the 27th

On the 27th of each month, Jason and I celebrate (with a letter to one another in a notebook we pass back and forth, a kiss on the cheek, raising a glass at dinner, or just a simple "Happy 27th" in passing...) as we were married on July 27, 1996. So, when the 27th rolls around each month, we mark the day in a small way. We do this with the kids on their birthday dates. (Anna claims the 13th, Taylor claims the 23rd, etc.)

So, on this 27th of May, I wanted to share with you a fabulous post that I read to Jason.

"If I have learned anything at all this year, it’s that marriages never get better on accident, and they never get better on leftovers.

I chatted with a new friend in Nashville last week. She asked my advice on marriage. She’s a newlywed with a busy career, and she was telling me that she wanted to be a good wife, but it was so hard to keep the house clean and learn to cook, etcetera. She was feeling so much pressure to cook and clean, as though those are the chief requirements of marriage-building. I said, hold on: Don’t worry so much about cooking and cleaning. Cooking and cleaning never built a marriage. But listening and memory-making and looking each other in the eye will. Make time to be together, to go on dates and bikes rides and listen to each other. That’s what we’re learning to do, especially in busy seasons. It’s what carries us through those busy seasons.

Confession: when I’m stressed, the to-do list becomes king. Cooking and cleaning are tangible ways for me to care for my family, and I default to those things—if everyone’s in clean clothes and well-fed, I must be holding things together, right? But marriage isn’t about a well-executed to-do list, and Aaron would much rather eat takeout and hunt around for a clean basket of laundry if that means I put down the list and really, really listen to him.

All of the above, of course, would be lovely—cooking and cleaning AND listening and memory-making. Maybe we’ll get there someday. But along the way, what I’m learning is that being connected in a deep way is so much more valuable than being well-organized, efficient, buttoned-up and tidy. I default to tidy when what my husband wants and needs more than anything is laughing and listening and playing, being with instead of being efficient. I’m learning.

The next two months are busy for our family—lots of traveling, mostly not together. The Practice is still a newborn, requiring attentiveness and loads of time. Last week I left for Nashville, and then Aaron left for Seattle, and then we had a houseguest and hosted a party. You get the idea.

What we’re learning is that what binds us back together isn’t catching up on laundry and bill-paying. That’s what we used to do—I thought that catching up on the business side of life would give us what we needed most in seasons like this.

What puts us back together isn’t business. It’s intentional, connected time together. It’s dates, where I put on heels and perfume, and he wears a tie and we hold hands and talk and talk and talk. We’re learning that making that time and pushing ourselves out of the house even when we’re tired is so good for us, because it reminds us that we’re living a love story, not running a small business together. It reminds us that part of love is taking the time to listen to the tiny details of someone else’s life and genuinely care about them.

I’m trying on the laundry, hoping to have it all cleaned and folded and back in the drawers before I leave again on Thursday. But we took the first little window of time that we could find—last night—and we went to a little French restaurant for mussels in white wine and olives and baguettes. We dropped the boys off at my parents’ house, and we held hands in the car. We talked about our respective trips, and what we’re praying for these days. We talked about what we want for the summer and what we’re reading and what we’re learning.

Because marriage isn’t a business, co-owned and managed. It’s a love story, something we’re writing every day. We’re learning all over again this year that the most important things we can give our marriage are time and romance and memory-making, kissing and laughing and writing a love story. Like I told my newly-wed friend, laundry can wait, but a love story needs to be written a little bit every day."  http://www.shaunaniequist.com/laundry-love-stories/

So, Abby and Jens, as you all take life one day at a time with hospital procedures, recovery walks, etc, I wanted to share this with you and to encourage you that you too are writing a love story- not just managing a double lung transplant together.  And, it's so beautiful to read your reflections and to catch a glimpse of the ways you are loving each other in this stressful time.  I'm just sending you this as an encouragement to keep on loving, listening, looking each other in the eyes, and making memories together (even in a hospital room.)