I've decided there's a reason people are only supposed to get married once... the wedding planning is too much work to go through twice. Or maybe that's why there's a profession called "wedding planners." Hmmm... :) If you are planning a wedding, just a note: don't do the cake, favours, wine or slideshow last minute. It's stressful.
And that explains why I haven't posted here in a while. The last few weeks have been extremely busy. Last week I was finishing off projects at work, because I have the next month off for my wedding and honeymoon. My co-workers surprised me by taking me for lunch on Friday and giving me a beautiful, huge vase (which they said my fiance is supposed to fill with flowers every anniversary).
RCIA also wrapped up last week with a final potluck and good wishes to everyone. I realized that I'm going to miss that group. We've really gotten to know each other well as we've journeyed together since last September. We've shared our faith and our struggles. I've enjoyed being able to learn from them. Hopefully, we'll be able to start a Bible study or something to continue learning together.
On the weekend, I was away in Jasper on an annual trip with some university girlfriends. Five years ago, three of us took off to Jasper at the end of our exams. It was a bonding time for sure, as we ended up with bad weather, a poor B&B, and a slightly gung-ho hiker (me!) who pushed her friends a bit too hard. We've made the trip every year since then, although we now go on the May long weekend instead of at the end of exams. It was a great time of sharing, destressing, hiking, relaxing, talking, etc.
This week I've been racing around planning for the wedding. We had to sample and buy our wine. I finished off the wedding slide show. My fiance's parents helped me put together the wedding favours (something we wouldn't have been doing if our original plan for the favours had worked out!). Our deacon came down with pneumonia, so when we find out who he's found to replace him, I'll be able to print the programs. We're moving my fiance into my apartment, and tomorrow we decorate the hall and church. Two more days of this craziness, and then we'll need the honeymoon to relax on!
So, until I return from Alaska in a few weeks... that's all, folks!
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
My Sci-Fi Attempt
Last week's topic on the Faithwriters' Writing Challenge was to write in the sci-fi genre. I looked at that and went, "Darn, I guess I won't enter this week." I've never written anything sci-fi. But then I kept thinking about it all day. And eventually I'd thought about it long enough that I sat down to write something. They Have Babies There is my first attempt at writing sci-fi. My warning: the only sci-fi I've read is by C.S. Lewis, Lois Lowry, or Madeliene L'Engle.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Coincidental Meeting
The road curves around through the cemetery, passes the Brick Clearance Centre and then runs straight on between some strip malls and condos. The pathway, frequented by cyclists, joggers, and dog walkers, crosses the road right between the Brick and the strip mall. Amber warning lights flash at the vehicles if the users of the pathway hit the big yellow button to cross the road.
It is remarkable to consider the coincidences, the exact timing of several events, to bring two people to that crossing, the figurative x on the map, at exactly the same time. If one of them had left work a little bit later, or if the elevator that either of them took had stopped at one more floor, they might have missed each other. If he had had to wait behind several cars to get out of the parking garage, or if the traffic lights had been timed differently, he would have missed her. If she had not biked quite as fast for that first block, or if she had had to wait at the pedestrian crossing instead of going right through, she would have missed him.
Either one of them could have also taken an alternate route and not seen each other. She had her set route home – up out of the garage, south down the alley to the road, through the intersection, then turn north on the pathway and follow it home, taking a detour through the shopping centre where the pathway disappeared, before rejoining it again by the brewery and then crossing the road at that fateful intersection. He had a few more options, depending on what time he left work and where traffic was the worst, or how many errands he was running on the way home. That day, he choose the route that intersected with hers.
And so it was that at about 4:30 they each turned off their computers and caught the elevators downstairs to the parking garage. She hopped onto her bike, he into his car. They exited the parking garages, turned onto the streets, and began their usual trip home.
She shifted gears as she came up to the intersection, squeezed the brakes beside the post and punched the big yellow button. After glancing both ways to make sure the cars had stopped, she pushed her weight onto her pedal, starting across the intersection. Her eyes locked onto the small black car – a common car around the city, yet one that she always looked at twice, in case it was his. She caught sight of the familiar grey-and-white engineering hat. Her hand came up, not in her usual thank-you wave to those who had stopped for her, but in an enthusiastic hello wave to him. He was checking his cell phone, and she was almost past him before he looked up, caught the wave, and nodded once. Then she was out of the intersection, traffic had moved on again, and the moment was over.
It is remarkable to consider the coincidences, the exact timing of several events, to bring two people to that crossing, the figurative x on the map, at exactly the same time. If one of them had left work a little bit later, or if the elevator that either of them took had stopped at one more floor, they might have missed each other. If he had had to wait behind several cars to get out of the parking garage, or if the traffic lights had been timed differently, he would have missed her. If she had not biked quite as fast for that first block, or if she had had to wait at the pedestrian crossing instead of going right through, she would have missed him.
Either one of them could have also taken an alternate route and not seen each other. She had her set route home – up out of the garage, south down the alley to the road, through the intersection, then turn north on the pathway and follow it home, taking a detour through the shopping centre where the pathway disappeared, before rejoining it again by the brewery and then crossing the road at that fateful intersection. He had a few more options, depending on what time he left work and where traffic was the worst, or how many errands he was running on the way home. That day, he choose the route that intersected with hers.
And so it was that at about 4:30 they each turned off their computers and caught the elevators downstairs to the parking garage. She hopped onto her bike, he into his car. They exited the parking garages, turned onto the streets, and began their usual trip home.
She shifted gears as she came up to the intersection, squeezed the brakes beside the post and punched the big yellow button. After glancing both ways to make sure the cars had stopped, she pushed her weight onto her pedal, starting across the intersection. Her eyes locked onto the small black car – a common car around the city, yet one that she always looked at twice, in case it was his. She caught sight of the familiar grey-and-white engineering hat. Her hand came up, not in her usual thank-you wave to those who had stopped for her, but in an enthusiastic hello wave to him. He was checking his cell phone, and she was almost past him before he looked up, caught the wave, and nodded once. Then she was out of the intersection, traffic had moved on again, and the moment was over.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Visiting Edmund Spenser
I went digging through my university notes tonight, looking for a paper I’d written. As an Arts student, I wrote a lot of papers, but a few stand out in my mind, because I put my personal convictions into them. Some of the papers were not merely my thoughts about the works I was studying, but things that I believed in very deeply. These were the papers that got me my highest marks. The one I was looking for tonight was on Edmund Spenser’s poem “Epithalamion” – an extremely long, sometimes boring, yet intensely interesting poem, written by Spenser to his bride on their wedding night.
I read the poem the first time through just to get through it for my class – a class that I was taking because it fit my schedule and I couldn’t find anything else to take. Then I read it again as we went over it in class, with an excellent professor who brought the works we studied to life. I started to catch Spenser’s vision in the poem. It was when I wrote my paper, however, that I really discovered what Spenser had done. I had the option of writing on either a 14-line sonnet by Shakespeare or Spenser’s 300-line poem. I picked Spenser because it gave me more material to write about. And did I ever find material to write about.
We had studied many love poems in our Renaissance poetry class – from the Italian poet Petrarch to the English playwright Shakespeare. Petrarch wrote his poems about a woman scholars aren’t even sure existed; she might have been a being of his imagination, a woman so perfect his love was only spiritual. I found that boring. Other poets, including Shakespeare, focused only on the physical side of love – what the woman looked like or how they desired her. That too, I did not like. Enter Spenser. Not only was he writing about his wife – instead of about a mistress or a random woman he saw on the street – but he wrote about both sides of love. Physical and spiritual, intertwined together. He’d fallen in love with his wife not only for her physical beauty but also for her beauty of character.
I read the poem over and over again, searching his imagery, becoming more entranced with his message to his wife. Most of the poem is elaborate and symbolic, including references to ancient pagan gods as well as to the Bible. Yet over and over again, I saw Spenser’s theme of unity. Marriage brought unity between a man and a woman and between everything around them. This was what he sought with his wife – complete union. In today’s society, we can easily see how impossible that union is. We joke that men are from Mars while women are from Venus. And yet somehow, marriage brings these two opposites together into one.
It is this amazing, spiritual, impossible unity that Spenser celebrates and describes. He never uses the word “unity” in the poem, but rather illustrates it by the themes and images of the poem. Human love and divine love are in harmony; pagan and Christian images go together; and spiritual love and physical love are balanced. These three themes illustrate the unity of marriage. And tonight, as I contemplate my upcoming wedding, I went looking for that paper. To see what I had written so passionately about a few years ago. To think about, more deeply – beyond the more demanding details of where to get the cake and what to do for favours – what I am doing in eleven days.
Joining myself to the man I love in a union that I hope will be such as Spenser described.
I read the poem the first time through just to get through it for my class – a class that I was taking because it fit my schedule and I couldn’t find anything else to take. Then I read it again as we went over it in class, with an excellent professor who brought the works we studied to life. I started to catch Spenser’s vision in the poem. It was when I wrote my paper, however, that I really discovered what Spenser had done. I had the option of writing on either a 14-line sonnet by Shakespeare or Spenser’s 300-line poem. I picked Spenser because it gave me more material to write about. And did I ever find material to write about.
We had studied many love poems in our Renaissance poetry class – from the Italian poet Petrarch to the English playwright Shakespeare. Petrarch wrote his poems about a woman scholars aren’t even sure existed; she might have been a being of his imagination, a woman so perfect his love was only spiritual. I found that boring. Other poets, including Shakespeare, focused only on the physical side of love – what the woman looked like or how they desired her. That too, I did not like. Enter Spenser. Not only was he writing about his wife – instead of about a mistress or a random woman he saw on the street – but he wrote about both sides of love. Physical and spiritual, intertwined together. He’d fallen in love with his wife not only for her physical beauty but also for her beauty of character.
I read the poem over and over again, searching his imagery, becoming more entranced with his message to his wife. Most of the poem is elaborate and symbolic, including references to ancient pagan gods as well as to the Bible. Yet over and over again, I saw Spenser’s theme of unity. Marriage brought unity between a man and a woman and between everything around them. This was what he sought with his wife – complete union. In today’s society, we can easily see how impossible that union is. We joke that men are from Mars while women are from Venus. And yet somehow, marriage brings these two opposites together into one.
It is this amazing, spiritual, impossible unity that Spenser celebrates and describes. He never uses the word “unity” in the poem, but rather illustrates it by the themes and images of the poem. Human love and divine love are in harmony; pagan and Christian images go together; and spiritual love and physical love are balanced. These three themes illustrate the unity of marriage. And tonight, as I contemplate my upcoming wedding, I went looking for that paper. To see what I had written so passionately about a few years ago. To think about, more deeply – beyond the more demanding details of where to get the cake and what to do for favours – what I am doing in eleven days.
Joining myself to the man I love in a union that I hope will be such as Spenser described.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Eighteen Months
It’s an eleven today. That means I’ve been dating my fiancé for exactly a year and a half. Some seventeen months ago, we were sitting in Starbucks when I asked, “So what was our first date?” That may seem silly, but when we had gone from hanging out as friends to starting a romantic relationship, the “first date” wasn’t quite clear.
I had an answer, but I wanted to know if he agreed. Was it the first time that we did something with just the two of us? That would have been in our second year of university, when we met for coffee to study for a final exam together. Or was it the first time we went out after I figured out that he liked me and I liked him? That would be another coffee date in our fourth year, when I asked him why he became Catholic.
Or maybe it was another date. He started asking me about the things we’d done since I returned from Australia. Finally we hit Remembrance Day – in the back of my head as our “first date,” and he exclaimed, “I knew I was going to remember that for some reason!”
On that day, we met at the museum. Only a few minutes into wandering around the exhibit, he’d taken my hand. I knew then that something had changed – we weren’t just friends anymore! We wandered through the museum hand-in-hand, and then, not wanting to say goodbye, went for a walk in the river valley and then for supper. After supper we were still both reluctant to call it a night, so we hit the nearby theatre. Then he drove me back to my truck at the museum, getting a coffee on the way.
At the museum, we stood finishing our coffees and talking. Our conversation meandered to a topic that had come up earlier that day: Mixed marriages don’t work. I finally asked him, if he believed that, whether he thought anything was possible between us? His answer was that we wouldn’t be standing there then if something wasn’t possible. That was when I told him I’d been going to Mass for the last month… We talked more about the Church and what our differing faith backgrounds meant for us, but I knew when I left where we stood in our relationship.
So that was our first date, eighteen months ago. I feel in some ways like I was a different person back then – it was such a long time ago. We’ve spent two Christmases together, been to half a dozen friends’ weddings, taken a few road trips, gone camping twice, seen a lot of movies and plays, gotten mad and forgiven, shared dreams and struggles. When we started dating, we made a big deal out of one month, then two months. And now it’s been eighteen… how time flies when you’re in love. :)
I had an answer, but I wanted to know if he agreed. Was it the first time that we did something with just the two of us? That would have been in our second year of university, when we met for coffee to study for a final exam together. Or was it the first time we went out after I figured out that he liked me and I liked him? That would be another coffee date in our fourth year, when I asked him why he became Catholic.
Or maybe it was another date. He started asking me about the things we’d done since I returned from Australia. Finally we hit Remembrance Day – in the back of my head as our “first date,” and he exclaimed, “I knew I was going to remember that for some reason!”
On that day, we met at the museum. Only a few minutes into wandering around the exhibit, he’d taken my hand. I knew then that something had changed – we weren’t just friends anymore! We wandered through the museum hand-in-hand, and then, not wanting to say goodbye, went for a walk in the river valley and then for supper. After supper we were still both reluctant to call it a night, so we hit the nearby theatre. Then he drove me back to my truck at the museum, getting a coffee on the way.
At the museum, we stood finishing our coffees and talking. Our conversation meandered to a topic that had come up earlier that day: Mixed marriages don’t work. I finally asked him, if he believed that, whether he thought anything was possible between us? His answer was that we wouldn’t be standing there then if something wasn’t possible. That was when I told him I’d been going to Mass for the last month… We talked more about the Church and what our differing faith backgrounds meant for us, but I knew when I left where we stood in our relationship.
So that was our first date, eighteen months ago. I feel in some ways like I was a different person back then – it was such a long time ago. We’ve spent two Christmases together, been to half a dozen friends’ weddings, taken a few road trips, gone camping twice, seen a lot of movies and plays, gotten mad and forgiven, shared dreams and struggles. When we started dating, we made a big deal out of one month, then two months. And now it’s been eighteen… how time flies when you’re in love. :)
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Back in the Contest
So last week, while I was supposed to be concentrating on what I was editing at work, my brain was wandering to other topics, such as what I could write a historical story about. A Request for Sir William is the result of those wanderings.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Of Puddles and Earthworms
Chance of showers, the weather forecast said. I could hear the rain pattering against the window this morning when I woke up.
“Are you riding?” my fiancé asked when he came through the door. He had his rain gear on. I looked out the window again. It wasn’t raining that hard, if at all. In another ten minutes I was out the door and riding, dodging the earthworms that had crawled up onto the pavement to get out of the rain.
We’ve been biking to work together, since he can park at my place for free and ride downtown instead of paying for parking there. We’ve tried a couple different routes this week, looking for the best one. As bikers, it’s nice not to ride in the middle of rush hour traffic. Vehicles are generally polite, but I try to stay out of their way as much as possible. There are quieter roads and the bike paths to ride on.
There were few other people out this morning as I rode around the puddles and earthworms. For the ride home, the path is generally busy with dog-walkers and other cyclists, but on an early rainy morning, I was the only one out. The usual smell of the brewery was covered up by the rain or blown away by the strong north wind that was pushing me to work. Riding home against it won’t be as nice.
My fiancé met me at my office last night after work, and we chased each other home on our bikes. It was fun to show him where I’ve been riding for the last month, to shout random comments at him as we rode, to draft behind him against the wind. I haven’t had a biking partner in years, since I used to ride around the countryside with a friend in junior high school.
I’ve been watching the clouds all day, wondering if the “chance of showers” could also mean “chance of sun.” So far it hasn’t. The north wind continues to blow and random raindrops continue to hit my window. So in a few hours I’ll run downstairs to meet him and we’ll go puddle-hopping together on the way home again.
“Are you riding?” my fiancé asked when he came through the door. He had his rain gear on. I looked out the window again. It wasn’t raining that hard, if at all. In another ten minutes I was out the door and riding, dodging the earthworms that had crawled up onto the pavement to get out of the rain.
We’ve been biking to work together, since he can park at my place for free and ride downtown instead of paying for parking there. We’ve tried a couple different routes this week, looking for the best one. As bikers, it’s nice not to ride in the middle of rush hour traffic. Vehicles are generally polite, but I try to stay out of their way as much as possible. There are quieter roads and the bike paths to ride on.
There were few other people out this morning as I rode around the puddles and earthworms. For the ride home, the path is generally busy with dog-walkers and other cyclists, but on an early rainy morning, I was the only one out. The usual smell of the brewery was covered up by the rain or blown away by the strong north wind that was pushing me to work. Riding home against it won’t be as nice.
My fiancé met me at my office last night after work, and we chased each other home on our bikes. It was fun to show him where I’ve been riding for the last month, to shout random comments at him as we rode, to draft behind him against the wind. I haven’t had a biking partner in years, since I used to ride around the countryside with a friend in junior high school.
I’ve been watching the clouds all day, wondering if the “chance of showers” could also mean “chance of sun.” So far it hasn’t. The north wind continues to blow and random raindrops continue to hit my window. So in a few hours I’ll run downstairs to meet him and we’ll go puddle-hopping together on the way home again.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Confession
I went to confession again last week. It was the second time I’d been since going just before I joined the church at Easter. All of us in RCIA lined up outside the confessional, waiting for our time with the priest. The running joke in the lineup was that we intended this to be our first and last confession. None of us wanted to go through that ordeal again.
At the same time, I was looking forward to confession. Oh, not to having to tell the priest everything I’d done wrong, but to hearing that I was forgiven for those wrongs. There is something very concrete about speaking words and hearing a response, something very definite about having to say, “This is what I’ve done wrong and I’m sorry,” and about hearing the priest say, “You are forgiven.”
I walked out of the confessional before Easter feeling like I wanted to do cartwheels or a happy dance. I was forgiven! It was a wonderful feeling. I tried to restrain my smile, so that the others still waiting and dreading their turn wouldn’t wonder at me. Yet at that moment I felt so free and happy, because I knew that I was right with God. I’d come to Him with everything that I’d done wrong or failed to do right, and He had forgiven me. Wow!
So last week I braved the pouring rain to walk down to the church and see the priest again. I stood in the lineup, waiting and praying. Then I stepped into the tiny room and poured out my failings to Jesus through the priest. And I knew that in having to admit what I had done wrong, I will try harder next time to do right. Afterwards, I stopped to pray, the words of forgiveness still ringing in my ears. I looked up at the stained glass windows, overwhelmed at what Jesus had done for me. I’m forgiven!
At the same time, I was looking forward to confession. Oh, not to having to tell the priest everything I’d done wrong, but to hearing that I was forgiven for those wrongs. There is something very concrete about speaking words and hearing a response, something very definite about having to say, “This is what I’ve done wrong and I’m sorry,” and about hearing the priest say, “You are forgiven.”
I walked out of the confessional before Easter feeling like I wanted to do cartwheels or a happy dance. I was forgiven! It was a wonderful feeling. I tried to restrain my smile, so that the others still waiting and dreading their turn wouldn’t wonder at me. Yet at that moment I felt so free and happy, because I knew that I was right with God. I’d come to Him with everything that I’d done wrong or failed to do right, and He had forgiven me. Wow!
So last week I braved the pouring rain to walk down to the church and see the priest again. I stood in the lineup, waiting and praying. Then I stepped into the tiny room and poured out my failings to Jesus through the priest. And I knew that in having to admit what I had done wrong, I will try harder next time to do right. Afterwards, I stopped to pray, the words of forgiveness still ringing in my ears. I looked up at the stained glass windows, overwhelmed at what Jesus had done for me. I’m forgiven!
Thursday, May 3, 2007
An "Inspirational Piece"
My fiance was asking the other day what had happened to the Faithwriters' contest. The judges took a break for a few weeks, and when they returned, I didn't like the topics they were posting. Last week's topic was to "write a devotional or inspirational" piece. I finally got around to hammering out such a piece on Wednesday, but when I went to enter the contest, the maximum number had already been entered. So, I'm posting my story here, and trying to think of something to write in the "historical genre" for next week.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and my eyes flew to the clock. He was early. My gaze swept around the room, at the messes I’d let pile up over the last week or so. Dirty dishes were stacked, albeit neatly, in the sink and on the counter beside it. A couple half-eaten bags of chips lay by the case for the chick flick that I’d watched last night. The coffee table was a jumbled pile of magazines, three paperback books, grocery store flyers that I hadn’t even looked at, and old beer coasters. Through the bedroom door, I could see the dirty clothes overflowing from the hamper and the unmade bed, my pajamas just tossed over the pillow.
A second knock jerked me back from my perusal. “I’m not ready yet,” burst from my mouth. Then, realizing that was rude, I stepped closer to the door. “I’m sorry. Can you come back in an hour?”
“I’m here now,” came the answer, gentle yet insistent.
“Half an hour then,” I pleaded. “Just let me clean up quickly.”
“Let me help you.”
“No!” My voice was frantic as I realized that I was just wearing my holey old sweats and my hair was falling out of my pony tail. I looked at my muddy shoes sprawling out of the hall closet and my jacket tossed over the back of the chair closest to the door. “I can do it. Just give me a bit of time.”
The only answer was the turning of the door knob, and before I could get there to stop him, he had stepped inside and closed the door behind him. I stood in the middle of the room and watched as he looked around. I saw the finger prints on the walls and the juice stains in the carpet that I hadn’t noticed before. The heat rose into my face. I didn’t want him to see me like this.
“Let me help,” he offered again, and I nodded dumbly, unable to do anything else. He put the shoes in the closet and hung up my jacket. He gathered the chip bags and other garbage and dropped them into the overflowing kitchen garbage. The dishes were washed and dried and put away in the cupboard. In a minute he had made the bed, organized the room, and put the laundry in the wash. The flyers were tossed into the paper bin and the magazines stacked neatly in the magazine rack. He effortlessly washed the stains from the carpet and the finger prints from the wall. Then he returned to me.
“I’m sorry,” I whimpered, dropping to my knees, unable to face him. I should have done it myself. I should have been ready for him. But his hand reached out and lifted my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes.
“Come,” he invited, and I felt myself pulled up into his arms. He held me tightly, his love and forgiveness flowing over me. I buried my face against his shoulder and let myself relax. He had made everything right. The tears came, soft and gentle, but they were tears of joy. Then I was laughing, looking into his face, and he was laughing with me. He picked me up and spun me around and around until we were both dizzy. When he stopped, we stood there in the middle of my clean house, and I stayed where I was, in the arms of my Jesus.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and my eyes flew to the clock. He was early. My gaze swept around the room, at the messes I’d let pile up over the last week or so. Dirty dishes were stacked, albeit neatly, in the sink and on the counter beside it. A couple half-eaten bags of chips lay by the case for the chick flick that I’d watched last night. The coffee table was a jumbled pile of magazines, three paperback books, grocery store flyers that I hadn’t even looked at, and old beer coasters. Through the bedroom door, I could see the dirty clothes overflowing from the hamper and the unmade bed, my pajamas just tossed over the pillow.
A second knock jerked me back from my perusal. “I’m not ready yet,” burst from my mouth. Then, realizing that was rude, I stepped closer to the door. “I’m sorry. Can you come back in an hour?”
“I’m here now,” came the answer, gentle yet insistent.
“Half an hour then,” I pleaded. “Just let me clean up quickly.”
“Let me help you.”
“No!” My voice was frantic as I realized that I was just wearing my holey old sweats and my hair was falling out of my pony tail. I looked at my muddy shoes sprawling out of the hall closet and my jacket tossed over the back of the chair closest to the door. “I can do it. Just give me a bit of time.”
The only answer was the turning of the door knob, and before I could get there to stop him, he had stepped inside and closed the door behind him. I stood in the middle of the room and watched as he looked around. I saw the finger prints on the walls and the juice stains in the carpet that I hadn’t noticed before. The heat rose into my face. I didn’t want him to see me like this.
“Let me help,” he offered again, and I nodded dumbly, unable to do anything else. He put the shoes in the closet and hung up my jacket. He gathered the chip bags and other garbage and dropped them into the overflowing kitchen garbage. The dishes were washed and dried and put away in the cupboard. In a minute he had made the bed, organized the room, and put the laundry in the wash. The flyers were tossed into the paper bin and the magazines stacked neatly in the magazine rack. He effortlessly washed the stains from the carpet and the finger prints from the wall. Then he returned to me.
“I’m sorry,” I whimpered, dropping to my knees, unable to face him. I should have done it myself. I should have been ready for him. But his hand reached out and lifted my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes.
“Come,” he invited, and I felt myself pulled up into his arms. He held me tightly, his love and forgiveness flowing over me. I buried my face against his shoulder and let myself relax. He had made everything right. The tears came, soft and gentle, but they were tears of joy. Then I was laughing, looking into his face, and he was laughing with me. He picked me up and spun me around and around until we were both dizzy. When he stopped, we stood there in the middle of my clean house, and I stayed where I was, in the arms of my Jesus.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Rugby Season Starts
Rugby season started this week. That means my fiancé will be at rugby practice twice a week and playing games a couple times a week now. Some women might complain about that, but last night I was looking at the nice spring evening we were having and almost wishing that I could be out there running too.
I didn’t even know what rugby was until about two years ago. While in Australia, I met some Americans who had never heard of Canadian football teams. So I sent an email to a friend (now my fiancé), asking, “Don’t we play in the NFL?” In answering that, he also discussed rugby. Trying to show some interest in something he loved, I asked what position he played. I’m sure his email description was a good description, but for a girl who’d never seen a rugby game and had no idea what he was talking about… well, I didn’t get it.
A few months later, I was back in Canada and he was playing his last game of the year. I finished my Saturday morning course and drove over to the rugby park to watch. He was warming up on the sidelines, and tried to explain the game to me. At halftime, he got called in to play, and I spent the rest of game alternating between watching him and watching the ball, and trying to figure out what on earth was going on. After the game, I asked him, “Who won?” He answered, “We did! We hammered them!”
We walked over to watch another rugby game on an adjoining field, and he kept trying to explain the game to me, though I never admitted that I had no idea what a scrum or a ruck was so most of his explanations were going right over my head. Soon after that we started dating, and when touch rugby started up at the university, he wanted me to play. I watched one game and thought it looked like fun, so I jumped in on the next game. We ran. Hard. For two hours. Chasing a ball. Tagging each other. Kicking. Catching. Passing. It was fun.
The next summer I was at the clubhouse to try the real game. We jumped into the twice-a-week practices, running drills and playing touch. I now knew the rugby terms and was figuring out what all the positions were. Then we had an out-of-town game. I showed up just to watch, since I’d only been at practice for a month, but we didn’t have enough girls to play, so I got pulled into the game. There were new girls on both teams, and we borrowed girls from the other team to fill our team. I had a quick lesson on being in the front row before the game, and then the game was on. We ran hard. We had fun. And we hammered the other team.
But after that, I didn’t play again. Partly because by then I was flat broke after not working for a year and a half, so I couldn’t afford to buy cleats and pay the club dues. Partly because I was busy with other things and burning myself out. Partly because my fiancé injured himself in his game and couldn’t play for the rest of the summer. But more because I realized I didn’t like the rugby culture. I didn’t fit in, when all the girls got off the field and grabbed their beers and started talking about sex and drinking and tattoos. I didn’t like beer, and I had nothing to contribute to the conversations. Some of the girls were friendly, willing to coach a newcomer, and fun to hang out with; others were cliquish, sticking with their friends, hardcore rugby fans who played to win.
So this summer, while he’s off at rugby practice, I’ll work on my writing or scrapbooking. I’ll come to his games to cheer him on, and since I know the game now, I’ll be screaming loud. It’s rugby season again.
I didn’t even know what rugby was until about two years ago. While in Australia, I met some Americans who had never heard of Canadian football teams. So I sent an email to a friend (now my fiancé), asking, “Don’t we play in the NFL?” In answering that, he also discussed rugby. Trying to show some interest in something he loved, I asked what position he played. I’m sure his email description was a good description, but for a girl who’d never seen a rugby game and had no idea what he was talking about… well, I didn’t get it.
A few months later, I was back in Canada and he was playing his last game of the year. I finished my Saturday morning course and drove over to the rugby park to watch. He was warming up on the sidelines, and tried to explain the game to me. At halftime, he got called in to play, and I spent the rest of game alternating between watching him and watching the ball, and trying to figure out what on earth was going on. After the game, I asked him, “Who won?” He answered, “We did! We hammered them!”
We walked over to watch another rugby game on an adjoining field, and he kept trying to explain the game to me, though I never admitted that I had no idea what a scrum or a ruck was so most of his explanations were going right over my head. Soon after that we started dating, and when touch rugby started up at the university, he wanted me to play. I watched one game and thought it looked like fun, so I jumped in on the next game. We ran. Hard. For two hours. Chasing a ball. Tagging each other. Kicking. Catching. Passing. It was fun.
The next summer I was at the clubhouse to try the real game. We jumped into the twice-a-week practices, running drills and playing touch. I now knew the rugby terms and was figuring out what all the positions were. Then we had an out-of-town game. I showed up just to watch, since I’d only been at practice for a month, but we didn’t have enough girls to play, so I got pulled into the game. There were new girls on both teams, and we borrowed girls from the other team to fill our team. I had a quick lesson on being in the front row before the game, and then the game was on. We ran hard. We had fun. And we hammered the other team.
But after that, I didn’t play again. Partly because by then I was flat broke after not working for a year and a half, so I couldn’t afford to buy cleats and pay the club dues. Partly because I was busy with other things and burning myself out. Partly because my fiancé injured himself in his game and couldn’t play for the rest of the summer. But more because I realized I didn’t like the rugby culture. I didn’t fit in, when all the girls got off the field and grabbed their beers and started talking about sex and drinking and tattoos. I didn’t like beer, and I had nothing to contribute to the conversations. Some of the girls were friendly, willing to coach a newcomer, and fun to hang out with; others were cliquish, sticking with their friends, hardcore rugby fans who played to win.
So this summer, while he’s off at rugby practice, I’ll work on my writing or scrapbooking. I’ll come to his games to cheer him on, and since I know the game now, I’ll be screaming loud. It’s rugby season again.
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