How can both be true?

I subbed at my kids' school this week. We are one campus, K-12, so I had the gift of witnessing many of the last-week-of-school activities and events. I cried a lot.

The elementary school had Field Day, and the 4th graders played "Who can fling their shoe the farthest," and everyone's lips were purple because of endless freezer pops, and then the 5th graders paraded the halls as students, staff and families formed a tunnel of cameras, cheers, bubbles, signs, noisemakers and tears, clapping them out of the building where they grew up, from barely potty-trained to arguing climate change.

At the middle school talent show, Mr. DeRoads sang and danced back-up for most of the student groups, and Landon surprised everyone by singing "Radioactive" A Capella.

At the Teacher Auction the teachers auctioned off ridiculous items like "Cut Mr. Thomas' hair," and "Duct tape the principal to the wall." Mr. Riddle brought in a goat for Mr. Cotter to kiss and Mr. Gebhart got a pie in the face. My 6th grader and her friends pooled their money and bought naming rights to the school's driveway - a county engineered sign included. They plan to name it after a favorite book character, one they all think is dreamy.

The high schoolers had their Final Exams and got to bail early, some throwing their books in the air on their way out the door. The principal played Fishing in the Dark over the intercom and the entire school sat on the floor of the hallways, shoe to shoe, singing and dancing.

There was not a single moment this week when I did not hear laughter, witness smiles or sense the holy goodness that is the heart of a school - children living carefree, goofy, a bit senseless at times but mostly fun and loving, that easy breezy living kids do when they feel safe.

Again and again and again, I cried. It was so beautiful to watch - to be a part of it. The togetherness - teachers and students - celebrating, dancing, hugging, cheering one another on - together - joy and joy and more joy.

This is what kids should be doing this week. This is the gift of the last days of school - tomfoolery, teacher-student bonding, dunk tanks, popsicles, senior pranks, sing-alongs, popcorn, yearbooks, inside jokes, t-shirt signings, selfies, memories.

Instead, 19 sweet darlings are lying in a morgue in Texas, their families destroyed.

How can both be true? My kids living their best days, and those precious babies in Texas, living no more.

To the 19 babies, 2 teachers and their families: We are deeply sorry. We failed you. We say your names. We pray. We honor each one of you.

Uziyah Garcia

Xavier Javier Lopez

Jose Flores

Miranda Mathis

Nevaeh Bravo

Makenna Elrod

Maite Yuleana Rodriguez

Alithia Ramirez

Jayce Carmelo Luevanos

Jailah Nicole Silguero

Rogelio Torres

Alexandria "Lexi" Aniyah Rubio

Amerie Jo Garza

Jackie Cazares

Layla Salazar

Ellie Garcia

Tess Marie Mata

Eliahana "Elijah" Cruz Torres

Annabell Guadalupe Rodriguez

Eva Mireles

Irma Garcia

We grieve with you. We find hope in the God who sees you. We are so, so, so sorry.

The death of a hummingbird

Recently one of the cats caught a hummingbird. Matt eventually had to put the little bird out of its misery, ending its life out of my sight, an act of compassion to both the hummingbird and me.

If you know cats, you know that they rarely hunt and kill, but rather they stalk, bat, torture and cause their victims a slow, painful death. It’s not intentional. They’re cats. It’s just what they do. But I could not stand for one second to watch that shimmery, fragile bird go through such apparent pain. Its wings vibrating but not able to fly, its swollen round abdomen panting short, quick breaths. Its tender, sad eyes. 

I cried. 

Though I’m devastated about the hummingbird, I really can’t fault the cats. They’ve successfully kept our country house mostly mice free, and we don’t have a rabbit problem in or around the garden. The cats even help keep down the dreaded mole population (don’t get me started on the moles). But also, the cats kill our delightful songbirds, and today a decadent, little hummingbird suffered at their merciless antics.

This is life, isn’t it? I’m not talking about the Lion King circle-of-life. I’m talking about the two-sides-of-every-coin part of life. On one hand, the cats are just what we need, but on the other hand, Lord have mercy, somebody hold me back. 

It’s hard to find anything in this life that is purely good through and through. Even love will break your heart. 

I am trying to teach this to the kids. They’re kids, so naturally they are greedy as all get out. Truthfully, they’re human, so naturally they are greedy as all get out. Aren’t we all? But greed plus immaturity plus inexperience means that they think money really will solve everything. They think that the goal is to be rich, and then life will be great. I keep telling them the words from the Notorious B.I.G. (though I’m more of a West-Coast Tupac-for-life girl, myself). Like Biggie always said, “Mo money, mo problems.” 

Don’t get me wrong, money helps. It really does. And also, more money leads to more responsibility, management and decision-making.

This equation applies to all good things.

For instance, farming flowers is a dream. I find so much comfort, joy and grace in growing and harvesting flowers. And also, I’ve never been so tired, sore and uncertain.

Furthermore, creativity is such a vibrant part of my life. I love being a person who designs, builds and creates, and also, my creative cravings can be dogged and demanding, interfering with my best plans and strictest deadlines. 

The list goes on and on and on.

I guess what I’m saying is that cats are great. They’ve been a fantastic addition to our farm and family. And also, I’m choked up just thinking about that suffering, beautiful bird, slowly dying in the palm of my husband’s hand.

To be clear, we aren’t getting rid of the cats. Not yet anyway. I’ll continue to find dead mice and mole guts along with half-eaten bird wings and the occasional partially-chewed garter snake (I really don’t mind the snakes). So much of life is filled with good and bad, hope and doubt, wonder and fear. It’s all wrapped up together. You can’t have one without the other. 

What I’m learning and also attempting to teach my kids, but mostly my own heart, is that gratitude and contentment really are worth striving for. Thank you, Lord, for the rabbit-less garden. Thank you, Lord, for the abundance of flowers. Thank you, Lord, for this new potential income stream. Thank you, Lord, for what you’ve allowed me to create. And as I say thank you, I also receive the hard, the losses, the sorrow, the disappointment, the doubts and the dread. I welcome them as part of the beauty. I’m not happy about the hard, but I accept it as a part of life.

Maybe 2 Pac was right when he said, “Even though you're fed up, ya got to keep your head up … things are gonna get easier … Keep ya head up, things'll get brighter.”

And if not - if the easier or brighter never come, try checking the other side of the coin. You just might find something there that leads you to gratitude, goodness or grace.

Today I woke up in a mood.

This morning I woke up in a mood. It was early - too early - and the dog was pawing, which felt like clawing, and the sun was already filling the room despite the clock glaring brightly in angry red numbers, 5:29, loudly announcing what I already knew. It was too early. Like in the movies, I dramatically pulled the covers over my head, letting out a groan that must have sounded like an invitation to play because the dog went from pawing (clawing) to jumping-nosing-wagging-licking.

I surrendered, rolling out of bed, with the grace of a newborn foul trying to stand, which surely made me look like a movie star of the slapstick comedy variety. I laced up my work shoes, headed outside and got a jump on the day’s ever-growing list of chores.

As I stood in the field, with my mood still mooding and my joints still creaking, my eyes began to adjust and my sight began to focus. Across the field and behind the neighbor’s red barn, the sky gleamed rose pink and coral. From the woods behind me, I heard turkeys, a rooster and the morning melody of songbirds. The farm was still. Mr. Farmer appeared, greeting me with his soft smile and a steamy cup of black coffee. “Now that’s a movie star,” I thought. The bubblegum pink petals of my towering hybrid tea rose seemed to be floating, and I felt something begin to stir within me. 

The stirring was soft, kind and warm, like a just-right hug - not too long but not too quick, firm but not too tight, fragrant but not too perfume-y, the kind that feels like home. Suddenly my spirit was pleasant, content and filling with what I could only describe as joy emerging. I certainly did not give my spirit permission to behave this way. We were grumpy, remember? We were in a mood. 

And if I’m being honest, I liked it that way. I wanted to be in a mood. I wanted to sulk in my misery for no other reason than that’s what I felt like doing. 

But today had other plans for me. The simple grace of the morning softened my heart and whispered to my soul, “You are loved.”

Before I knew what was happening, my heart turned and began to search for more gifts, a bit greedy, in my opinion, considering we were just thinking about spraying the cat with the jet-feature on the hose and now we were looking for the morning to give us more hugs. But there I was, chin up and looking for gifts. I noticed the bounty of irises, including the bold blue-purple ones gifted to us by a neighbor, unfolding their exotic beauty right before my eyes. I noticed the mockingbird in the tree above me, a one-bird Broadway musical filling the sky. I noticed the colors, the sounds, the fresh air, the morning light, all of it surrounded me, and there I was, being hugged by creation. 

I can’t believe this is my life. Flower farming has gifted me a daily invitation into God’s creation, and I just don’t know how to sulk like the grump I sometimes want to be when I’m surrounded by such wonder, awe and miraculous simplicity. I’ve tried to stay grumpy. I really have. But the goodness of the earth’s beauty is just that good - good enough to make each moment more captivating than any Oscar-winning film, more stunning than any red-carpet beauty, more brilliant than any show-stopping stage performance, and in my case, more funny than any classic comedy (I must still be breaking in the work shoes because I am a tripping fool out there on the farm. Good gracious, y’all, it’s concerning.)

If you have supported our farm in any way, I don’t even know how to thank you. I don’t know how to thank you for believing in us. I don’t know how to thank you for giving us a reason to keep showing up among the irises, songbirds, sunsets, roses and wildlife to steward the beauty of God’s glorious creation. I can only hope that when you take home flowers from our farm, you too will know that you are loved. That you will feel it at your core. With that bit of creation wrapped tightly and tucked snuggly in your hand, you will soften, smile and sense joy emerging from the deep, a creation hug from the One who loves you more than any onscreen epic-movie love ever was or ever will be.

For my birthday, from the bottom of my heart.

On the first full day of our first ever week-long vacation without kids, we went to church.

While there, we learned that the church, run by missionaries, invites community members to prepare and distribute a small meal to the precious people who work and live at the city dump. The church does this two mornings a week, every week, all year round. 

Matt and I decided to join this mix of missionaries, snowbirds, tourists and Mexican locals, and yesterday we assembled sandwiches, packed coolers and traveled by bus to feed Mazatlán’s poorest of the poor.

After decades of serving this community, La Viña is at the center of redemption for this beautiful city. Whereas many are Americans and Canadians, a significant number of those on the front lines of this ministry are local to Mazatlán. Our Mexican bus driver, a former drunk, turned his life completely around because of the love served by the sacrifice of these people. The Latin woman at the center of year-round sandwich distribution was previously crashing down a hill of drugs and recklessness until she was rescued by God’s grace by way of this church. 

I realize that tourism and mission work are complex issues. Tourism is the food on the table, clothes on the back and roof over the heads of so many in Mazatlán. It also reeks with exploitation of all kinds, from sexual slavery to the forced labor of young children hustling braided bracelets and woven coin purses up and down the sandy city streets. The mission field is equally complicated. The power, privilege and pocketbooks of kind-hearted missionaries and their supporters can be the detriment of a culture’s self-sufficiency and also its literal salvation. The pandemic has added a layer of difficulty on both fronts. Once visited by several cruise ships a week, this ocean-front town is becoming more desperate and broken in the absence of a thriving tourism economy. The ministry support and respite provided by visiting missionary teams has ceased, and numerous in-person food and children’s programs have closed as a result of COVID fears. 

I don’t claim to fully understand the complexities of all this nor do I know where to begin in reconciling them. I simply acknowledge that they exist, and hope/wish/pray that with a humble heart, I might live, learn and give according to the grace of God, allowing its lessons to transform me along the way.

I mention all of this because I have an ask of YOU. 

Sunday is my 41st birthday. I want for nothing. I am spending a week in paradise with my person, a gift from our families. If I could ask for anything in the world it would be to invite others to help fund the provision of high-protein sandwiches and a liter of water to the beautiful people who work and live at the Mazatlán city dump. 

When the old, rickety bus climbed precariously up the treacherous hill and into the steamy mountains of garbage, we were immediately met by droves of people, filthy and sweaty under the Mexican sun, ravenous and thirsty for food, water and God’s love. The experience will stay with me forever, and the faces of the bronze and barefoot babies among the lines of people changed my life for good. 

I want nothing more than to keep feeding these gorgeous people so that they might know God’s generous love, grace and compassion. The food and water will never be enough. But maybe, just maybe, it will be the conduit of survival by the grace of God for one, and the worth of that is priceless. 

Even if you cannot or choose not to give, thank you for reading. I ask that you take a moment to sit in the grace of knowing that you are loved. You are wildly, beautifully and immensely loved. That love abounds and never ever ever runs dry. God is always climbing precariously into our treacherous lives so that we might be fed. Bask in the warmth of that, and let it nourish you alive.

To give, visit here. Choose the Dump Ministry from the pull-down menu. Your gift is tax-deductible and is guaranteed to provide for the lost, least and lonely.

Muchas gracias, desde el fondo de mi corazón. (Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.)

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in.

Matthew 25:35

Sometimes it rains. All the times there's grace.

Each year we spend a few days on Lake Erie at Cedar Point before the start of the school year; however, this year looked very different. Covid, of course, had a major impact. And for the first time since we started this tradition, my sister and her family joined us. But probably the biggest change maker was the weather. We spent our vacation enduring terribly cold, wet and windy weather, literally dampening our days at the beach, pool and park. 

But I’ll tell ya what, I’m a total sucker for an amusement park, and not even crap weather can spoil what I love about this place. There’s a magic that happens inside its gates, and I’m so here for it. I’m here for the applause of strangers that erupts upon completion of a stupid scary coaster. I’m here for little feet on tiptoes, full of hope that they just might be tall enough to ride this year. I’m here for the masses of teenagers and all their teenagerness. I’m here for the overpriced Dippin’ Dots. I’m here for the live entertainers performing hits from the 50s while a precious older couple takes in the gift of nostalgia. I’m here for the rush of thunder that earthquakes through my body as a coaster blazes past me. I’m here for the ridiculous giggles and chatter that pour out of the exit of every incredible thrill ride. I’m here for the embarrassing ride photos. I’m here for the constant white noise of roaring steel and delighted screams. (And Tylenol, Ibuprofen & Dramamine are totally here for me, thankyouverymuch.)

For the record, I am not here for the constant whining: “I’m cold,” “My feet are tired,” and “How much longer is the line.” I’m also not here for a $32.99 Diet Coke - there is not a souvenir cup in all the world that’s worth that price. And in some cases, I’m not here for teenagers and all their teenagerness (GET. A. ROOM. Actually, don’t do that. Just stop it with all the tongue stuff already.) I’m definitely not here for a thief named anxiety - that wicked voice that entices my darling 8yo to want to ride but just won’t let her do it (but I’m most certainly here for the 4yo little brother who grabs big sister’s hand and says confidently, “It’s okay. I’ll be brave with you.”)

Look, it’s been a bummer of a trip in many ways. But grace bats last. No - she doesn’t show up to sugarcoat everything that totally sucked. She’s not an eraser of what was disappointing, discouraging and all around dumb. But so often she shows up all the more sweetly because, well, life can really suck sometimes. Her subtle softness is often just enough to make you smile when you really really need to smile, even if it is under a face mask. And while I would have preferred our getaway to be warm and dry and more friendly toward whatever situation is happening on top of my head … Grace abounds. Amusement parks amuse, and grandparents spoil, and my baby niece is show-stopping cute and spending any time with her - rain or shine - is the absolute best of all bests. So it rained and it was cold and the wind/humidity/wind wrecked absolute havoc on my hair. And also, there is gratitude and goodness and the joy of wearing a tie-dye dress and going on a flower walk (check out my IG post on @theflowerfarmexperiement). It’s all grace, all the time - grace upon grace upon grace.

Silence No More

I wrote this earlier in the week. Today I was brave enough to post it. This is not a brag; it's a deeply humble confession.

​My insides are screaming. Fire and rage feel like a terrible tightness through my veins, making it hard to breathe. 

I'm crying again.

The fatal racism that remains rampant in our country and the people in power who fuel its flames MUST STOP.

I confess to choosing silence to serve my own fears, and I am committed to silence no more. 

By choosing silence, I sought to protect the perceived cost to myself: relationships, ego, perceptions and likability. I now see that by choosing silence, I was actually condoning hate, discrimination, brutality and devastating acts against the image of God and Jesus himself.

"Whenever you failed to do one of these things to someone who was being overlooked or ignored, that was me - you failed to do it to me." (Matthew 25:45 MSG)

I am sorry. I am so so so sorry.

And I know that my sorry is not enough. 

So, I am starting here - with a confession and a commitment. I confess to a gluttonous overfeeding of my undeserved privilege. And I commit to listening - truly listening with my guard down, curiosity ignited and discomfort embraced. Lord willing, listening will lead to learning, growing and transforming. 

And to those leaders and people of influence who have overcome fear and used their platforms to speak out against such terrible atrocities, thank you. Thank you for going before me. If not for you, I might still be serving my fear, pride and privilege at the expense of another person's human rights, dignity and life. 

My first stop on this renewed journey toward a prayerful transformation is with pastor, teacher and activist, Rich Johnson. He took me to church, and I am deeply grateful for it.

Social Media: I love you. Mostly. Sometimes not.

One tool that is helping me to manage my emotional, spiritual and mental health during this Twilight-Zone experience is this: Social Media Discernment. 

Here's the thing - I am embarrassingly susceptible to comparison traps and the shame game. Too often social media can fuel those fires and send me into a troubling spiral. However, I really love social media. Instagram has been a steady companion, and TikTok makes me blush and laugh like young fresh love. Facebook and I would be very old news if not for a nasty little habit called Marketplace, and Twitter and I maintain a strong game of on-again-off-again. Not to mention, Vimeo and YouTube are teaching me actual life because, well, catfish noodling might be the answer to our future survival. Anyway, if I'm not careful about who I'm following and what I'm viewing and how often I'm consuming, I fall into a dark dark hole. 

But not everyone's online presence is created equal. My dear friend, Tammy, has been leveraging her virtual places and spaces to spread the kind of messaging that I so desperately need right now. Almost weekly she shares a brief video devotional, and they might actually be saving my life (or at the very least, keeping me out of prison) (listen to her message about lowering the bar - YES and AMEN and CAN-I-GET-A-WITNESS.) Tammy is one of those rare people who consistently takes whatever platform she has been given and stewards it exclusively for glorious good. 

I share all this because maybe you are like me. Maybe you love social media beyond what should be normal for a middle-aged mother-of-4 whose eyebrows are starting to sag - YES MY EYEBROWS WHAT AND WHY. Maybe, like me, your love often causes you to slide down the well-oiled slope into a mess of self-doubt and self-hate and self-ugh. So I'd love to hear from you - who are you following that promises to give us hope and laughter and grace? And if you need some of that light to shine into your life right now, check out my friend, mentor and pastor, Tammy Smith. She'll be featured live on Facebook tomorrow night (@centerpointlive) if you're into that sort of thing (maybe my affair with FB is salvageable after all). I think you will be encouraged and comforted by her message. She's a refreshing dose of calm in a chaotic world full of murder hornets, frantic meat hoarding and the one thing social media has yet to teach me: HOW TO STILL LIKE YOUR CHILDREN AFTER 7 WEEKS OF QUARANTINED DISTANCE LEARNING. But at least I found eyebrow face yoga. 

https://drtammysmith.com/devotionals/

IG: @drtammysmith

FB: @doctammysmith

October I love you.

Ohio seasons go like this: By the first week of March, we are all lackluster and expressionless, collectively jonesing for Vitamin D and heat therapy. It's as if someone covered the entire state with a hazy, grainy black-and-white photo filter. The weight of a long winter has sufficiently flattened us. We have been cold-pressed, our vitality and color completely removed leaving behind nothing but a washed-out pulpy matter.

Come April, the sun and warmth finally show up but so does the rain. By the end of June, I am a soggy saturated mess, fantasizing of the desert and cursing the clouds. Some of us begin sprouting cattails along our hairlines. I tilt my head and tap the other side so as to empty my waterlogged ears and an entire aquarium spills out. Oh look, I found Nemo. Yet another rainbow manifests through the clouds after the season's 863rd storm and I shake my head with disgust, "Who in the Sam Hill do you think you are showing up here again? Oh I oughta . . . " My fists are clenched but my voice is drowned out by the season's 864th downpour.

By July, the sun finally pulls its head out of the clouds and shows up in all its hot tamale glory. By late August, I am suffocating and sweating. Pathetically I beg Mother Nature for mercy, "Please, just a droplet or a breeze.” I gravitate toward close talkers desperate to be spit on. The earth laughs maniacally and cranks up the furnace. I am delirious, buying deodorant by the case and using it in places for which it was never intended. The air is grossly thick and I consider emptying my refrigerator just so I have somewhere to stick my swamp ass at the end of the day.

I dial my realtor’s number and demand, "Get me out of here. Please find me somewhere - a walk-in freezer or a mortuary chest - I don’t care if I have to sleep next to raw tenderloins or someone’s embalmed Great Aunt Edith, just get me out of this sweltering heat.” Just then, a slow and soft wind stumbles in, bringing with it a gracious gentleness that floats to the surface Mary Poppins style. Mesmerized, I drop the phone, blinking and clearing the crust of sweat that's formed around my eyeballs. I squint, unable to make out the enchantress consuming the space before me. Is it a Hallelujah chorus? Whirling dervishes? Whatever it is, it's euphoric. As I begin to gain focus, a pleasant familiarity surrounds me and I recognize her majesty.

It's October. Rich in color, perfectly pleasant and refreshingly delicate, October is the month of fairytale endings: not too hot, not too cold - it's just right. October is the reason we tolerate volcanic summer heat and endure despairing winter darkness. Though she lasts only 31 days, October covers 11 months worth of sin, and I am drunk on her intoxicating mercy. An Ohio October; I am absolutely smitten. Nothing is better except maybe a wonderfully wild three-year-old riding his balance bike across a carpet of maple leaves under a canopy of trees smack dab in the middle of a delightful October in Ohio.

On writing & motherhood

The thing about being a writer and also a mother of young kids is that sometimes I'm standing at the kitchen sink with sudsy water climbing up my sleeves when suddenly an idea begins to circle my head like a NASA satellite finally entering orbit. I grab the dishtowel and hastily wipe my hands, rushing to my computer. With fingertips barely dry enough to activate the trackpad, I eagerly begin to record the words as they already seem to be wrestling an escape from my mental grip.

When I'm about six words in, a swift stampede of "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" barges into the kitchen, insisting my attention. This is Murphy's Law: I am inspired to write therefore my children transform into demanding bullhorns. JUST GIVE ME A MINUTE I bark but it's already too late as my irritability has been roused. The words begin to slip like a gymnast who overcorrects, losing balance and falling from the beam and into the deep depths of the foam block cheese pit. My irritability leads to discouragement and soon I'm cursing my fate as a tortured artist who JUST NEEDS A MOMENT TO THINK STRAIGHT for crying out loud. I attempt to capture what little word remnants might still be lingering in the air, but eventually the "Mommy!" storm grows so thick that even the succulents on my countertop appear to be suffocating.

I surrender, closing my laptop and vowing to search for a passion that more strategically embraces the constant disruptions motherhood affords. Maybe hacky sacking or cigarette smoking. Then, when I conclude that I'll never possibly write another word ever again, I find myself in the unexpected quiet gifted to me by tiny happy nap fairies. I gleefully gather my laptop and settle onto the couch eager to cozy up with hot tea and my muse. As I tuck in my legs and breathe in the silence, I am giddy with the assurance offered by an unexpected writing window. I exhale and tap my fingertips on the keypad, breathe in, exhale and tap again. Postured generously to discover even the lousiest of ideas, my mind pulls a Judas, betraying me and becoming fixated on the lousy pile of toys that said children have left on the living room floor. Peeved and distracted, I say to heck with all of it and start picking up and cleaning house which leads me into the kitchen where I find myself again at the sink with sudsy water climbing up my sleeves.

So I married a hunter.

I knew I was marrying an avid hunter, but not until the morning before our wedding day did I ever see Matt in all his hunting glory. It was the dove season opener, and Matt had gone out early to shoot birds. I stayed back because, a) I don't hunt, b) I don't want to hunt, and c) it was the day before my wedding, and I was the Queen of Hearts, haphazardly shouting to mostly no one: "the tables must go here; the gift station must go there; does nobody care that I chipped a nail - off with your heads!" Needless to say, Matt's decision to camouflage himself and spend the morning alone in an obscure field was as much for his protection as it was for his love of the sport.

I was eager for his late morning return as the list of honey-dos impatiently grew, but what I wasn't prepared for was the physical sight of my soon-to-be-husband returning from his hunt. Like an army general strategizing her next command, I stood on the lawn overlooking our backyard venue, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted what appeared to be a walking tree trunk moving toward me. As my eyes narrowed and gained focus, I became paralyzed at the realization that walking toward me was actually a man, and not just any man - it was my fiancé. He approached me eagerly, excitedly pulling from his satchel several small and very dead birds. I took a step back, disgusted by the ease with which he held them in his exposed hand, and I thought, "What in the hell have I gotten myself into?" He was so happy and proud and I was so, well, nauseous.

Little did I know, that was only the beginning of what has become 12 years worth of less than appetizing surprises: opening the fridge to retrieve my vanilla almond milk, and BAM! - raw duck breasts sitting in a pool of blood; going to the deep freezer to put away a week's worth of frozen groceries to feed our family, and BAM! - pounds and pounds of vacuum sealed venison steaks monopolizing the limited space; opening the trunk of the car to load the baby's stroller, and BAM! a 12-gauge Beretta shotgun resting across the trunk floor; finally agreeing to try the prized bird meat my husband enthusiastically prepared, and BAM! a kernel-sized steel shot near split my jaw as I sacrificially took the first bite.

While I have grown to live with, and even embrace, most of these curiosities, I still suffer the occasional what-in-the-sam-hill reaction to my beloved's lifestyle (such as the peculiar tendency for our offspring to join their father in his tomfoolery, resulting in my baby-faced 11-year-old climbing 25 feet into a tree to sit precariously against the trunk and wait for "the big one" - but why though?) Mostly I can smile at the grace of marrying a man who enjoys being alone in nature, spending dark and damp early mornings wading for ducks, and putting food on the table by bringing home deer steaks which our kids happily devour.

It's the magic of marriage, that the shock and awe of learning who your spouse really is begins to wane, somewhat because a hanging deer carcass in the garage somehow becomes normal life and also because other irritants step in to take the place of what only used to drive you nuts. Twelve years into this dance and I can now tell you when mating season is for most types of wildlife, what time the sun rises and sets depending on the season, and what is the bag limit for each species of Ohio waterfowl. If you're lucky, marriage softens you and gifts you an expanded version of the life you once knew. You discover that venison chili is legit, a European buck mount will hang fabulously over the fireplace, and protecting every November weekend for maximum hunting days during the rut is actually quite a lovely excuse to making absolutely no plans for an entire month. And if I'm being really honest, I ain't ever seen anything sexier than a man fully clothed in Real Tree camouflage - who knew?

(And for the record, I don't care how safe it is, that blinding safety orange has got to go. What a turn off.)

Happy anniversary, Matt Hooper. You’re my favorite catch.