And then life was simple.

Tonight, Tim and I agreed that the idea is to live simply.  To always live simply.

Less stuff & even more less stuff...
H.

One Thousand Square Feet

I'm not sure our kids will ever remember this house.  Truth be told, probably not.  Let's cut to the chase.  This is what I will say about The House in Which we Lived Before They Existed.    

     I will tell them that the bathroom was so small, you practically had to stand in the tub to get the door shut and there were days when I very well may have given my next paycheck for a linen closet or a garage or a basement should the opportunity present itself.  I will tell them that Noel's medicated shampoo made the entire bathroom smell like spearmint gum, and the scent of fresh breath will always remind me of her.

     I will tell them that our dishwasher had wheels and our neighbors grew weed in their greenhouse and we had numerous things stolen throughout our time there.

     And I will tell them that we loved each other very much in that tiny-red-front-door house and that we were crowded at times but the lack of overhead lighting made it easy to create a cozy, soft glow (oh yes, please seed lights).

I will tell them that the thing I remember most about that house is that when we lived there, 

we were happy.

Love,
H.

And then I planted seeds

     Last summer, (that feels weird to say.  How is it almost November already)?  I bought one of those dollar boxes of wildflower seeds.

Nothing really happened.

I think, if our yard/garden was full of cartoon plants, they would let out a collective "Noooooo!" as soon as they see the school buses coming.

You see, every April, I'm all....


TOMATOES!!!!!!!!

 via

And then school starts.  I get busy, and everything dies.

That's the short story.  Actually, that's the entire story.

With that being said, eventually- something grew in our wildflower patch.  It was weed-like for the entire season, but I refused to believe it.

It had to be something more.

And lo & behold...

it was.

And so it must be said,

I am thankful for our house and our yard and our blessings.

May they all run wild & free.  

Love and what the heck' are those?
H.

Seriously.  If you know- let me know cause I'd love to plant them again.  My best guess is prairie rose....?

And then the months passed

Circa August 2012



     And so it must be noted, there were days when I ached for things (which will not be mentioned here) so badly I could feel it in my teeth.

In the mornings, I try Very Hard to listen to The Voice of God. Pressing my cup to the door of heaven.

     After I've showered and dressed and my hair is dry, I get back in bed with Tim and I pray. Because that is what Holly's are good at- the getting back in bed. The prayers are for him.  For our dogs.  For our marriage and his business and for Lucy.  I practice gratitude.  I muster the courage to (for the love of Pete) get back out of bed.

During the day, I pray as people and situations pop into my head.

And at night, I repent.  I reflect on my day.  I pray for peace.

     And sometimes, if the mood strikes, I thank Him for not having those unmentioned things above.  I thank Him for the waiting.  For the no's-when-I-don't-understand-the-reasons.

This too shall pass

or so I've heard.

Love,
H.

Closer than ever

My books are late.  My library books are late.  Tim and I joke that my late fees alone funded the fancy new digs our library's got going on.

It just kind of is what it is.

And that fact alone used to hold a lot of weight.

I would get really mad.  At myself.  At the stupid library.  At the calendar in general.

Today, we discovered that a bill of ours had flown under the radar for the first time in the four years we've been married.  That's a pretty good track record, if you ask me.

And I got in the car with 2 late notices in hand (book. bill.)  And I thought....

"Why am I not freaking out about this?"

Because usually (and this is ridiculous)...I get Very Frustrated and I chalk this up to yet again something negative about me/us and parenthood.

i.e. people who don't tie up these kinds of loose ends have no business having babies.

And it was then that I realized my perspective has changed....I'm not that upset about it because a.) no one died and  b.) I'm starting to identify myself as The Daughter of a Heavenly King rather than just as someone who doesn't always get their i's dotted on time.

And that thought was perhaps the most profound thought I've had in a good, long while.

I think we will look back and say that we knew we were ready for a baby when we started changing the way we talked to ourselves and that, in turn, changed the way we talked to each other.

We're not completely there, yet.  At least I'm not, but we are closer than ever.

Love and I didn't even read the book,
H.

And then I trembled.

In the year of 30, I have learned 4 things about myself based on what my body and my heart have told me.

1.  There are days when I would gladly trade My Favorite Record Player for a chubby, red-haired baby and nothing has ever surprised me as much as that has.

2.  My joints have officially stopped coming to my defense.  As much as everyone jokes about their age, it's true.  It is a quiet protest, but there are still, occasionally New Aches.

3.  I can no longer "do" action movies.  The absolute worst parts are when someone's all, "Hey, that one Russian Guy actually works for the CIA and how 'bout  Those Redsox" and without warning, someone goes and literally shoots the poor messenger mid-sentence.

That one's a complete date ruiner for me. 20 minutes into our latest film venture Tim looked at me (eyes covered, breathing heavily) and said, "You've gotten worse."

  And then this happened.

It was supposed to be a quiet night.  A nice night in.  I was sick...and tired.  Tim had been on his feet.  We made Chinese Food and watched a movie. And during one particular action-packed chase scene a bad guy gets hit by a car.

 Twice.

And then I remembered this.  And then I travelled back in time and thought about this.

Poor Angry Russian.  Cause you know, that's me.  In the gray suit. Carrying the gun.  Breaking the headlight and denting the hood.

And the scene had not even ended, but still, I said-twice.

I'm done.  I'm done.

     And promptly left the room. For the first time in roughly 8 years, I thought about the accident and I cried.  I cleaned the house for about 45 seconds until the crying turned into those snotty, gasping kind of sobs and then I found myself leaned over the dresser, trembling.  

     I don't think I have ever trembled before.  It wasn't "Wow, that deer came out of no where and now my hands are shaking."  It was something deeper.  Less easily controlled.  It had nothing to do with hands, either.  It was all in the biceps and forearms.  If life is a story, this was The Baby Bear of panic attacks.  I'm sure.

And I Pictured the whole movie scene over again.

 It happened, you know.  

Tim said when we first met and I came to an intersection, I used to cower. Is there a sadder word in the whole wide world? 

Five dollars if you can say that 3 times fast. ^

But still...

For years, I did approach the accident with the easiness of a Hawaiian Surfer.  With the wave of a hand on the way to Red's Games and the comment, "Eh...it can't happen twice." 

I was cocky.  Arrogant about the whole thing.  

The truth is, it hasn't bothered me.  Until lately.  Which, I admit, is weird.  A random bad dream here.  

A sigh at the same intersection there.   

But strangeness aside, it was over, and I was over it. 

Surprise.  Surprise.  

     .............

And hunched over the dresser, I knew 2 very distinct things.  Like a moth to a flame, a deer to water.

  I needed to take a shower.

     I scrubbed down in 11 different ways and pretty much spent the rest of the time staring into space, listening to the distant gunshots and fist fights in the background.  I'm not even sure I rinsed my hair.  I tried to pray.  I did.  I tried to recite Psalm 23, but my brain wasn't having any of it.  There was no possible way to bring up the scripture verses I have committed to memory.  Something about a cup....and a valley....and a house.  And then, in that moment, I knew... He was gone.  The Lord had left and surely that can be labeled as The Loneliest Shower Ever Taken.

After that part was over, I foolishly shook my fist at the sky.  Don't. you. ever. leave. me. again. And The Lord, in true fashion, has never been so quick to give a response...the rest of Psalm 23.

Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.

And then I remembered that I am loved and that I am bought with a price and that nations have been given in exchange for my life and I was finally able to unfold myself and get out of the shower.

 And the next thing I knew was that I needed to write.

In that moment, I desperately wished Charlie was there.  To listen.  To chat.  To give.

Charlie was my late-50-something Post-traumatic Stress Counselor.  He wore Hawaiian print shirts and loved Ohio State football.  He lost his dad to a heart attack while they were out golfing.  He tried CPR.  It didn't save him.  And I cried.  A lot.

Referred to by a friend, he really counseled at a Drug Rehab Center.

 A second grade teacher?  I was a welcome change.

As part of the "Rehab Paperwork,"  He had to ask me all sorts of awkward questions and apologized in advance.  My drug habits. Alcohol.  How many sexual partners I'd had.

I told him we didn't even keep cooking wine in the house and that I was a virgin and he looked at me like I was made of gold.  A lone violinist in a room full of drummers.  Because that was how my stories came out.

Loud and choppy, sad and hopeful and slow.

I wore my pink converse tennis shoes and a  hoodie and listened to The Shins in the waiting room. Trying to channel my inner Natalie Portman.

And then there's number 4 from the first list above, lest we forget.

I need to be humbled.

Oh. This is just so IT, isn't it?  A lesson in humility.

And earlier....when I found myself leaned over our dresser.  Palms on my forehead. Trembling.  Staring into my closet...He spoke.

Behold,  I am making all things new.

Maybe this is just my new normal for now.  Taking a break from the Jason Statham's and the Bruce Willis's for a while.

My name is Holly Young, and I like movies with dogs, jazz music and kissing.  Lots of kissing.

Behold, I am making all things new.  

Love, and surely He is.
H.

P.S. There were a lot of numbers in this, which confused me. I still don't feel like it's the "right order," but if I've learned anything- it's that you get what you get and you don't throw a fit.

P.S.S. When I got out of the shower, my make up literally looked like this. It. was. awesome. Where is a camera crew when I need one?

***It must be noted that a few weeks ago, I told someone on Facebook that the accident opened me up to beautiful things.  Amidst all of this, that still holds true.

I'm Right About This One

 Dear Future Maybe Daughter,

     I pray that when the time comes, you will marry a boy who brings a pen.

Bank meetings. Financial Planning.  Lease-signings.  Car loans.

I pray he brings his pen and a working knowledge of business and finances.

IRA's.  Escrow.  Interest Rates.

     Not because I'm not all for women's rights or paving YOUR OWN way or women becoming financially independent.

(Thank you Susan B. Anthony)

     It just lets you rest.  When school has started and you wore The Wrong Shoes and you get a blister on your thumb from sharpening pencils.  

His pen and his knowledge lets you sit quietly and eat your apple (and 1/2 of his Panera cookie).

It just lets you rest.

Love and I'm right about this one,
H.   Mom