On a Wedding, Fear, and Second Chances

As I type this, I am staring at a stunning diamond ring, a circle solitaire Tiffany's rock that sparkles like nothing I've seen. And it is still somewhat surreal...

Two weeks ago I got engaged to the man of my dreams. I say that not to sound like the protagonist of a lame romance novel, but because it is actually true for me. He asked me to be his wife during the best dinner of my life, which capped off the best day of my life, and the best part of it all is that I was completely surprised. As you can see for yourself here.

I can honestly say I've never been happier. I realize these moments are, and will forever be, some of the highest highs in my journey. I've been relishing them and thanking God for all of this goodness I get to experience, and for the man I get to marry. My life wasn't always so sweet and satisfying, which I realize makes my joy that much deeper.

But with this joy has come some unexpected pain. I've spent the past 10 days solo (Vic is away for work), and I've had a lot of space to reflect and write. It's been an exciting, yet surprisingly difficult, time as I think ahead to the wedding and all that it symbolizes.

You see, I've done this before. This is not my first wedding, this is not my first marriage. And I have felt and am working through a spectrum of unexpected emotions, from shame and guilt to grief and fear.

Shame because suddenly I see myself as the girl who was married, divorced, and engaged again by age 30. Does anyone else see me through that lens? Maybe. But that's irrelevant. This is my life; not theirs. It's my path and my story to make. My goal the past 2 years has been to rise from the ashes and live boldly and authentically, to listen to the truth I know to be real, and to aim to care less about others' perceptions. Do I miss the mark on these goals? Absolutely. But now I know how to speak truth to these lies when they rear their heads.

A niggling guilt, as if I'm betraying my first promise to forever, even though that has been put to bed—for me, this is the strangest of all of my recent reactions. I see people's Facebook brags about hitting the 5- or 7- or 13-year mark with their spouses, and I've felt this pang of guilt, as if I am less of a human because I couldn't cut it. 

Grief—because I'm reliving the memories of 22-year-old me planning a wedding and expecting it to be the first day of the rest of her life. I'm once again mourning the loss of innocence because I'm being confronted with it. And that's OK. Those are real memories attached to real emotions. I'm learning to make myself feel what I feel, sit in these moments, and then move on—even when all I want to do is distract my mind and dull my emotions.

And fear. I was convinced 8 years ago that I would be married forever. I had no doubts, no second thoughts. So much changed through the years: How do I know the same won't happen  again? How can I guarantee a lifetime of healthful, growing, committed, loyal, loving marriage? Well, I can't. But I can choose to fully embrace the goodness and love in my life today. I can choose faith above fear. Faith in my man, and who I know him to be. Faith in our relationship and what I know to be real. And faith in myself—the power I've reclaimed, and the new-found understanding that happiness is mine to take.

Because even as planning a wedding and preparing for marriage brings my past to the forefront, everything about my current relationship is different and new: I’ve experienced daily life with him, loved him fully and been loved back. I’m living the reality of my dreams—dreams I didn’t envision until I was an adult and knew who I truly was and what I really needed in my partner in life, my teammate. This time it’s not about the wedding—the event I fantasized of for years as a kid. It’s about the marriage. It’s about the days I get to spend with him, the lifetime I will live with him.
 
This time I just feel lucky. I’m so proud to be his girl; I can’t wait to be his wife. And I am grateful for this second chance, relieved that I chose faith over fear every step of the way. So I will continue to do so. 'Til death do us part. Amen.

One Good Man

"This is precious love, precious love
No I can't let it go
It's this precious love
And it's teaching me everything I need to know
This is precious love, it's precious love
No I can't get enough
Oh I'm down on my knees
Begging you please
Gimme some more of that stuff."

(The following is not for the "love Grinches" out there—you've been forewarned.)

I had a carefully crafted vision of what my new life as a single woman would look like. I figured I would live in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment that I could barely afford; join Match.com and go out on a bunch of terrible first dates with a variety of questionable guys (at least I'd get some free dinners and great stories!); and consume vast amounts of wine by myself while watching soul-killing trash TV such as Real Housewives of Something Or Other and The Bachelor.

But something (someone) happened, and I decided to course correct—to give this unexpected turn of events a real shot and allow myself to live in and savor the moment.

I met a boy, and he turned my whole world upside down.

Even as I write this blog post, I feel like I am outside of myself, watching someone else embrace days full of sweet affection, light-hearted romance, and Xes and Os (yes, sometimes even written in text messages). The former me would have made fun of the PDA, the shared love ballads, the sitting on the same side of the restaurant booth (it was a big table). She was a disenchanted cynic, so I don't blame her much. But I'm glad she made room for the new me—who feels more like the "real" Ann, the girl I yearned to be.

Now the  walls that I built in my heart—gradually constructed throughout the years for protection and survival—have been knocked down, and new light and life is coursing through my veins.

Now love songs actually make sense to me, as if I have finally been let in on a big secret that I never understood. James Morrison, Michael Buble', Ray LaMontagne? I can't get enough.

Now each month, holiday, and season feels fresh and raw, like I am discovering it for the first time.

Now the sky is bluer, the grass greener, and the air crisper. Just kidding! (Kind of.)

Perhaps what I'm experiencing is quite normal for much of humanity. It must be, since many poems and stories are written about it, songs sung to express it, and movies made to depict it. But it's new to me, and I'm relishing every moment.

And the simplest, daily moments are the ones that make me feel most full and rich and lucky: receiving thoughtful text messages from him throughout the day, running for miles beside him (or slightly behind him at times), meeting him for a cold beer after work, spending hours on a lazy Saturday watching a Newsroom marathon with him, holding his hand while walking through Target, seeing his handsome face and killer smile after a long day (and getting those butterflies each time).

I feel like God has blessed me with these experiences, and is showcasing the beauty and goodness of love and healthy relationship through them—and at a time when I am ready and able to appreciate and suck the life out of them.

At the same time, I'm not so far gone that I fail to see the whole picture: that the honeymoon period in any relationship—romantic or otherwise—brings exciting emotions that are not fully sustainable. But even looking beyond fleeting feelings, I realize what I have standing in front of me.

He is kind, generous, thoughtful, patient, sincere, honest, helpful, and gracious. He is ambitious, hard-working, disciplined, innovative, clever, trustworthy, and creative. He is handsome, smart, funny, witty, silly, supportive, affectionate, loyal, and loving.

He is one good man. And I am so lucky, so happy, to be his girl.

How He Loves Us

How He Loves has been on repeat for the past few weeks because a dear friend sent me a surprise care package that contained a mixed CD with 13 life-giving songs (as well as Scripture and chocolate, also life-giving. :)). She knows what I need and she knows what I like. Fifteen years of friendship will do that.

As I was driving to visit my family in Pennsylvania last weekend, belting out the lyrics and buzzing from my Starbuck's grande bold, I had a moment of incredible clarity and overwhelming thankfulness about how I have tangibly experienced God's love in my life during the past few weeks—through relationship.

You see, I have the best family and friends. Truly, the best. They are full of sincere generosity, intentional thoughtfulness, undying compassion, and abundant wisdom. I do not deserve them. I thank God for showing me His love in small, huge, sweet, extravagant, and powerful ways through them.

She calls me every day just to talk. To check in. To hear my voice and so I can hear hers. To tell me what she ate for lunch, share stories about her crazy co-workers, and update me on her thriving social life. She is my soul sister. :)

One friend recently lent her "jack-of-all-trades" hubby not once, but three times, to offer his expertise with some house issues. She texts me regularly to share the moments that comprise daily living.

Another stopped by on a random weeknight with supplies for rossinis. We camped out on my couch and talked all night long—about good sweat sessions, about the tough stuff life relentlessly throws at us, about love.

She offers her home—mere miles from our office—as a place to crash after a night out, when my A/C was busted, or "just because." We've shared many a pepperoni/banana pepper/crispy shallot pizza and bottle of Chianti and never run short of conversation or laughter.

Last weekend I spent an evening with these two, whom I've known since I was 13. They are some of the wisest women in my life, know me better than most people, and never fail to make me laugh until my stomach hurts.

My sister, one of the busiest women I know, used her weekend off (she only gets one or two a month) to drive through the armpit of the DMV and visit me. We enjoyed two beautiful days of sweet, quality sister time. She is my rock, she is my inspiration, she is part of me.

Although I am nearly 30, my parents continue to be steadfast, nurturing, provisional forces in my life. It's like I know everything will be OK after hearing their voices say "Annie" or "Punk." They are my safe haven, my home. I can be utterly real and honest with them knowing they will listen and love me no matter what, but also tell me the hard truth and ask me the tough questions.

To me these friendships are gifts from a God who allows me to experience his goodness through relationship. I am at a loss for words when I catch a glimpse of understanding about how much he loves me and how rich my life is because of these people.

Thank you.

I Love Runners

Runners are strange. They really are. I guess a bit of "crazy" is necessary to dedicate months of your life, hundreds of dollars, and a hell of a lot of discomfort to spend another morning, day, or even weekend running a race that you (most likely) will never even win.

Of course there are different levels of crazy. I'm sure some people think I'm a nutjob for actually wanting to run a marathon, and for considering those four hours of sweat and tears (thankfully no blood!) one of the top five best experiences of my life. Yet I talk to ultra marathoners and think they've truly lost it, and that I could never mentally or physically embrace 50, 60, or 100-mile races.

But if you're a runner (and by "runner," I mean someone who actually likes to run, or who has had at least one incredibly positive run that forces her to keep chasing that endorphin and adrenaline surge), it doesn't matter how experienced or inexperienced, you're part of the community. Marathon? Half? 5k? No ks? We don't care. The races don't define you, the miles logged don't make you. It's all about the shared experience, the community created around a common love for the best form of exercise around. (I may be a little biased.)

We geek out over running shoes and fuel, swap race experiences and insight, and live to share newfound tips on how to gain a physical or mental edge. We knowingly describe the first time we stopped in the woods to relieve ourselves during a long run and show off our latest blisters with pride. See, we're strange.

Some of the best people I know are runners. They are a fun, quirky, determined, disciplined, adventuresome lot. And kind - so very kind. We look out for and cheer each other on - even complete strangers.

This morning, as I pounded out 6 miles next to Nina on our weekly running date, I felt a rush of gratitude for her and for my running group, my little slice of the larger community. Two years ago they were just a bunch of strangers, yet so quickly they've become cherished friends.

And we're going for three in a row: Ragnar DC 2012, here we come!

My Ragnar teammates and I before running Old Rag, an 8-mile hiking trail in the Shenandoah Valley

At the top: 2,500-foot elevation gain

Finishing the run: Nina, Gina, and me

The Night Owls after Ragnar DC 2011: "Hoot, hoot!"

Jim and me (with "cry face") crossing the finish line of the 2012 Shamrock Marathon

The Three Musketeers: me, Nina, Jim