'll admit it--it can make me a little unhappy when we're walking downtown and I notice a girl whose teeny-tiny outfit leaves nothing to the imagination. I don't have anything against that girl; I don't feel anger toward her, or jealousy. But if I couldn't help but notice, of course my hubby would notice. Of course other men would notice, too.

I attempt to dress modestly because I don't want to be that temptation to other guys, and that source of discomfort for other women.

HOWEVER.

Guys noticing a woman and guys harassing/catcalling/hitting on a woman is 100% different.

Noticing a woman is natural.

Harassing her is not natural. It shows a lack of respect, a lack of self-control, a lack of human decency. It's just not okay.

I guess it's tricky, because not all guys have bad intentions. And even though I don't really want any of it, not all flirting is created equal.

A guy at the grocery store once said, "Damn . . . your smile is gorgeous." He gave me a sort of embarrassed grin, and then walked away and didn't bother me again. If I'm totally honest, I didn't mind that one too much. It didn't feel dangerous or creepy.

But there are times when I feel unsafe, angry, or violated. Sometimes a combination of the three.

So what can we do about this? I suppose my impending pregnant belly might deter some of the attacks. :) But still, after years of dealing with the weird misogyny that all other women deal with, too, I haven't figured out a way to respond that leaves me feeling strong and not disgusted/embarrassed/icky.

For now, obnoxious guys of the world (none of whom, I'm pretty sure, will ever read this blog), here's a deal:

I'll dress modestly, because I respect you.

I'll try to give men the benefit of the doubt, because there are some truly amazing, humble, strong, and kind-hearted men out there. My hubby is one of them. I'm blessed to be friends with so, so many of them.

But no matter what I wear, completely regardless of my choices, you don't get to leer at me or shout profanity in the middle of the mall or cackle rudely when I tell you I'm married.

And you don't get to blame my clothes for how other people treat me.

Whew. /rant. Luckily I've got a hubby to walk places with me and offer (jokingly, for the most part) to throw rocks at obnoxious harassers.

There's always a silver lining.

December Baby

It's almost summer, which means it's time to come out of hibernation!

And also, time to redecorate my little corner of the internet. This is definitely a season for wild unabashed color, and cute little birdhouses, and fancy fonts that may or may not be destined to go the way of Comic Sans.

Because WE ARE PREGNANT.

My soul is in full-on joyful, singing, splashing-through-puddles mode.

At our latest ultrasound, the sweet pea was 13 weeks old--so not really a pea anymore. Closer to a peach, or a kiwi. (Babycenter says pea pod, so maybe the sweet pea analogy still works!) It had outgrown the adorable "melted gummy bear" stage (thanks, Davy, for that one) and moved on to the snuggly miniature baby stage. Oh, so stunning.

We'd come for the first trimester screening--an ultrasound to measure the fluid that forms naturally behind the baby's neck. And the tech was really struggling to find it.

"Your baby likes to be tucked up," she kept saying, almost indignant. "It's all curled up in a ball."

The other ultrasound tech, after trying for what felt like hours (but was probably only ten minutes), said the same thing: "Your baby's a snuggler."

It was true, and so delightful. Sweet pea looked perfect, all curled up and cozy. And when he or she started to move, I couldn't keep from laughing--which, of course, messed up the ultrasound picture. Out of kindness for the poor techs, who were gently coaxing our baby to roll over, I tried to keep a straight face. But seeing the sweet pea move for the first time, and knowing those movements were happening right inside of me, was so crazy and beautiful that I just wanted to laugh and laugh.

"Roll this way, baby!" the techs kept saying.

While they tried various approaches (drink 24 ounces of water! roll back and forth! try coughing a few times!), Phil and I kept watching. Those long, graceful stretches--those hopping hiccups--and always returning to a cozy little ball. We were transfixed.

After the appointment, Phil pointed out: this was the first time we got to see a glimpse of our sweet pea's personality.

And later, when I told my mom, she seemed amazed. Apparently, when she was pregnant with me, I was the same way: always resting and curled up.

Congratulations, our sweet little snuggler. You're being born into the right family!!

Oh Winter.

As I drove home today, my car indicated that it was 1 degree outside.

1 freaking degree.

(presses pillow to face) GAHHH:OIF:OWEIUF:OIWEH:OIH

I'm trying my best to fight the seasonal blues this winter. But I am a creature of warmth. And really, if you want to get technical about it, aren't we all?! We could survive naturally in the heat of July, as long as we could find some water and shade. But without furnaces and big warm houses and puffy marshmallow coats, we wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in Wisconsin winters.

(Okay, so that appropriated saying didn't quite work here, since snowballs actually stand a pretty good chance in this weather. But you get the idea.)

The winter slows me down. Sluggish, unmotivated, moody. Sometimes I feel like a sloth, inching along a tree branch and then resting for a few hours, because jeez, that was hard work. Or like a little brown bear, hibernating in my warm cozy den. I'll see you in April, everybody.

 Eeek! I'm cold!!!!!

More seriously, it's a little scary how drastically this weather affects my mood. I don't always notice the darkened feelings until the world starts to defrost. But on those rare warm, sunny days, I walk down the street and suddenly feel overwhelmed by a rush of gratitude for being alive, joy in my surroundings, general optimism, etc. And those lovely feelings make me notice how drastically they've been absent.

For me, it's harder to find those random bursts of thankfulness and joy in the deep frost of winter.

Once, walking home from the library, the fresh snowfall around me sparkled so beautifully that I didn't even notice how cold it was. Then again, that was back in home sweet Ann Arbor, which tends to be at least 10 degrees warmer than Madison. At this very moment, Ann Arbor is 18 degrees and Madison is -2.

Okay. Stop being negative.

Trying to remember the beautiful things about winter. Let's see.....

1. Hot chocolate and cider and cinnamon lattes.
2. Cuddling up beneath blankets and keeping each other warm.
3. Christmas movies and colorful lights and COOKIES.
4. Cute scarves and hats and big knit sweaters.
5. Pretty snowfalls.
6. Um......running out of ideas....
7. The joy (and painful prickling feeling) of coming inside from 1 degree weather?
8. Help! Need more ideas!
9. Fireplaces. Yes. Those are good.
10. Coffee shops with fireplaces.
11. Camping out with Phil in a coffee shop with a fireplace while pretty snow falls outside.
12. Wintery music. You know what I mean. Bon Iver, the National, other pretty things.

God, help me to focus on the good. Help me to find the warmth and sweetness of winter, to pluck the fruit when it's ripe, and not just hibernate until the summer awakens my soul again.

(But still, keeping my fingers crossed for a winter of 20+ degree temps and light, fluffy snow that does not clog up the roads and an early spring!!!!!! You never know.)

This is Why We Fight

What do you do when you're under attack?

It's tempting to duck and cover--to find a safe place and hide, to wait for the barrage of blows to finally come to an end. It's even more tempting to feel sorry for yourself. (I'm guilty of both.)

Health-wise and body-wise, these past two months have not exactly been a picnic. Unless you picnic in the middle of a shooting range and happen to forget your Kevlar vest. Also your sanity.

I'm going to run down the list, not to elicit sympathy, but just to explain how weird and overwhelming things have been lately. If you're squeamish or easily grossed out, just stop. Like, seriously, stop reading. And please forgive the TMI. I'm just in a vulnerable (read: overshare-y) sort of mood. And it does make a pretty good story!

1. In late August, I tripped while running downhill--fast--and now have a half-moon scar on my upper arm that doesn't seem to be going away quite yet. Or maybe ever. (If you squint and tilt your head sideways and dim the lights, you can't quite see it . . . )

2. Two weeks later, I got a tick bite on my ankle that ended in potential lyme disease and cellulitis (i.e. infected tissue), which swelled my foot like crazy. While I was working a 12-hour shift, it got so painful that I couldn't put any weight on it. I ended up with an antibiotic shot, stuck DEEP into my hip with a super scary needle, and a 10-day course of antibiotics.

3. A cold. A really fun one.

4. (Here comes the TMI part . . . sorry!!!) Stomach pain and.....well....strange bleeding. The sort of bleeding that, coupled with weight loss, prompted my doctor to refer me to a GI specialist. Eeek.

5. Another cold. I'm serious. It's like the germs were seeking me out, trying to make me feel special.

6. An upper-GI endoscopy and a colonoscopy. (Apparently, they call this a double dip.) The brochure featured a lovely, beaming elderly couple on the cover, which made me feel even more fantastic.

7. The day after the procedures: shortness of breath and fatigue, which worried the clinic nurse enough that I soon found myself sitting in the ER with an IV in my arm and those sticky electrode things on my skin.

Whew. It's exhausting just to type everything out. And it also makes me laugh. Like, how on earth could all these things happen within two months?! It doesn't seem like there'd be enough hours in the day. Plus, it's strange how each ailment waited its turn before jumping into the fray. I guess that's the polite way to attack a girl--single file, one at a time.

But it's less funny when you realize that this was, in fact, a carefully orchestrated attack.

My life is beautiful. Phil is just amazing--there are no words. We've started opening up our house for prayer and worship nights. I'm leading an AWESOME creative writing group with super talented kids. And I'm writing a book that I'm so excited about.

But when these trials came, I found myself feeling timid and full of anxiety. My thoughts were like kites all tethered to the same pole, flapping around and getting tangled up. What if the doctors find cancer, or something else horrible? What if Phil and I never get to have kids? What if bad things just keep happening?

On top of that, I was embarrassed. Even ashamed. Why couldn't I have chosen a different picnic table, or noticed the tick earlier? Why was I careless enough to share food with a friend who seemed under the weather? What kind of 24-year-old gets a colonoscopy, anyway?

Basically, I was making myself MUCH sicker than I needed to be.

Obviously, I didn't want to worry. It just sort of happened--no matter how much I prayed, no matter how many deep, calming breaths I took. It made me admire my mom even more--her ability to take each thing as it comes, and her super powerful prayer.

Thankfully, everything has healed (more or less) beautifully. The doctors didn't find any serious issues. And most of the "issues" weren't even real health problems--they were tiny blips on the radar. Colds that went away quickly. Shortness of breath that turned out to be nothing more than fatigue and mild dehydration. Plus, there were huge blessings along the way. My friends prayed over me, often without even being asked. I gradually learned how to stop worrying and focus on good things instead. Just yesterday, an awesome friend shared a story that made me feel much less embarrassed, and also made me laugh really, really hard. And Phil has been the most patient, supportive, selfless, and kind partner I could ever dream of.

But as the smoke clears, I'm starting to realize that I took the wrong approach. Somewhere in the middle of all this craziness--I think between numbers 3 and 4 on the list of super-fun ailments--I stumbled upon these verses:

"Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand." -Ephesians 6:10-13

Amid times of trial and confusion, God has always led me to the truth I needed to hear. I just wish I'd taken the hint sooner:

Spiritual warfare is real.

For my sweet and amazing friends who aren't very spiritual, I hope this doesn't sound too weird. But it's irrevocably true. The devil--or evil forces and temptations, or whatever you want to call it--tears us down. He wants to ruin marriages and pull apart friendships. He wants to chip away at our identity, to pile on the insecurity and self-doubt. Because when we're afraid, we're not as powerful. It's hard to love your neighbor when you're busy hiding; it's hard to make the world beautiful when you're drowning in it.

Spiritual warfare is real--but we don't have to hide from it. We don't have to feel ashamed or slink to a dark, hidden place. We don't have to face trials alone.

What do you do when the attacks keep coming?

Put on your armor and fight back.

A poem I wrote when I was feeling down (and not the namesake of this blog.....apparently it's just an image I'm stuck on.)

in the light I scatter
far-flung like glass beads across a wooden floor
pulled homeward with long needle strokes--
my hopes bound up in fresh stitches
and tightening seams.

it bespeaks a labor of love
that an empty cistern might produce water
that a clay pot might not end broken

you know the inner workings of my heart
which we understand to mean faith, or weakness:

you could pull a single thread
and all my quiet places would unravel--
you could tuck the loose strings back into place
and make me like new--
you could add buttons that shine and glisten
like fish scales in the river--
you could sew on patches that become improvements,
you could make me better

(but to err is human
and to err means,
now and again,
to take up the scissors.)

            so stand up tall and proud,
            because you hold a privileged position
            and this, at least, is a beautiful thing:
            you could never have injured my heart
            if I had never opened my unmarked skin, my cage of rib bones,
            and sewn you inside.

Spirit, fall fresh on me

I think this might be my dream future:

A cute house, small but airy and inviting, with lots of light and green lawns. Two kids that Phil and I had together, and possibly one or two kids we've adopted and brought into our family. Vegetable gardens, raspberry bushes, maybe a peach tree so that we can preserve peaches and make jam. A special corner of the house where I can sit and write, because I'm working on my next book. Music filling every room, because our kids are learning to play the piano and the violin. Phil coming home from work and giving me a sweet kiss and then all of sitting down to a healthy, summery pasta made with vegetables from our own backyard. 

Sometimes, I feel like this is what I want. And at first glance, it seems okay--the stability, the comfort, the beauty of it all. And (my mind argues) it's not like I'm seeking a big, expensive house or a high-paying job. I don't want those things; my heart doesn't seek after them.

But lately I'm learning that God doesn't compare us to other people. My little vegetable garden could become as much of an idol as my friend's impressive salary or two-car garage.

So I wrote out another scenario--but this time, it wasn't my fairy-tale future. It was my challenging future. The sort of future that might actually give me a purpose, a sense of joy. And I wrote it not in objects and images, but in actions.

Being kind to the people who hurt me or judge me or make me feel foolish. Fostering kids, even if there is no guarantee of adoption, even if that love and beauty comes with a whole mess of complications. Honoring God in the way we love and sacrifice for each other. Tithing to the church. Blessing others financially and giving with a glad heart. Never giving up on my passion for writing, even if there's no obvious return for my labors, even if no one is listening. Being vulnerable and honest about my faith--about how I believe in grace and resurrection, in spiritual warfare, in heaven and hell, in I'm-a-broken-sinful-person-saved-by-grace, in Jesus Christ the only son of God--even when it's not easy or politically correct. Letting God lead us from one day to the next.

I stumbled upon this quote once:

"Comfort sells easier than happiness. Comfort is easy. It requires no effort and no work. Happiness takes effort. It requires being proactive, confronting fears, facing difficult situations, and having unpleasant conversations."

Looking at these two pictures side-by-side has made one thing painfully clear to me:

We really do mistake comfort for happiness.

Maybe some day, Phil and I will have our own house. Maybe we'll have a garden, and I'll slice cucumbers that my kids harvested from the backyard. Obviously, there is a way to do those things in a way that is beautiful and right. But those things won't make me happy. And I'm not just saying that to be corny or moralistic. When I imagine myself in that place--that pretty, wholesome, American dream scenario--there's truly something wrong. Some weird emptiness.

When I'm filled with joy and purpose, it wouldn't feel any more or less beautiful if I was in a pretty four-bedroom house or a shabby little apartment.

When I'm frustrated or confused, those feelings wouldn't be any easier if I was pacing back and forth in my lovely fenced-in backyard instead of walking up and down Paterson Street.

Spirit, come be my joy.

Provision

I'm just chilling in the living room at 1 A.M., unable to sleep thanks to the (amazing) dirty chai I drank too late in the afternoon. Will I never learn?

As I sit here, surrounded by blessings and comfort and, yes, a whole lot of "stuff" that I did nothing to deserve, I'm so overwhelmed by how God has provided my physical and financial needs. Since moving into our apartment, I think the only piece of furniture my husband and I have actually bought has been our couch. Our whole apartment is basically a patchwork quilt of all the people who love us.

Let's see. Right now . . .

I'm resting my feet on the wooden chest/coffee table that my parents gave us for Christmas.

I'm looking across the living room at the comfy armchairs, side table, gorgeous lamp, and old-fashioned sewing machine that my sweet, eternally-selfless grandma donated to us when she moved to a smaller place.

There's the beautiful dresser and flower-painted cabinet that Phil's amazing parents gifted to us as a wedding present.

There's the dining table and chairs that Phil's landlady let us take (for free!!!) from his old house when he and his roommates moved out.

There's the jewelry armoire that my mom found at a garage sale for $10.

There's the pretty ceramic owl that sweet Heidi gave me for my birthday, and the Ikea bookcase that my sister passed on to me when she didn't want it anymore.

There's the super awesome desk that Erik gave us. The conversation literally went:
Me: Ooh, I love your desk.
Erik: Do you want it?!?!?!?!

I mean, for heaven's sake. How do things like that even happen? And about half an hour ago, I was chatting with my mom about how the hubby and I plan to go to St. Vinnie's this week, to look for cheap dining room chairs--we only have 3, which isn't quite enough for having people over. And my mom responds:

"Oh . . . there are 4 chairs in our basement! The neighbor was putting them out. We took them, just in case. Davy was going to use them, but I think they're too big for his apartment."

;aoiewjf;oiawe;oiru;ioajuiofijo

Whew. Now that I've gotten that out of my system--and aside from the fact that an apartment would have to be pretty cozy (read: teeny) to not be able to fit a few chairs--God's provision has just been astonishing. He has blessed us with so much, even at those moments when we wished we had more or worried about making ends meet . . . furniture is just the tip of a very large, very beautiful iceberg.

At first, when I realized where all these items around me came from, I felt almost guilty. But it would be an act of foolish pride to try and downplay these crazy blessings. The more I think about it, the more I realize how stunningly beautiful it all is. Instead of simply saying we went out and bought things to furnish our house, we can be thankful and deeply humbled to know that nearly everything around us is a tangible testament to how God has blessed us, and how our family and friends give with such glad hearts.

Plus, it pushes us to be better--to spend our money thoughtfully, to give generously wherever we're called to give, and to fight the temptation of materialism. Nothing we own is ever really ours. When we tithe at church, we're not really giving 10% of what's ours--it's more like God is letting us keep 90% of what doesn't even belong to us.

(Squishy armchairs, cute mom, and cuddly pup!!!)

"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these."
-Matthew 6: 28-29

Love.

 
"Don’t worry. Put away your mirrors and your beauty magazines and your books on tape. There is someone right here who knows you more than you do, who is making room on the couch, who is fixing a meal, who is putting on your favorite record, who is listening intently to what you have to say, who is standing there with you, face to face, hand to hand, eye to eye, mouth to mouth. There is no space left uncovered. This is where you belong." -Sufjan Stevens

Extra Love

It's amazing how, in my head, a beautiful and well-organized life seems like it should be effortless. I know what's important to me--all these goals, all the simple little things I want to infuse into my life. (Now I'm imagining raspberry black tea infusing into a mug of steaming hot water.....mmmmm.) But it's so hard to put all those things into practice. When I focus on one area, others seem to fall by the wayside.

I'm a chronic list-maker, so it's easy to chart out all these little goals my heart wanders after:

• Natural and organic everything. If I were rich I would buy all organic food and go to the market every week....and I would use shampoos and lip balms and sunscreen made from tea tree oil, or honey, or primrose. It's just hard for me to spend $15 on a bottle of shampoo.
• Housewifey stuff. I really, really want to make our house beautiful and live in an uncluttered, clean space. Phil and I take turns with tasks like cooking, doing the dishes, and taking out the trash, but I don't think he shares my (hypothetical) excitement about all this domestic stuff. Maybe someday I'll actually be well-organized enough to get one step ahead.....who knows.
• Writing. This is what I've loved since before kindergarten. Someday I want to make an income from fiction writing or freelance editing or some combination of the two. But even if there's no pay-off, it's just something my soul loves--it's frustrating when everything else seems to get in the way.
• Being healthy. Phil helps me limit pop and junk food a lot more than I used to, and we are trying to stay in shape together--but I still feel frustrated whenever I eat too much, or skip exercise. Ugh. Our bodies are like a temple, and I really don't want to fill mine with trash.
• Music. I have these dreams of Phil and I writing songs together whenever we feel like it, playing at coffee shops, worshiping together all the time. And it does happen, but I just wish it could happen more, because I love it so much! But there aren't that many hours in the day.
• Friends. Friends. More friends. I'm a hardcore introvert and have trouble with larger groups--my favorite thing is to hang out in smaller groups, or just individually, and truly get to know people. Maybe have them over for dinner or go out for coffee. But there are maybe 20 people I feel this way out . . . eeek. So many awesome people and not enough time. (I know . . . excuses, excuses.)
• Art. I've been doing some acrylic painting, and I'm full of craft ideas (thanks in part to Pinterest), and I've been wanting to take a watercolor class . . . someday. Maybe soon.

It all sounds nice. But obviously, life is full of other things, like working and paying off student loans and saving to go back to school and budgeting in case we decide to get a house someday. And I am INCREDIBLY blessed that I even have the privilege to try and balance all these hobbies, these goals and passions. I recognize that this isn't something I've earned--it's been given to me as a gift, totally undeserved.

When I create art or take good care of my home, when I make healthy choices or spend time with friends, I want to invite God into every single one of those moments and thank him for it. I want my whole life to be infused by him--so that even if I don't have time for everything on my "extras" list, I can rest in the Spirit.

Return to Sender

Before we met
I had already seen you in far too many dreams.

You can't send letters without words
but that's what I did
sleeping on a mattress of pictures and postage stamps
I never had my fighting chance.

Our love notes read like grocery lists
or prescription refills--
take 3 pomegranate seeds
and call me in the morning--
but I could never bring myself to throw them away.

Instead I practiced the careful handwriting of the girl
who would someday meet me in the mirror
who would've traded her whole flock of delicate black words
for my clear blank page.

Because before I knew you I knew that we would fit
like a letter tucked in an envelope
or a needle in the crease of my arm.
For 22 years you dripped life into my veins.

And when you tapped me on the shoulder
and asked to cut in
I gave you the scissors
and told you to do your worst.

I didn't know how much happiness would hurt.
I didn't know it could be possible to miss someone
when he's laying right beside you
keeping you warm and you're running your fingers
through his hair thinking this is the last time
on the 16th of March at 11:37 at night
that I will run my fingers through his hair and
I didn't know that happy endings go so fast.

But I know that we are blessed
because a thing would have to be pretty damn beautiful
for me to be this afraid of losing it.

Serve God, Love Me and Mend

Madison, Wisconsin--
where snowfall after snowfall leaves us cold and defiant
like the heart that refuses to stop beating even after it's gone through the ice.

I can't be the only one feeling the lack of Vitamin D.

Still, exciting things have been happening. Praise God! It's beautiful to see what He will do when I'm humble enough to soften my heart and surrender it to him.  He can only accomplish so much if we hand him a rock and tell him "mold this." But if we give him clay . . .

This past month, God has been molding me. He has made me aware of exactly where I'm imperfect. Where I'm selfish. Where I've been weak. It doesn't mean I have to patch up those tears myself--it's more that I'm recognizing them, giving them to God.
 
I tend to love people deeply, almost recklessly. But when certain difficult topics come up, I feel torn between honesty and kindness. I don't want to become complicit in something that my heart says is harmful. But I don't want to hurt someone, or alienate them, either. This leads me to sin--in other words, yucky things:

• Telling little white lies to safely navigate a difficult topic. Even if it causes me to express something different than what's in my heart.
• In private, feeling frustrated and even annoyed at the person, to the point where I start to lose the love I once had for them.
• Ranting like a crazy person. Even if it's just to my husband, I think this counts as gossip.

I want to love and I want to speak truth. So where is the balance? I have no idea. But I'm slowly learning the precarious skill of gentle truth. Or at least, of being a friend and showing kindness without supporting something that I don't agree with. And it's not about the big things, either--I don't tend to judge others on their lifestyles, their belief systems. It's the little things, like repeated acts of pride or selfishness. Like people taking advantage of others in small ways.

Truth hurts, especially when hearts are too hard to listen. Blunt honesty can even destroy friendships and burn bridges, when maybe I want to keep those bridges around for a while. But keeping the feelings bottled up and acting like a people-pleaser makes me loathe myself, makes me end up being sinful and negative in my own head and behind closed doors. And it tarnishes the love I'm supposed to be giving. So what do I do?

"He said to me, My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." 2 Corinthians 12:9

God is the ultimate mender. Where I could just sew on a messy patch and try to ignore all the loose threads, he can renew and make me whole. And by letting him work through me, rather than trying to be strong on my own--or worse, pretending that the weaknesses don't exist--I am able to bring glory to him. I can admit that I don't have the delicate balance of honesty and compassion figured out yet. That for now, all I can do is try to follow God and let him make amends where I fall short.

Our Wedding (In Pictures): My First Thank-You Note!

Phil and I are married. Eeeeeeep!

 (This is us, all married and such.)

I'm sorry--I know so much happiness can be sort of sickening--but this is just wild. Thank you, Jesus, for heaping all these blessings on me. I don't deserve it!

Our vintage-y little picnic wedding was perfect because it embraced the spirit of community. The whole celebration was put together through the graciousness (and craftiness!) of so many people! It would take pages and pages to document everything. But I'll mention a few gifts that my mom happened to snap a picture of:

• The flower brigade. Here they are, hard at work! My dad and friends picked up some Subway sandwiches for everyone, and then we all got to work, cutting stems, arranging flowers, and sticking them into those little green sponges--big flowers in the middle! Thank you to everyone for sharing your secret florist talents.

• The set-up crew! Putting together a DIY wedding is not easy--I'm just astounded by how selfless and caring everyone was, offering their help by moving picnic tables, hanging the colorful flags that my mom and her friends hand-sewed, writing on chalkboards and draping tulle, setting out plates and centerpieces, even tidying up the shelter bathrooms! Holy moly.

Studly table-movers. ;)

The crafters!

Eeeek! I can't believe all this was going on while I was just feeling 

excited/nervous and fixing my hair. Hahaha. Such wonderful friends.

• This girl!

 

 Seriously, Courtney Guenther is a woman of about a zillion talents. Let's see.....she put together the bouquets, did my makeup, fixed the girls' hair, and used an earring post and a teeny pair of scissors to poke a hole through the leather straps of my sandals, basically saving my life.  

•  Every single person who brought delicious food to share. Not to mention the amazing pie-bakers--Karen, Megan, Sharon, and all the girls--who set up shop at the Biller household. Mmmm. Potluck weddings FTW. I will forever remember the taste of that strawberry ganache pie. 

(This beautiful photo was taken by Lauren Thacker! She also took a gorgeous close-up shot of our vows that we will probably get framed someday.)

• All the people who made our ceremony so perfect!

My brother Davy and his girlfriend Lauren did the readings. They're a super sweet, fun 

couple, and they're amazing together (even despite my bro's oddness! lol.) It meant so much 

to have my bro and my hopefully-future sister take part in the ceremony, and it was even more meaningful because they are a Christ-seeking couple, too!
 *

Yuliya married us! She is such an inspiring woman, and Phil and I were honored

to be the first couple she's ever married. She filled the ceremony with wisdom and joy.

 The Krause Family Band played beautiful folksy music. I am basically their biggest fan.

There are so many others to thank, too! I just described the things that come with pictures, mostly. But the list goes on: there's our lovely photographers Sarah and Kimberly, Erik with his ballin' DJ stylings, and Jimmy and Nicole, grillers extraordinaire! 

And of course, our parents. My goodness. Phil and I are so blessed to have been raised by people who love us so much. Our families are the best, and they helped so selflessly on "The Big Day" (as some might call it).

 I am now one of the Biller clan!

Love my daddy, so much.

I guess that's the end of this little photo essay. Thank you so much for everyone who helped, showed up, and celebrated with us! We love you!

We Love Midnight Brunch!

Tonight I'm making my babe some French toast. Three courses of gourmet French toast, to be exact. He was craving some today, but then he had to run off to work. Wheee! I love surprising him.

Sadly, my first-ever attempt at making my own whipped cream ended in disaster. I know, I know. It's just cream and sugar mixed together. But everything happened so fast! I'm pretty sure the Sunbeam mixer my mom got me is the most powerful mixer on earth. Luckily there was some Cool Whip in the fridge, waiting loyally for its time to shine. I'll just have to let the trashcan enjoy this weird, creamy, buttery coagulation. Yuck.

Here is the "Lindy's Blobby Bistro" (don't ask, haha) menu for my babe:

First Course: Pumpkin-Chocolate French Toast. Basically, I added pumpkin puree and a few spices to the traditional egg-milk-vanilla mixture. Then I drizzled just a little bit of chocolate syrup over the top.

Second Course: Bananas Foster French Toast. I made regular French toast and cooked banana slices in a separate skillet with a homemade sauce of brown sugar, melted butter, and water. I thought about adding a few plum slices on the side, just because there was a yummy-looking ripe plum in the fridge. But it's probably better without it.

Third Course: Cinnamon French Toast with Strawberries and Cream. Mmm.

(I strive to emulate Plow!!!)

So excited for Phil to get home from work! And not just because I'm getting hungry. That fiance of mine is truly the strongest, kindest, most humble, and most fun man I know. He follows Christ and strives to better himself in everything he does. And I am so ready to share some midnight brunch with him.

Don't Worry....Be Happy

Honesty time: there are so many insecurities in my life right now. Also, so much grace and healing.

Since my last post, I've settled in at my new job. I work at a hospice IPU as a "unit assistant," which basically means "unit clerk/glorified receptionist." I take care of everything from answering call lights to notifying housekeeping because a visiting puppy got so excited that it peed on the carpet (oops). I also smile at people and try to look cute. It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.

There's just something strange about going from a well-paying, intellectually challenging (if emotionally crushing) job to a part-time support role. At Epic, I was constantly busy, stressed, and fatigued. Now, I'm surrounded by sweet coworkers and life is relatively stress-free, but I also make less than half of my former paycheck.

I wouldn't have been able to make the switch if not for my fiance, Phil.

(This is us. I love him more than life.)

Phil is an RN at the same place I work. In fact, he encouraged me to apply there. This is perfect--we often work the same shifts, and he looks SO SEXY (blush) running around in his scrubs, taking care of people and being an amazing nurse.

But it's a big adjustment for me to have to depend so fully on another person to make ends meet. If not for Phil, I would've had only two options:

1. Stay at Epic until I found another high-paying job, to keep up with student loans.
2. Move back to Warren and stay with my parents.

The latter wasn't really an option--not only because I'm too independent (and maybe have a teeny bit too much pride, which I'm trying to work on), but also because Madison is my new home, at least for now. Home has become wherever my soon-to-be husband happens to be.

Thanks to my babe, I was able to leave a terrible, wrong-for-me job and go somewhere that makes me feel like I'm pouring myself into something, like I matter. Phil is definitely the "breadwinner" now, and he's a whiz at finances--it's just crazy. He's incredibly organized and smart about our spending plan, but he also embraces my spontaneity and shows such generosity toward others AND toward me (what's the good in giving to others if you don't give to your own family?)

Every now and then, I wonder if I should feel bad about not working in a more challenging job, after being valedictorian in high school and getting top marks (except for one pesky statistics class) at a really good university. It feels like my brain has sort of atrophied since college, like my intelligence is slowly declining. In high school I aced advanced placement calculus; now I answer the phones. I don't actually feel bad, but I do wonder if this is the right path. At low points, I guess it's a little frustrating that I'm not using my skills or being compensated at the level I could probably achieve.

But really, I am using my gifts, my God-given skills--just not the quantifiable ones. I'm loving others, treating them with genuine respect and compassion, and adding my personality to the mix at a workplace that literally deals with life and death. My coworkers are just awesome people, and I get to interact every day with patients and families who are on the cusp of a journey's end, who find themselves tangled up in complex emotions--unthinkable pain, heartbreaking love, even (hopefully) a sense of closure or relief. That is an unusual job, to say the least. And that's where God has called me.

Also, the change in finances has humbled me like crazy. It's easy for us, as sinful, well-meaning people, to start feeling as though we deserve more money. As though we're entitled to it. But really, not a single cent of that money is mine. It's all a blessing, a gift. And it means I have to trust God, rather than my own steam, to provide for my needs. These verses from Matthew 6 speak to my soul:

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear . . . Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or stow away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you now much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?"

So much wisdom here. Jesus knows our hearts, but he also cares deeply about our physical well-being. This means a lot to me, because I tend to be a worrier. During my stint at Epic, I saw the effects of worry firsthand. And the way God worked through the situation (a story that won't fit in this blog post) is a huge testament to his love and faithfulness.

(Happy. This life is a blessing. Also, baby squids are cute.)

"See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is throw into the fire, will he not much more clothe you--you of little faith? So do not worry, saying 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself."

More on this later. But for now, I'll just say: Amen, Lord.

Pushing My Comfort Zone: Punny Image Included!

There's something so liberating about starting over in a new place.

When I moved to Madison at the end of May, it was a little scary to not know anyone. But it was the best feeling, too. My parents drove the 7 hours from Detroit and helped me move into my studio apartment. We explored the city a little bit (though we never strayed toward the capitol . . . my dad seems to resist downtown).

Then they left, and that was it. This was my new apartment, my new city, my new life.

I loved it. So, so much.

I remember going to Target for some groceries--I wouldn't hear about Woodman's existence for at least another couple months. I came home, opened the screen door to my little patio, sipped from a cold can of Sierra Mist, and just let it all sink in. It was a sunny eighty-degree day. I was in a brand new place, where no one even knew my name.

It was beyond beautiful.

I mean, it's not like I was running away from something. I loved Ann Arbor, and I loved college. Walking away from my Ann Arbor apartment for the last time, I had to blink back tears. There were also a few nights in Madison when I cried just from loneliness. Y'know, it happens.

But I can also see when change is for the better. With this new chapter came so many possibilities. No one here knew I was intelligent and studious, or completely silly, or that I smiled and laughed too much. No one here knew the things I loved.

It was so exciting, the first time I went to the Journey. I didn't know a single person, but they all seemed awesome. For the next several weeks, I challenged myself to always accept invitations, to always reach out and be a part of any social situation that came up.

At the same time, I cherished the freedom to be truly independent and answer only to God and myself.

Everything has changed again. The freedom of total independence and anonymity has been replaced by the freedom of something better--and that was part of how I knew that Phil was different from anyone else I'd ever met. In general, I'm an outgoing introvert: I need to be alone in order to truly refresh. But with Phil, from the very beginning, I would always rather be with him.

Now I'm challenging myself again. I've really settled in and gotten comfortable in Madison. In a few months, I'll be married. I think I'm letting this stifle my social, independent personality. While I've met some truly awesome girl friends in Madison, I wish I could spend more time with them and find a closeness similar to what I felt with my best friends in college.

So again, I'm challenging myself to always accept invitations--and to take initiative and plan hang-outs with friends, too. Maybe I'm tired from work, or I'd rather just stay at home and write. (This actually happens a LOT.) But nothing will change if I don't push my comfort zone.

First Little Blog Post

Choosing a domain name is always fun . . . until you realize that every obvious choice (lindysblog, for example) or even every not-so-obvious choice (such as roadkillkitty) is already taken.

As I was sitting at my kitchen table, struggling to come up with something original, my eyes fell on the fresh-cut flowers in a little blue vase on the tabletop. So that's what this blog is called! Lilacs and peonies are my favorite flowers of all time--sometimes I'll literally stop on the sidewalk to smell lilac blossoms. But roses, tulips, and sunflowers all come in at a close second, and they're definitely easier to obtain from the flower shop.

This is similar to how I came up with my aol screenname, instant_maple: I was sitting in my dorm room, tearing open a packet of Quaker's instant maple oatmeal, when the computer told me to pick a username.

As my first post, here is a little something to get you through the day:

Teacup pig!!!! Phil is such a wonderful fiance--after I revealed my helpless adoration for these little guys, he researched them for me. Apparently, getting a teacup pig as a pet can run you up to $1000. :( A little more expensive than a golden retriever. But maybe we'll find a stray teacup pig on a street corner or in the kennel somewhere.

FYI: The girl who stole lindysblog.blogspot.com has not posted anything since 2005. Just sayin'.