I am so glad to have this Monday off. I am jet-lagged, sunburned, knocked up, and pissed off (for reasons I’m not free to discuss right now; but in a total non sequitur, doesn’t Horrible Bosses look like an excellent movie?). I need a vacation to recover from our vacation, but I will take this one day and run with it, thank you very much. I am enjoying a day of relative silence, absent of people like the guy at baggage claim yesterday who feel the need to loudly narrate everything surrounding them (“Is that our bag? No? No, that’s not ours. That one has a red ribbon on the handle. Look at that bag! Leopard-print! Guess it’s not hard to recognize that in a crowd! Hey, I thought the economy was bad. Can’t tell it by how many people are traveling, HAR HAR HAR! There’s our bag. Nope, it’s not.”). I am looking forward to a day of reflection on what really matters (to that end, I am catching up on all the blogs I missed reading last week, including God’s, as well as flexing my own rusty thinking and writing muscles). I am hoping for a day of rehydrating my body, restocking the kitchen, and eating healthy(er). I am anticipating a day of suiting up for battle out there in the world, of letting people know (with as much grace as I can muster) that if they mess with the bull, they will get the horns. And what happens if you bring a knife to a gun fight. Excuse the bellicosity, which I will blame on exhaustion and hormones. This time.

The Husband and I stayed in five hotels over the course of eight nights, and ventured into the ocean twice in nine days. This, as Whitney sang, is not right, but it’s okay. It’s just that (and I may have mentioned this before) for me, a vacation is not complete unless I return with sand in my bag, multiple books read, and several bottles of wine killed. (That last one, for obvious reasons, does not apply this summer–but I did have my first few sips of California red since before the stick showed two lines and It. Was. Glorious. Like coming home from a tour of duty.) If there is a beach nearby, I want to be on it, staring at the water when I’m not riding the waves, falling asleep at night to the rhythm of the tide and feeling its ebb and flow from my pillow. Maybe it’s because Californians are used to the water being there that they don’t feel a sense of urgency to constantly be immersed in it, much like I didn’t feel compelled to complete my New York Tourist Checklist until the month I was moving. Or maybe it’s because the Pacific is just so damn cold. But in my occasionally-humble opinion, there is only one group of people who appear to spend enough time in the sea.

Surfers.

I’ve always wanted to learn to surf–to know the view of the shore from the top of a wave–but after spending some time watching the experts at Carlsbad Beach, I began to realize that, like most things in life, this activity is so much more difficult than it appears. But from my perch on the shore next to TH, I watched a surfer who remained upright for every wave she mounted, and seemed to choose the moment she would return to the water, never coming all the way to shore and never crashing in a spray of salt (or being toppled by a gruesome wave and re-engaging the vertical position just in time to realize a boob is hanging out–not that I would know how that feels.) I saw her glide and skim her way around each wave’s crest, expertly maneuvering her way around the top of the water like she was made to do it. Like it was easy. Like it was fun. TH and I agreed that what would be best is if we could go straight from our present, complete inability to surf to that level of effortlessness. Because it’s only fun when you don’t spend all your time trying.

That was when God reminded me that he’s everywhere, even California (though I’m not sure about certain parts of Hollywood). And that he was showing me a picture of what life looks like when perfect trust and grace meet.

Effortless. How much time and energy have I spent trying to look that way? How many opportunities do I miss to be still and just enjoy the view? To skim above the surface of life’s waves rather than constantly place myself, through worrying and fear, at their mercy? To trust what’s never failed me? To let grace hold me up and carry me?

To find out how it feels–and looks–to fly.

The real stuff always has a way of coming out.  This can be good or bad, depending on how much a person has to hide.  For most of my life, I’ve been a hider: pretending to be who I thought I should be, keeping up a careful exterior while my insides raged with the frustration of never showing through.  My unvalidated inner self broke through the ruins of failure, and since then I’ve spent (a little) less time fretting over people’s opinion of me and more time learning to laugh at myself. An invaluable talent, and one that my new husband (!) has helped me perfect. Life is way too short to be taken so seriously…and so are weddings.

I’ve already recounted how the storms in my belly and the sky rumbled violently up until the ceremony, reminding me once again (will I ever not need reminding?) that the world (believer version: God) does not take its cues from my script.  But by the time six pm rolled around, I was riding high on a non-hangover cloud that allowed me the relief of letting go in a way my intact, hydrated self never could have.  Mixed blessings!  Suddenly it didn’t matter if I got married in the rain, if the wind messed up my hair, if there was lipstick on my teeth.  Against all odds and past dating choices, I was getting married.  To a man who managed to be both one of the best human beings I know and perfect for me, facts at odds with each other until you mix in some grace.  In front of everyone I love, preceding a kickass party.  What’s a little thunder in the face of that?

(And no, the irony of not reaching this realization until after eight months of stress and planning is not lost on me.  But…baby steps, dammit!)

When I think back over that blissful night, I remember the moments I stood in the midst of this once-in-a lifetime event and willed myself to be still, shut up, and take it all in as a memory of pure joy.  These moments, strung together now in a mind not addled by champagne or adrenaline, have blessing and redemption and love written all over them.  And one other thing–the beauty of a story that is written by the most personal author imaginable.  Because that was the glory of our wedding: not that it went perfectly (thank you, expensive sound system that refused to function) but that it perfectly represented us, every last second of it. From the Scripture to the poetry, the dancing to the mashed potato bar, the cacophony of a room full of laughing loved ones to the quiet moments upstairs eating dinner by candlelight as a freshly minted and divinely ordained married couple.  Every moment spoke of us, and our very existence speaks of Him.  So…win win.

And then there’s the honeymoon, which spoke of us privately but perfectly as well.  We flew to St. Lucia on a plane full of newlyweds, most younger than us (good luck with that) and fiddling with their new wedding bands.  Our first four nights were spent at Jalousie Plantation.  Picture private multi-room villa with deck and plunge pool, shower the size of my old New York apartment, two bathrooms (one the size of my old New York apartment building), and a bed so luxurious I almost cried as I measured the various mattress toppers and feather beds to be wider than my jazz hand.  Our villa was placed up high in a rain forest while the beach was situated between the two Pitons, the tallest mountains on the hilly island.  As other couples scrambled to sign up for snorkeling and rainforest hikes, we sat on our happy asses with a drink flag drilled into the sand beside us and books in our hands, only getting up to pee or eat.  Neither required much traveling.

We chose to spend our last three nights at Sandals because, as mentioned above, we enjoy laughing.  A driver picked us up at Jalousie’s reception area and quoted us an hour-long ride.  For the next hour and forty-five minutes, we endured more hairpin turns and roller-coaster ups and downs than all my high school and college relationships combined.  I closed my eyes and squeezed The Husband’s hand while my face turned as green as the morning of my wedding day and I prayed even harder than I had then not to puke.  I wept tears of joy when I (a) found some Orbit gum in my purse and (b) the driver threw in a Jimmy Buffet CD.  Salvation, thy name is distraction.

We unloaded at Sandals and ran headlong into its cheese castle of coupledom.  At Jalousie, we were greeted with fruit punch, a quiet lobby, and the two restaurants’ hours.  At Sandals, we were invited to a street party that night in the parking lot and told to enjoy one of the the poolside bars while our room was prepared.  And once we got to said pool, a mass of g-string and tattoo-clad flesh bid us hello.  But so did an all-day nacho buffet. Compromise.

Jalousie was a picture of quiet isolation, which we appreciated both as introverts and as we recovered from our wedding week.  Sandals was a grounded cruise ship, full of constant entertainment (other guests among the best examples) and activities: DJ by the pool (this is a place that deems Sir Mix-A-Lot appropriate honeymoon entertainment), swim-up bar with patrons who imbibed liters of alcohol yet suspiciously never moved from their seats, Jet-Skis whizzing through rarely placid waters.  Then there was the night when we decided to stick our head in the door of the resort’s nightclub.  Excuse me, The Palladium Club.  We took in the room full of two-seater tables filled with drunk honeymooners, then the stage dominated by a person of questionable gender belting out “I Will Survive.”  We immediately ducked out, grasped hands, and headed to the solace of our room, The Husband summarizing as we walked:  “Well that was a tragic scene.”

Sandals sent us all back to the one international airport in multiple shuttles, and while working our way through the departure process we saw many of the same people from our flight down, one week tanner and more married.  Some looked hungover, some looked tired, some looked like they had spent one too many nights at The Palladium Club.  But after DMV-length ticket and security lines and an hour delay, The Husband and I were still finding plenty of things to laugh about.  A feat I would never accomplish on my own, mind you.  Eight months of wedding planning, a temporarily stormy wedding day, hours of travel, and we still have our senses of humor (though often he has to lend me some of his when I run out).  I think we crazy kids might just make it after all.

Thank God.  I could never go through all that again.

I’ve been to Europe twice in the past two years, and one of the impressions that rests most heavily while I’m there and after I’ve left is how eternal it feels.  Probably because I compare it to growing up in Montgomery, a city whose most ancient piece of history is Old Alabama Town, where we went for school field trips and learned how butter was churned in the olden days.  When I moved to New York, I loved to walk around downtown and study the old townhouses in the West Village, thinking of all the history they contained and the years they had seen.  But none of that holds a candle to the biographies of the Notre Dame or the Colosseum.  There’s something infinitely comforting about being in a place with a story that echoes through the ages; all the books I pored over growing up are proven in front of my eyes, and the story is now a part of mine.

That’s the upside of travel.  But on a rainy French afternoon, when my turquoise canvas flats have nearly disintegrated on my feet and there is no easy or dry or in-English way to get from Point A to Point B, being in a foreign city can feel like hanging around the edges of a birthday party without an invitation.  Persistent jet lag can feel like a nauseating hangover. And the BF’s unconditional acceptance of me can begin to feel like evidence of a serious lack of judgment.  Then, against all odds, the pair of us arrive at the Rodin museum after a forty-five minute bus ride, moods buoyed by the promise of beautiful sculptures and a working bathroom.  And then, the surly French guard throws his weight against the glass door I just exultantly pushed and growls through it, “CLOSED!” And we are back at Square Une.

France is beautiful, with its museums and cathedrals and architecture and wine.  The above picture was taken at the Notre Dame, which we visited on the non-rainy day, along with the Orsay Museum, Champs de Elysses, Arc de Triomphe, and Eiffel Tower. And we made the wise decision to travel between these places on a double-decker bus, a contraption that does little for one’s tourist-tinged embarrassment but much for her feet.  But even in the sun, France was just not as easy as London, a city with friendly citizens, sunny weather throughout our stay (an unnaturally rare phenomenon, I’m told, and possibly a sign of the Apocalypse the way hurricanes and fires are in other cities), and a common language.  Well, almost common.  In the ways it is not common, it is better.  Only a Londoner could make the phrase “F*ck you, are you quite serious?” sound like a charming greeting.  The food there may not be so great, and there may not be as many museums or cathedrals or even a wine country, but everything just sounds so civilized.  I found myself thinking that Madonna may not be so ridiculous after all as I vowed to use words like cheeky and biscuit more often.

This morning I settled onto the couch in a haze of jet lag and prepared for my Come to Jesus talk about how I had not come to him often over the last week.  I found myself searching for beautiful words to make up for my patchy devotion before all my attempts fell to the floor in an exhausted heap and all I could think was, “I got nothin’.” Perfect, I felt the response in my heart, That’s where I come in, and I realized in a devotion renewed by him that all my efforts at Looking Good, Cleaning Up, etc. must resemble my ratty turquoise flats next to Monet’s water lilies.  I realized the blessing of being with a man who looks at me, soggy and petulant, and somehow sees beauty.  And the blessing of being loved by One who hears my ineloquent, non-English-accented prayers and translates them into works of art.  And I remembered, as I often do when I let Him remind me, that the most beautiful things in my life have come after long periods of rain and wreckage more often than perfect temperatures and ease. Eternal stories, after all, take that kind of time.

New Year’s Eves in my past have consisted of both fun and regrettable activities.  And after the regrettable ones, I have woken up on January 1st with a hangover and a dream…to be released from my prison of pain.  After four consecutive such NYC NYE celebrations, I was looking forward to a low-key, family-friendly turning of the decade in California with the BF and future in-laws.  I’m talking early dinner, Monopoly games, watching the ball drop on TV.  And that’s pretty much the way it went.  My grown-up self was even asleep before midnight (Pacific time).

Then 2 AM came.  And with it, the nightmares.  Nightmares of enduring a mind-numbingly painful stomachache, only to wake up and find that the ache was real. My mind fluttered back through the last couple of days since our arrival in the land of sunshine, which had included notices of various family members who were under the weather.  It looked like that weather had come to park above my head at the Calabasas Good Nite Inn.  I raced to our small but clean bathroom and heaved out the chips and cheese dip I had enjoyed for dinner.  Then I turned around and other, more regrettable things happened.  This went on for six hours until, at 8 AM, I was tired of being a big girl.  Also, my face was white but the insides of my ears were on fire.  I knew a pass-out was imminent.  So I threw myself on the bed.  “HELP!”  I moaned.  The BF asked if I was okay.  “NO!” I screamed into my small but clean pillow.  “Did you say yes or no?” he mumbled through the haze of sleep.  Moments later, he was en route to the grocery to stock up on Gatorade and researching with his iPhone where the local medical centers were located.  I took advantage of his absence to desecrate the bathroom some more.

It’s either a testament to a pretty smooth life, the signal of a low pain threshold, or both that I can honestly describe that day’s pain as the worst I’ve ever experienced.  I lay on the bed and doubled over the toilet in agony.  In the bathroom, especially, I worked on some theological negotiations:  telling JC that I knew I shouldn’t get a pass just for believing in him, or even for loving him, but that if he could just shorten the life of this evil thing inside me that would be so so great.  I didn’t make promises I couldn’t keep; I just plain begged.  From the pit, I cried out to the only one I thought could make a difference.  And he let me stay there awhile.  Then he let me sleep.  And the next morning, the evil had passed.  Though the bathroom looked and smelled like we had rented it out to Satan for the night.

Over the next few days, I rued the fact that my first possible hangover-free New Year’s Day in awhile had taken such a turn.  But I did this in the presence of family and sunshine and warm temperatures, on beaches and in parks and on terraces overlooking the Pacific.  The day the BF and I headed back to the frigid island we call home, we started the day on that terrace.  Sunglasses on, coffee in hand, Bibles in front of us both.  And all I could think was that I would literally deal with any amount of shit to get to this moment, right here.

For My 32nd Birthday: The Weeklong Celebration, the BF took me to Newport–a place I have wanted to visit for years.  Any town with coastline, boat drinks, and mansions as its signature features is FINE BY ME!  We made our way through traffic that added and hour and a half to our trip, getting rear-ended (not a euphemism) once by a girl who seemed more concerned with her lollipop (not a euphemism) than the bumper of our precious zip car.  The bumper was unscathed and we made it the rest of the way uneventfully.  Besides getting lost.  But when you look at it philosophically, getting lost is part of the journey!  And we spend a lot of our time being lost without realizing it!  And sometimes googlemaps lies!

Our bed and breakfast was a block from Newport’s Cliff Walk, a scenic path overlooking the Rhode Island Sound and Atlantic Ocean (just googled for verification).  Turns out that the B & B was once the home of an artist named Beatrice Turner who painted about a million portraits of herself and half a million of her mother.  Awkward!  We stayed in the room named for her mother, Adele.  I was a little creeped out before we even got there by this fact, since it was coupled with the decorative touch of several of those Adele paintings.  Flashback:  As a child I firmly believed that my stuffed animals came to life whenever I left the room.  Consequently, I was very loving to them and always left them face up on the bed so as not to cause one’s suffocation and the mutiny among the rest that would follow while I was asleep.  (If you think that’s weird, you should see the file my counselor has on me.  Tip of the iceberg.)  Old habits die hard, and I was at least mildly concerned that I would wake up during the night to see Adele moving around in her frames a la Harry Potter photos, but scary.  This didn’t happen (BECAUSE I KEPT MY EYES CLOSED WHEN I WOKE UP DURING THE NIGHT), but we did happen upon some information about Beatrice’s eccentricities: she painted the house black while she lived there and kept wearing Victorian clothing as the styles of her era progressed.  Word to the wise:  bring friends if you stay at the Cliffside Inn.

The highlight of the trip was the sunset boat cruise we took around the harbor, complete with champagne toast.  We also got to tour the Breakers (like my family’s summer home, if we wanted to slum it) and walk along the beach and wharf.  Lowlight: dinner at The Wharf Restaurant, where the BF experienced a first–leaving without tipping the waiter.  OMG!  The guy was TERR!  We only went there because there was a wait everywhere else.  Travel tip:  when there is a wait at every restaurant in the vicinity but one, it means the place sucks.  RUN.

I love New England.  There is no shortage of history and quaintness in all its towns.  One thing I noticed while sitting in traffic and (silver lining) having time to read every road sign was the abundance of names starting with “New.”  New York.  New England.  New London.  Newport.  The early settlers showed up with new ideas and plans for a new life, but they kept a lot of what they already had by adding “New” to it.  It made me think about how I moved to New York to essentially start my own new life and, even more, become a new person.  What has happened in the meantime has felt like a combination construction/salvage/demolition project.  Building on what was worthwhile and solid, foundation-wise (faith, education, family–though they all ended up looking different once I saw what they could really be); tearing away what was weathered and shaky (prejudices, false confidences, insecurities, to name a few).  Leaving myself exposed (not a euphemism) as a great Author uncovered my real story.  I know it’s a process that is just beginning, but thank God it’s finally happening.  I feel like I’m at the part where a lot of things are finally starting to make sense.  All the waiting.  All the things I SO wanted but didn’t get.  All the things that should have worked out but didn’t.  Like when you’re stuck in traffic with the radio blaring, singing your (you think) favorite song and it ends and you feel sad because damn that was a good tune and now what and you hear the first few notes of the next song but you don’t know this one and then (THIS IS THE KEY MOMENT) the notes go from unfamiliar to familiar and you recognize this one and you realize it blows the other one completely out of the water and you start to sing along and the BF turns up the volume because your voice is beautiful and he wants you to sing louder to this song that it took a second for you to remember, but now that you have remembered it sounds different and better than it ever did and you’re so glad the DJ picked this one because THIS is the perfect soundtrack to your trip.  Kind of like that.

And obviously, the song I am talking about is “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey.