Goin’ to the Chapel
… And I’m gonna get married!!
I remember standing in my kitchen on Teakwood. My mother said something about “next time.”
And I remember saying (and I’m thinking I used a good southern expletive, like “OH MY WORD!”), I’m not ever getting married again.
Ever.
BUT. I added at some point.
If I do get married, he will have to be my age.
And he’ll have crazy-money.
And, while I continued to make it clear that I would never marry again, I remember saying—
He can’t have children older than Coulter or younger than Emma Claire (ya know the whole birth order thing).
And, he will have to be from Arkansas.
So, let’s recap. A 42 year-old southern millionaire, preferably with old money, 🙂 children between the ages of 6 and 9.
And then I prayed.
And while I was praying, I failed miserably to trust in God’s provision for my life.
But I prayed, still.
And here’s why I journal.
Hmmm. What? Seriously?
I never once asked the Lord for a 42-year-old southern millionaire, with old money and children between the ages of 6 and 9? How strange.
Apparently, I prayed for a man who loved the Lord. A man who would love (and adore!) me. A man who would lead his family and care for my children as his own. I asked the Lord to “restore the years that the locust have eaten” and I believed for beauty from ashes. I cried out to God, “I am holding you to your promises and you promised me that you would work all things together for my good. You promised that I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Well, I am in the land of the living. Show me!”
I started to feel like the cool black guy in Jerry McGuire. “Show me the money!” Come on, Lord! Show me your goodness!
And then along came a boy.
From Nebraska.
Who’s 10 years older.
And has 4 children and 2 grand babies and the only “old” money I can find are those coins that get stuck in between your car seats and yet on January 1st, I’m the girl who gets stand beside him.
Y’all know Wicked? “I’m not that girl?”
Well guess what?!? I am that girl!
And I am telling you. There are times I glance around and I think, Lord.
Have.
Mercy.
This is just one hot mess.
But ya know, like a glorious mess. A blessed mess!
We are soooo broken. But we are broken together.
And y’all? It is good.
And I am loved. And adored.
By a man who loves the Lord.
Even more.
Friday my littles will leave for 9 days.
And my heart will break. This is my second Christmas and when I think about all the sacrifices one has to make—I’ve had to make—my children have had to make—
You don’t just lose a husband. You lose time.
2 years ago, I was alone on Christmas. I found myself in Omaha at a Christmas Eve service and decided to stop for a salad on my way home. I asked for a table and the hostess pointed me toward the bar.
OK y’all. So here I am. A single woman, depressed, alone, sitting at a bar on Christmas Eve.
Divorce.
Well, if I were to say what I’m truly thinking it would involve the f-word and I just think that would be too much for my mom.
This life that I have? Make no mistake. It’s not about greener pastures.
It’s about a Savior who keeps His promises. And because of His great love, on January 1st, my man who loves the Lord and I, well—
we get to make a couple promises of our own.
#beautyfromashes
Raising Magnolias 