An actual conversation...
"Eric," I say, grabbing a fleece blanket off the back of Eric's futon as we head to the laundromat. "Does this blanket need washed?"
"No," Eric says, casting not even a look at the blanket and continuing toward the door.
Doubting eyebrow. "When's the last time you washed it?"
"Ummm." Less matter-of-fact now. A bit of a befuddled look comes on his face. Then the beginnings of a grin.
Never. That's the answer.
He's never washed the blanket.
Never.
We've been doing a lot of cleaning and sorting and trashing and things around Eric' loft these past couple of weeks. I try to remember that Eric's a boy--a 34-year-old bachelor man-boy, to be exact--and that, really, it could be a lot worse. And, to his credit, he's done a splendid job of making way for a woman in his home.
But I do tend to wrinkle my nose or looked shocked every now and then, despite my best efforts.
As was the case in the aforementioned blanket episode.
I shake my head at his never having washed a blanket. And at his goofy grin.
"Andi, what I was and what I am was enough to win you over." He thinks he's silenced me.
"Yes, Eric." (He's wrong.) "But what you are and how often you wash your sheets isn't enough to get me to sleep in the same bed with you."
Monday, March 23, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
On manifest excitement...
When I was a kid, the highlights of my summers were going somewhere on my own. My parents would ship me off to Iowa for sports camps for a week at a time so I could hone my basketball skills or get a kickstart to my cross country season. Or I'd spend a week or so getting filthy at my grandparents' farm, trouncing through the woods or stalking game of turtles and frogs.
I loved it.
I'd get excited about it.
And I have a very peculiar way of getting excited about things.
I plan.
I remember sitting in the middle of my closet, in front of an empty duffel bag, plotting exactly what I'd bring. I'd make to-do lists, schedules for outfits, a training plan that took me right up to the first day of camp. I'd try to picture everything in my head and plan, plan, plan.
Years have gone by, I have no athletic skills left to hone and I rarely get opportunity to hunt reptiles. But I still have that peculiar way of getting excited.
You can imagine how this has played out as I look forward to starting my new life with Eric.
When he told me way back when that he figured we'd be married in six months, I wanted to know just what that meant for my plans. For Jesus Film. For where I would live. For where we'd live after. Where I'd work, etc. etc., etc. After that, for so long, I wanted a date for the wedding. Just a date, so I had a fixed axis around which to build my gameplan.
Now I have it, the day is soon approaching and I know we'll be bunking at his loft.
And, obviously, I'm pretty excited about marrying Eric.
And so... I plan. I prepare. I plan some more.
(And, yes, each day I probably chip away at Eric's sanity and patience with me...)
I want to isolate as many variables as I can, eliminate them from the post-wedding equation. I want to take care of what I can as soon as possible. I like to unclutter things. I want to make it so that after we get married Saturday, we can come home to a relatively put-together loft on Sunday.
When we get dishes as gifts, I wash them up and swap them out with Eric's old bachelor wares that same day.
When E gave me the OK to paint the pepto-bismal walls a less nauseating color, I collected and poured over paint samples and was ready to paint the next week. It still naws on me that we haven't done it. I want to land in the new place and relax. And I have this mindset of, if not now, when?! Let me paint!
I'm beginning to panic because we don't have furniture. We don't have a couch. No dressers, no where to put my clothes. No bookshelves that aren't falling apart. No bedclothes, for crying outloud. Not even a set of sheets or a comforter that fits the bed. (Though Eric argues his twin-sized blanket fits him, and that's all that matters.) And then the stuff we do have is... well, had its proper place in Eric's spartan bachelor pad, ya know?
Ugh.
I want to make it nice, I want to make it inviting, I want to make it a home that we can minister out of.
And, yes, my weakness is... I want it that way now. Before the wedding.
My mom says I create my own drama, my own stress. And I know she's right. She laughs and tells Eric that once I get my mind on something, I won't rest until it's finished. But I don't know any other way to get excited about things. All I know is planning, dreaming, planning, preparing.
It's a good thing Eric is a patient man and, so far, does well with my tendency to hedgehog in one direction. He's even doing a splendid job of helping to keep me sane.
Though I can't quite shake my longing to round up that furniture or put a group of his high schoolers on painting the kitchen... For shame.
I loved it.
I'd get excited about it.
And I have a very peculiar way of getting excited about things.
I plan.
I remember sitting in the middle of my closet, in front of an empty duffel bag, plotting exactly what I'd bring. I'd make to-do lists, schedules for outfits, a training plan that took me right up to the first day of camp. I'd try to picture everything in my head and plan, plan, plan.
Years have gone by, I have no athletic skills left to hone and I rarely get opportunity to hunt reptiles. But I still have that peculiar way of getting excited.
You can imagine how this has played out as I look forward to starting my new life with Eric.
When he told me way back when that he figured we'd be married in six months, I wanted to know just what that meant for my plans. For Jesus Film. For where I would live. For where we'd live after. Where I'd work, etc. etc., etc. After that, for so long, I wanted a date for the wedding. Just a date, so I had a fixed axis around which to build my gameplan.
Now I have it, the day is soon approaching and I know we'll be bunking at his loft.
And, obviously, I'm pretty excited about marrying Eric.
And so... I plan. I prepare. I plan some more.
(And, yes, each day I probably chip away at Eric's sanity and patience with me...)
I want to isolate as many variables as I can, eliminate them from the post-wedding equation. I want to take care of what I can as soon as possible. I like to unclutter things. I want to make it so that after we get married Saturday, we can come home to a relatively put-together loft on Sunday.
When we get dishes as gifts, I wash them up and swap them out with Eric's old bachelor wares that same day.
When E gave me the OK to paint the pepto-bismal walls a less nauseating color, I collected and poured over paint samples and was ready to paint the next week. It still naws on me that we haven't done it. I want to land in the new place and relax. And I have this mindset of, if not now, when?! Let me paint!
I'm beginning to panic because we don't have furniture. We don't have a couch. No dressers, no where to put my clothes. No bookshelves that aren't falling apart. No bedclothes, for crying outloud. Not even a set of sheets or a comforter that fits the bed. (Though Eric argues his twin-sized blanket fits him, and that's all that matters.) And then the stuff we do have is... well, had its proper place in Eric's spartan bachelor pad, ya know?
Ugh.
I want to make it nice, I want to make it inviting, I want to make it a home that we can minister out of.
And, yes, my weakness is... I want it that way now. Before the wedding.
My mom says I create my own drama, my own stress. And I know she's right. She laughs and tells Eric that once I get my mind on something, I won't rest until it's finished. But I don't know any other way to get excited about things. All I know is planning, dreaming, planning, preparing.
It's a good thing Eric is a patient man and, so far, does well with my tendency to hedgehog in one direction. He's even doing a splendid job of helping to keep me sane.
Though I can't quite shake my longing to round up that furniture or put a group of his high schoolers on painting the kitchen... For shame.
Monday, March 09, 2009
High view of the Most High...
Yesterday, my "What I like about you..." was pretty easy.
We were sitting in the sanctuary after church, chatting with folks, and one of the ladies came over and started talking to Eric about a web site she found. She was raving about it and saying he should really check it out, that the author was good and she was being challenged a lot by him.
The guy, she said, reminded her a lot of Eric--they had "the same high view of God."
So, what I liked about Eric yesterday was not only that he does have a high view of God, but that it's so evident, people identify and define him by it.
And I can honestly not think of one better thing I'd like my husband to be known for, than his high view of the Almighty.
Praise the Lord, right?
We were sitting in the sanctuary after church, chatting with folks, and one of the ladies came over and started talking to Eric about a web site she found. She was raving about it and saying he should really check it out, that the author was good and she was being challenged a lot by him.
The guy, she said, reminded her a lot of Eric--they had "the same high view of God."
So, what I liked about Eric yesterday was not only that he does have a high view of God, but that it's so evident, people identify and define him by it.
And I can honestly not think of one better thing I'd like my husband to be known for, than his high view of the Almighty.
Praise the Lord, right?
What I like about you...
Eric's a good leader.
One thing he suggested we do, right from the beginning, was to end each night by saying some specific thing that we liked about the other person that day.
Sounds funny. Cheesy? Maybe. Forced? OK. I kind of worried all that, too.
But I really think it's been a blessing for us.
First, it's taught me to love in a new way. One of Eric's ways he communicates love--romantic or brotherly or otherwise--is through words. He's constantly affirming, forever encouraging. Good, helpful, edifying words drop from his mouth a lot. They're not flippant. They're not disingenuous, not insincere. In short, this isn't flattery I'm talking about. It's real, and it builds up.
I struggle with words. I often want to tell someone how great I think they're doing, or how much I appreciate them, but I get nervous and the words never come out right. I don't want to embarrass them, put them on the spot. I show love by trying to silently help the person out--serving them in some way, preferably unnoticed--or by finding a little special gift or meeting a small need, and avoiding eye contact while praying they don't dare to thank me for it.
That's awkward attention for me. I got annoyed at Pattie in Africa for thanking me too much. Poor Pattie. How absurd does that seem?
So, you see, I struggle to give and to receive in words. And, trust me, it's not that I don't have a lot to say. Some of you have experienced my awkwardness when I try to communicate with words. It normally ends in muttering and a panicked look on my face, paralyzed by fear that the person will think I'm a fool for saying anything.
And receiving is worse. I don't like to be the center of attention. I don't know what to do when someone compliments me. (Rumor has it, you simply say "Thank you." Curious.) I don't want that kind of focus. I don't know what to say. Cue the muttering, mumbling social awkwardness. I'd rather plug my ears to compliments, for whatever reason.
Having to not only voice every night those things I'm thinking about how great Eric is, but also to squirm uncomfortably while he tells me what he likes about me... That forces a girl like me to grow. And so I'm becoming more capable in the love language of words. And I think we're both better for it.
But, there's more--I think this "What I like about you today..." game has kept us from the sin of going to bed angry, or from letting things fester too long. Trust me, there have been nights when I couldn't think of even one simple thing I liked about that man, because I was angry, or I was hurt, or I was impatient.
But you're forced to dig; you're forced to remember who it is that's sitting across from you--the one God created for you, the one you generally enjoy being around so much, the one who is still going to be there tomorrow. Many nights, being forced out of my selfish view like that has been the thing to send cracks through the walls I'd put up between us--walls built in defense, in anger, in whatever.
And those nights, a lot of times my "What I like about you today..." includes that Eric is such a good leader, to have the foresight to make this a habit and the discipline to do it even when we least want to.
One thing he suggested we do, right from the beginning, was to end each night by saying some specific thing that we liked about the other person that day.
Sounds funny. Cheesy? Maybe. Forced? OK. I kind of worried all that, too.
But I really think it's been a blessing for us.
First, it's taught me to love in a new way. One of Eric's ways he communicates love--romantic or brotherly or otherwise--is through words. He's constantly affirming, forever encouraging. Good, helpful, edifying words drop from his mouth a lot. They're not flippant. They're not disingenuous, not insincere. In short, this isn't flattery I'm talking about. It's real, and it builds up.
I struggle with words. I often want to tell someone how great I think they're doing, or how much I appreciate them, but I get nervous and the words never come out right. I don't want to embarrass them, put them on the spot. I show love by trying to silently help the person out--serving them in some way, preferably unnoticed--or by finding a little special gift or meeting a small need, and avoiding eye contact while praying they don't dare to thank me for it.
That's awkward attention for me. I got annoyed at Pattie in Africa for thanking me too much. Poor Pattie. How absurd does that seem?
So, you see, I struggle to give and to receive in words. And, trust me, it's not that I don't have a lot to say. Some of you have experienced my awkwardness when I try to communicate with words. It normally ends in muttering and a panicked look on my face, paralyzed by fear that the person will think I'm a fool for saying anything.
And receiving is worse. I don't like to be the center of attention. I don't know what to do when someone compliments me. (Rumor has it, you simply say "Thank you." Curious.) I don't want that kind of focus. I don't know what to say. Cue the muttering, mumbling social awkwardness. I'd rather plug my ears to compliments, for whatever reason.
Having to not only voice every night those things I'm thinking about how great Eric is, but also to squirm uncomfortably while he tells me what he likes about me... That forces a girl like me to grow. And so I'm becoming more capable in the love language of words. And I think we're both better for it.
But, there's more--I think this "What I like about you today..." game has kept us from the sin of going to bed angry, or from letting things fester too long. Trust me, there have been nights when I couldn't think of even one simple thing I liked about that man, because I was angry, or I was hurt, or I was impatient.
But you're forced to dig; you're forced to remember who it is that's sitting across from you--the one God created for you, the one you generally enjoy being around so much, the one who is still going to be there tomorrow. Many nights, being forced out of my selfish view like that has been the thing to send cracks through the walls I'd put up between us--walls built in defense, in anger, in whatever.
And those nights, a lot of times my "What I like about you today..." includes that Eric is such a good leader, to have the foresight to make this a habit and the discipline to do it even when we least want to.
Noise. Clutter.
Yesterday in church, Pastor Steve paused for prayer before he delivered his sermon, and something he prayed resonated with me.
He was asking God to bless us as we searched his Word, "quieting ourselves" as we came to the text.
Quieting ourselves.
I don't know what it was exactly that struck me. Perhaps it was that so often I think of all the noise, all the clutter that's going on outside of me. There's work. There's my to-do list. There's all these... things... demanding my attention, my affections. And I try to quiet those, to push them away, to force them out... to sever all that's going on outside from what's going on inside my soul. And that's certainly a good thing. That's part of quieting ourselves, I'm sure.
But perhaps I need to expand my view just a bit, to include quieting myself.
I can hush all that's from without, but still let the clamoring from within go untended, even unmuffled.
Ugh. There's a nuance here that struck me Sunday as I sat there, that I'm missing now--unable to put words to it. But there was just something about "quieting ourselves" that held me. It's something more than what I'm doing. But I'd like to get there.
He was asking God to bless us as we searched his Word, "quieting ourselves" as we came to the text.
Quieting ourselves.
I don't know what it was exactly that struck me. Perhaps it was that so often I think of all the noise, all the clutter that's going on outside of me. There's work. There's my to-do list. There's all these... things... demanding my attention, my affections. And I try to quiet those, to push them away, to force them out... to sever all that's going on outside from what's going on inside my soul. And that's certainly a good thing. That's part of quieting ourselves, I'm sure.
But perhaps I need to expand my view just a bit, to include quieting myself.
I can hush all that's from without, but still let the clamoring from within go untended, even unmuffled.
Ugh. There's a nuance here that struck me Sunday as I sat there, that I'm missing now--unable to put words to it. But there was just something about "quieting ourselves" that held me. It's something more than what I'm doing. But I'd like to get there.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
One wedding... or a funeral?
Just now, I do believe I heard my mom threaten my other brother--that if he didn't get sized for his tux soon, she would be sizing him for a coffin.
Wow.
I told you she was hardcore.
Wow.
I told you she was hardcore.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Super heritage...
Tell ya what, all this time, I thought I was just a plain Jane tomboy with no extraordinary family history or trivia to speak of.
But I was so wrong.
Did you know, my mother is a super hero?
Yes, it’s true. Super. Hero. Or, well, heroine.
She hides it very well. I’ve known her for all of my 25—whoops, 26—years and never fully recognized the Super(wo)man behind the Clark Kent glasses until just recently.
I’m sure many of you have taken pity on her when you’ve considered the time crunch we gave her to plan her—I mean, umm, my (yeah… right)—dream wedding. I think it came out to something short of two months. And she’s done a splendid job of bringing things together. She might be an exception to the “You can’t have your cake and eat it, too” rule, as she’s avoided making any real sacrifices, despite having very little time and, in some cases, seriously slim pickings. Seems like every day she’s multi-tasking her way through invitations or dinner details or programs or table decorations or flowers or… well, any other number of strange and somewhat surprising things that go into a wedding.
(You can perhaps tell I keep a safe distance away from the thick of the action, if not in my ignorance, then in my laissez-faire attitude about the whole fancy-schmancy part of things. Perhaps to my own shame and mother’s mixed delight and stress.)
But what you don’t know, and what you will certainly pity her for now, is that she’s got a few other irons in the fire.
For example, our dog is sick. Really sick. This might not seem like a big deal, but when you consider how much this family loves its dogs, you might reevaluate. She’s constantly in and out of the local vet and has driven the two hours to Champaign, to the U of I vet school, countless times.
She’s also managed to keep up with our precious Illini basketball team, as her and dad have season tickets and never miss a game. Real Illini basketball fanliness takes up considerable time—what, with keeping up on the Tupper blogs and any Illini buzz—not to mention energy. I can’t imagine the emotional toll it takes to stand in front of my parents’ orange-drenched closet every day and decide which shirt will be lucky enough to push the fellas to a win that day. She carries the burden well.
Oh, and then there’s this tiny thing my parents have going on the side. And by that I mean, a total overhaul of our kitchen. Yup. They gutted our kitchen this week. We have no cabinets. No stove. No sink. No anything. Just one big open space where our kitchen used to be. What remains of it is piled on the air hockey table downstairs. The thing is supposed to be finished the week before the wedding. Until then, it’s complete chaos as we try to survive with things in such disarray.
It’s pretty sweet, having a super hero in the family. But it’s certainly hard to measure up.
I guess it’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it, that I can’t keep up with my own mother? Sigh.
Another year older...
I turned 26 last week. Yup, no more pounding my fists on the table and whining that I'm 25 when someone mistakes me for a pre-teen.
I'm officially 26.
Officially... ancient.
Sigh.
But at least the day was nice.
Abby curbed my but-it's-my-birthday pouting potential at our 6 a.m. workout with a sweet card. Our super-intense instructor that day, however, did not get the "It's Andi's birthday so try not to leave her abs too sore" memo.
Gretchen--my co-worker--likes birthdays and decided I needed to embrace the celebration. She made it rather easy by giving me a hilarious musical card--which rang out, "Conga" by Miami Sound Machine, to the kids' delight--and a Starbucks giftcard (!!!!). And she surprised me with monkey-themed cupcakes for snack. How sweet, right?
Our darling KK fell in love with the monkey rings and insisted I wear mine for the remainder of the day. And the next day. You see, she saw mine in the trash and was very concerned. "Miss An'i, your monkey! Where'd your monkey go?!" She also sang "Happy Birthday" all on her own. And this from a girl with very limited verbal skills. So special.
Eric, for his part, gave me an apron.
Yes, an apron.
Which was actually a joke gift, but I think I thew him by loving it. It's so cute! I hung it in his kitchen and intend to wear it next time I'm playing house there (ie: making dinner).
So, all in all, a pretty low-key birthday. Just the way I like it.
(I'm 26. Pound, pound, pound.)
I'm officially 26.
Officially... ancient.
Sigh.
But at least the day was nice.
Abby curbed my but-it's-my-birthday pouting potential at our 6 a.m. workout with a sweet card. Our super-intense instructor that day, however, did not get the "It's Andi's birthday so try not to leave her abs too sore" memo.
Gretchen--my co-worker--likes birthdays and decided I needed to embrace the celebration. She made it rather easy by giving me a hilarious musical card--which rang out, "Conga" by Miami Sound Machine, to the kids' delight--and a Starbucks giftcard (!!!!). And she surprised me with monkey-themed cupcakes for snack. How sweet, right?
Our darling KK fell in love with the monkey rings and insisted I wear mine for the remainder of the day. And the next day. You see, she saw mine in the trash and was very concerned. "Miss An'i, your monkey! Where'd your monkey go?!" She also sang "Happy Birthday" all on her own. And this from a girl with very limited verbal skills. So special.
Eric, for his part, gave me an apron.
Yes, an apron.
Which was actually a joke gift, but I think I thew him by loving it. It's so cute! I hung it in his kitchen and intend to wear it next time I'm playing house there (ie: making dinner).
So, all in all, a pretty low-key birthday. Just the way I like it.
(I'm 26. Pound, pound, pound.)
Showered with encouragement...
Ugh. Life is so fast.
Where was I?
…
Lara, the lovely women of Stratford Park Bible Chapel and some of my other godly woman heroes put together a bridal shower for me down in Champaign a couple weeks back. It was such a blessed time, being surrounded by women who have long invested in my life and who love our God and serve him faithfully. Many of them—whether they know it or not—have been examples for me of women of the Word and godly wives.
One of the things they did was write down marriage, cooking or cleaning tips, which was great for me, because I need all the help I can get. There were yummy recipes, ideas for cheap homemade cleaners and other wonderful advice.
Some of my favorites:
“To slice brownies—use a plastic knife to keep the brownies from sticking and clumping to the knife.” Who knew?! Probably everyone but me, right?
“Do loving things for one another.” Simple but necessary. Might have to tuck that one away where I’ll find it every now and then, as a reminder.
“Talk, talk, talk. Pray, pray, pray.” Amen.
“Let forgiveness reign supreme in all areas of your life, from unwashed dishes to unmade beds.” Now that is just quality, quality advice. These are wise women.
“Regarding division of duties: If in doubt, let hubby do it.” Hahaha. I think I’m going to hang that one on the fridge. :)
And, from one of the littlest guests, this ample encouragement: “You rock.” Well, thanks Angie!
Our engagement photos...
I haven't got to write about it quite yet, but Eric and I had a superb time doing our engagement photos a couple weekends ago. It was a blast, kicking it at the canal, Starbucks and even Target with Phil and Andrea McConville, our super-talented photographers who share our love for the Lord. :)
Anyway, for now, I'll just give you the link, so you can check it out. And you can even order some prints, if you'd like. Enjoy! :)
Go to... www.philmcconville.com
Then, proofs.
Then, click on our album--Eric and Andi.
Our password is Bjerkaas09.
Feel free to let me know what you think!
Anyway, for now, I'll just give you the link, so you can check it out. And you can even order some prints, if you'd like. Enjoy! :)
Go to... www.philmcconville.com
Then, proofs.
Then, click on our album--Eric and Andi.
Our password is Bjerkaas09.
Feel free to let me know what you think!
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