Lying in bed tonight, I reached over to touch my Gregory.

I felt his warm skin at my fingertips. That same firm, broad muscled shoulder, same manly smell I’ve known for 37 years, and I wanted just to lay there, knowing he wouldn’t leave….kind of like clinging to my pink blankie.

Comforted and assured.

All is well with me.

Seeing him across the room, time and again over the years engaged in conversation…behind a podium, earnestly addressing a crowd…tickling my granddaughter, chasing her about as she giggles wildly, or sitting, brooding over sons by number…each boy furrows his brow over one thing or another….or Bible in hand, pen poised, awaiting the next underline as he reads for hours.

This is my man. 
The one I’ve known and watched and smelled and touched and loved and hated and boxed with and screamed at and cried to as he held me tightly to his chest.

Don’t ever be gone.

Don’t ever not be there for my fingers to reach.

“I never want to be away from you,” he said in the car today as we drove from Walmart. “Even though sometimes I want to kill you,” he chuckled.

“Touch my neck.” For he loves my hand on his skin just to know I’m there.

We have had our ups and downs.

Extremes, like in music scores; highs and lows.

My recently-degreed fifth born said without the lows you wouldn’t have the highs and vice versa. You need them in music, in movies, in photography, in color, in sound, in life.

It’s what makes life alive.

A flatline isn’t a good sign.

The dance of marriage is the ebb and flow, the dark and light, the valleys and the peaks.

“Husband and wife, pulled taut like rubber bands, then crashing into one another with a squabble, loving feelings rekindled, pulling back again to retract for space…repeat.”

But he doesn’t look for space from me these days.

Any space is too far.

Even as my thoughts wander, he intuitively knows and will softly say, “don’t leave me.”

Hiding in my office for hours, days, to write my articles and books, then emerging to grab a snack or drink…he will look up as I walk by as if the sun just arose to break through his gray clouds…countenance lift…just to spy me there.

And then he’ll ask me a question like always to solve a mystery of his.

To get some practical info.

To cause me to linger a while longer.

That’s when I playfully call him the ‘yard frog;’ that decorative garden creature at Home Depot who ribbits as motion is detected.

At times his doting is more than my crowded, busy, driven self can bear and I wish him away…but now I don’t do that.

I wish him here.

Not just til morning, or the next night, or til the weekend or over the holidays; not through the upcoming family festivities or Happy New Year, but forever.

I don’t want to be the widow who rolls over to a cold pillow next to me.

I don’t want the same for him.

I resist the pull of such melancholy, yet I’m sobered by my thoughts; this deep affection is so real to me at this moment.

I roll to the left to snuggle to his back until I doze, even through his numerous, irritating restless movements, late night games of solitaire on his iphone…to cling because I can, until he stirs so that I cannot sleep, then I roll to the right and he turns off his light and scoots up to my back and clings to me.

This is us.
This is our love.
This is our silent cry never to be apart, never to be forced to fall in love with another because one’s left.

How can I possibly articulate these deep feelings to those wandering souls who pledge their love, fingers crossed behind their backs as they hold stubbornly to their independence? Living with their options open— this language I speak is foreign to them, the country I live in is not theirs, and yet…our apartment is three doors away.

How can they know that sex and relationship are only two-dimensional without a love that’s birthed through the darkest of days, over time, children sick with fevers burning hot in the night, bills, oh bills, fears, anguish, anger, multiple birthdays and anniversaries, the drone of the dailies, the tempo of tedium…way beyond goosebumps, convenience and frivolous emotion?

How can they understand what it means to stay…when they keep leaving?

How could they relate to my eighty thousand family pictures and videos, packed carefully in a myriad of cartons and boxes, copied on hard drives, all taken since 1980 at our inception which I’ve dragged across the map of our innumerable moves?

Young, strapping, serious, muscle-bound dark-headed man takes vivacious, optimistic bouncing blonde girl to be his lawfully wedded wife. Then comes one boy child, then two, then three, then four and five…photos show the same man, now graying, the same girl, now a grannie, both slightly rounder, in 37 years’ worth of family albums, yellowing around the edges.

Same immediate family unit intact.

Stuck together like glue.

Years and pain and marathons soften the edges of our personalities, making us flexible enough to surrender, despite our intense displeasure for the moment, knowing somehow this too shall pass and we shall love each other fresh, yet again.

Now, my wish is his command.

He is smitten, as am I…no end in sight. We are each other’s muse.

I’ve been trying to get back to my borrowed, downtown Seattle writing retreat and my solitude, but I’m finding it so very difficult.

I’m afraid.

I wish I could call my recently deceased almost-ninety neighbor, Joyce, on the phone and commiserate.

I used to find her so irritating at times as she clung so tightly to Paul, her husband of 63 years. She would almost certainly strangle him under her iron grip…for she feared losing him. Every breath, every second, every jaunt, every move he made was under her watchful eye with baited breath and subject to her random and irrational outbursts and rants.

Now, at this moment, I feel her anxiety.

I don’t know where to be at times for I fear I will have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and will look back and wish I’d stayed, or that he went away to give me space and never came back and why did I wish him away that weekend?

We are no longer in our 30s or 40s; as the wrinkles define our features and our hair thins, our mortality is highlighted.

I don’t want to face the day he is not there when I reach over for him.

Who would rescue me from my haunting nightmares as he has, jolting me from my blanket of terror, wrapping me in his safe arms of love; reassuring me?

I sleep differently when I know he’s there. My whole body sleeps.

Without him, only my eyes sleep — the rest of me doesn’t rest.

He is the Papa our three-year old granddaughter hotly pursues through the house until she finds him, calling through the locked bathroom door or interrupting him as he studies, his earplugs in for soundproofing.

He is the steel beam holding up our dynasty — invisible on many days but more necessary than could possibly be imagined.
We would be lost without him.

In the light of day, funny how every car whizzing by grabs my attention…then my eye turns to see…is that him?

And I feel elated to think that he is coming home to me…again…predictably, like a horse to the barn these 37 years. And as happy as I was that he was out and about all morning, giving me much-needed solace…I’m more happy to hear his familiar gait as he makes his way into the house all kerfuffle. He’s Italian, after all…not the kind of guy who tiptoes around in life.

As I watched him in action today hoisting items, shifting, working, as we relocate yet again, replay kicked in on my inner reel.

How many times he’s organized, lifted and shifted over 37 years of progress and forward motion.

Now I know these movements and sounds as a comfort.

My strong man exists to make things right, to adjust the crooked and toss the needless and prepare what’s necessary. To bark out commands and get things done.

Such a masculine man.

A visionary.

A leader.

A passionate soul.

A deep thinker.

An intentional man.

Perhaps I could find a warm body to snuggle; a well-heeled businessman to pay my bills and care that I’m on his arm, to buy me dinner anytime, anywhere. To never complain about my spending.

But this is My Man. He is not simply good looking or stylish or sharp or clever, he is The One I have loved more deeply than I thought possible.

The love of my life since my teens.

Child bride was I.

Next to me as I birthed each of our five sons, then next to me through postpartum blues, baby fat and my copious stretch marks he calls “beautiful.”

Every morning for the last 13,505 mornings I have waked knowing…he is.

Trusting.

Assured.

Together with him.

My husband, my friend, my co-laborer, my covenant man.

I’m so glad we’ve endured the hardest things in life to get to the sweetest things in life.

You are my heart, my life, my ballast…my home. Happy Anniversary, my love.

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When someone next to you is shining brightly, it reveals what needs to change in you.

Recently I’ve had a fresh glimpse of the good things in my man…this man I’ve lived with for nearly four decades.

His quiet, unabashed confidence and backbone of steel.

His insane ability to streamline and organize-to ruthlessly purge clutter of every kind, bringing peace and productivity.

His stick-to-itiveness, resourcefulness and dogged determination when his eye is on the prize.

His dependability – he plans ahead and shows up on time every time, never leaving me wondering of his whereabouts in body or in heart.

His wholehearted devotion and uncompromising loyalty to those he loves.

Jim Rohn says, “Don’t join an easy crowd; you won’t grow. Go where the expectations and the demands to perform are high.”

My husband has never been ‘an easy crowd’ sort of guy; just being in his presence places a demand on those around him to excel. It’s born good fruit in my life.

And as his wave of glory overshadows me at the moment, I’m confronted with my own shortcomings.

Marriage is like that.
We take turns being wonderful and just when we think WE are the shizz, the tables turn.
And we are humbled.
It’s sort of like taking a naked painful look in a lighted 10X mirror in midlife.
Ugh.
We want to look away, hoping the imperfections we see aren’t real.

But they are.

And we swallow hard and thank God for the unbelievable grace we’ve been shown.
And then we get out the relevant DIY kit and make efforts to adjust what needs a tune-up.

This is the beauty of covenant.
His strengths balance out my weaknesses today…my strengths balance out his weaknesses tomorrow.

No one’s going anywhere.

I have to wonder if millions of people quit too soon on their mate…just before their ‘wonderful’ emerges?

The Bible says, it’s good for two to walk together then, when one is weak, the other is strong, and they help each other.
This is marriage.
This is covenant.
This is genuine love between a man and a woman.

It’s not Father’s Day, or our Anniversary, or his birthday; it’s just another day in the unfolding story of Gregory and Denise and Co. And I had to mark this spot and highlight it, before we turn the page to tomorrow.

Love you so, my man.

Your Two-Minute Takeaway

1. Pause and ponder: Life is busy, demanding, and often incredibly stressful. Our marriage relationships bear the brunt of all the overwhelm of modern life. How you ‘feel’ today may not reflect the truth of your commitment to your man or woman. 
2. Make a list right now of the things you appreciate about your partner – what was it you fell in love with in the beginning? It’s still there, even when it’s hiding under the noise of negativity.
3. Dismiss what’s bugging you about ‘them’ for a moment and look humbly into that ‘magnifying mirror’ and consider what you could adjust to make your relationship to your mate even better. Then, act on it asap!

Thank you for reading – I’m honored! Want more? Subscribe for exclusive content and grab my spring freebie HERE>> How to Cure an Unhappy Kid and Revolutionize Your Homelife

In midlife, sometimes
anxiety like a vice grip, comes to crush you.

Overwhelm like an ocean swell, looms large…
reminding you of all that’s undone, imperfect, incomplete, in disarray, off track.

The ‘whys?’ pile up, the pat answers aren’t working, the mountain before you seems higher, despite your furious toil.
Unsure of who you are, exactly, or what you’re doing or accomplishing…you’re busy piecing it all together sort of randomly with good intentions – but what is it you’re actually building??

The chaos whispers in your ear, taunting…
is this what failure feels like?

questions
fears
uncertainty
disappointments

The buzzer on the call pad jolts you from your inner downward spiral of contemplation…
and in the hand of an unsuspecting soul, a gorgeous bouquet appears. An everyday miracle revealed in this crucial moment. Life and beauty and color and fragrance, wrapped in love.

God comes in many forms, and it is Him,
and He reminds you of exactly who you are, what’s important, how much you’re loved, and that He sees all the hidden things others don’t see, all the seeds you’ve planted, all the love you’ve tried so hard to express, all the sacrifices and genuine efforts you’ve made, every fervent prayer you’re praying.
And you exhale…
and peace comes with strength and fresh determination.
Oxygen to fuel your fire yet again – the flame rekindled.
And you press on, even more determined.

You could call me intuitive. It’s the way I’m wired. I sometimes get a sense about things before they happen. And sometimes I wish I didn’t know.

A few weeks before our recent move from California to Washington State, I sensed a foreboding of sorts. Nothing alarming, just very real to my heart. Hubby and I were riding our bikes on a trail near our home when I casually announced,

“I feel like I’m going to go through a narrow place in our new city.”

He gave me a quizzical look and in typical black-and-white man-fashion with an Italian twist blurted out, “what does that even MEAN?!” as he went on listing every positive, wonderful and practical reason my thinking was flawed on this matter.

After all, this wasn’t his premonition or revelation, it was mine. About me. So I didn’t get defensive, I simply replied,

“I don’t exactly know how to describe it, but in my heart I understand it.”

And I knew in my knower that this was a thing and it wasn’t going away and it wasn’t gonna be easy. And in typical emotional-woman fashion, I cried. A lot.

The rest is history as you might know from my previous blog posts. (Click>> HERE for all the juicy details!) The week of our move I broke my [driving] ankle in two places and was immediately ushered into a very narrow existence, beyond what I had anticipated.

House arrest. Handcuffed by pain and swelling, crutches, then a cast, a second cast, a scooter, and now – the human cone of shame – a walking boot…in the middle of one of the biggest, most complicated moves of my life – my MIDLIFE mind you! Restrained not only by these earmarks of injury but by my utter and often humiliating dependence upon others; their schedules, their intuition, their personalities, their moods, their decisions…and their Costco runs! Thanks be to God!

Narrow? Try suffocating. At times, infuriating. And yes, in particularly helpless moments, depressing. (I may be whining. Sorry.)

Then, the property I felt really excited about (that was potentially gonna earn me boatloads of cash) I tried to buy twice – didn’t come through twice. Sigh. God always answers our prayers, just not always on our timeline or in the manner we expect or with the answer we want, despite our begging. Sometimes the answer is silence. Sometimes the answer is ‘no’. I don’t like ‘no’ except that a ‘no’ is protecting me from the wrong thing, so a ‘no’ is a good answer, right? And sometimes the answer is ‘here, take a break while I work on that.’ #bigeyesemoji

Consequently we decided to rent (which means now I get to move twice, hallelujah) and moved into one of the cool old mansion-turned-apartment buildings in our city; walkable, bike-able…if only I still had my bike, the one I’ve used for 10 years, my faithful companion through the trails and trials of Northern California, but it was stolen. Along with my laundry. My newest most beloved summer pieces – they left some nice ones, too, which made absolutely no sense. (WT? You don’t like ALL my clothes??) Because yes, now I live in an urban as opposed to SUBurban apartment with communal coin laundry a few floors down. I know, QUARTERS! It makes me feel like I’m at a resort LOL. And hubby and I share a bathroom for the first time in….hmm 36 years. That’ll test your marriage. And my scooter doesn’t fit in there. Talk about narrow. Sheesh. And as I hobble about my new city and my new small spaces, I surrender to the burn of the pressing narrow of my now. Hand me a tissue somebody!

A thought came strongly to me the other day, “in quietness and confidence shall be your strength.” Hmm. Ponder that. I think that’s a verse from the Scriptures. Haven’t read that one in ages. Gotta look that up. Yep. Isaiah 30:15.

Lord knows I’ve experienced lots of quiet and alone places in the past 2+ months, and as I reflect upon my adult life, I’d have to say it’s the quiet alone places I’ve found to be the seedbed for the wonderful things in my life. Solitary places of meditation, prayer and repose – I can envision those actual physical, geographical spots even now – scattered literally across the globe the past three decades, which have been places of preparation, even launching pads, for my future.

And I’m reminded that lots of vital and precious substances like coal, zinc, platinum, pearls, gold and diamonds are created in narrow, dark, alone places. In truth, despite the torture of my narrow, I’ve found an oasis of serenity being stuck on my arse without the usual options I enjoyed in my former existence. And I must confess…….I’m almost afraid to go back.

Sometimes you have to go through a narrow place to get to a broad place. Think butterflies and babies.

And sometimes the road gets very narrow right before the break through. And I have a hunch that before long I’m going to understand the importance of this season, my Summer Break on the Isle of Immobility, and I truly hope my struggles have benefitted you somehow. See you next time…

(If you’d like to read the entire series on this topic or share it with a friend who’s going through the process of rehab from injury, click here. Thanks for sharing!)

I’m kind of like a Jack Russell Terrier. Perpetual motion. Fitbit freak. Perfectionist. Until I broke my ankle in two places seven days before the moving truck arrived.

In a minute, I was banished to the Isle of Immobility at perhaps the most inconvenient time Providence could have allowed. I became a prisoner of my physical limitations.

Crutches. Handless. Left foot only. Carrying stuff around my neck, in my pockets, held between my teeth…determined, yes, but decidedly deterred.

Messes everywhere.
Sticky counters, clutter, crumbs, moving boxes, bubble wrap.
I hobble past the mess and groan because I can’t fix it.
So I sit, powerless to handle things my way, the only way I do things, my preferred methods and outcomes no longer my reality.
Deep sigh.
Asking for Every. Little. Thing.
“Calling Strategic Command Center…I just want my supplements…to get the mail…change the sheets…shower…pack that closet…do 3 errands in 20 minutes…tidy the house…need COFFEE!…get my cord, NO! NOT THAT CORD….my crutches….I’m thirsty… I just want to ________________” times a million. Hurry up and wait. I’m aging.

The most basic tasks have become tedious brain busters; complex and time consuming. I don’t give up. I have crawled, rolled, hopped and scooted for hours. On moving day my Fitbit registered 6.7 thousand steps on one foot. (clapping)

At moments I’m like a toddler who can’t move her blocks. I’m ramming a box furiously with my crutch and it’s not budging. I want to run away but I’m stuck so I fume and fuss and scream inside.
And I cry; a good cry or three or ten might help.
Tears in front of my friends, my children, my husband. Tears, tears, tears.
What’s wrong with Mama?
Help me, God.

Silence.
No one can rescue me.
No one can relieve the pressure inside and comfort me.
Venting brings relief, but then I feel guilty for ‘complaining.’

I’m not depressed. I’m hindered.
Activity is my personal drug of choice.
Serving is what I AM not just what I do.
I am being denied my SELF. My identity. My very wiring is being blocked.
I’M SHORTING OUT. LIKE AN ELECTRICAL IMPLOSION.
Poof.

“Oh, Denise, enjoy the rest, read a book!”
As if I’m in my home where everything is in its place. No. I’m sitting in the middle of chaos where my stuff is out of reach, still in boxes – in the vast unknown – in my storage unit across town.
My body may be ‘resting,’ but inside I chuurrn.

This temporary double break in my foundation is not without purpose.
Introspection.
Thinking. Asking hard questions inside my head. What is this about? What am I supposed to see and change that needs to be addressed? I don’t waste experiences. I need to know. Is this the proverbial winepress? Am I the grapes? Is this where all the good stuff comes out? Some good stuff next time.

Stay tuned... (Click here for Part 3 ‘From the Winepress’)

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