Spending years with someone really just means you make it through the fight. All of them. The bar fights, the long night fights, and the quiet, whispered, exhausted fights. {Spending years together means you keep showing up.}
Spending years with someone means that you let them hear your tiniest, smallest, most heartbreaking cries - and it means letting them rescue you. Even if you fight it, even if you feel like you don't need it, and even if you feel like you can do it yourself. {Spending years with someone means you don't have to do it yourself.}
Spending years with someone really just means they'll sing those words back to you and you'll read it back to them and you'll walk to where you're going together. {Spending years with someone means you've always got someone that remembers the words.}
Spending years with someone really just means you know about that scar on his nose, the one on his finger, and the ones inside his torn up chest. Spending years with someone really just means you get to reach into that chest with your own dirty hands and you get to cradle what the others left behind and you get to piece it all back together.
Spending years with someone means 
miststeps. 
sidesteps.
baby steps.
Spending years with someone really just means you live through the refrains and you dance through the melodies. Spending years with someone means whispered prayers that sound a lot like the future, hope, and faith.
Spending years with someone just means you keep saying yes. {Spending years together is my favorite yes.}
xoxo, B.

When you’re pretty sure you’re broken, when they TELL you you’re broken, and when you feel like there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to crawl back together.
When you’re pretty sure there’s no one else that shares you’re cracks, crevices, problems, or hurts. When you’re pretty sure that your ugly won’t match the next person’s ugly.
When you’ve hidden it behind every wooden front door, when you’ve drawn the shades, when you’ve pulled up the quilts.
When paper gas station maps don’t matter. 
When convincing words don’t matter. 
When your second grade faith doesn’t make sense.
When all you can do is let your tears fall because that’s the truest damn thing you know.
When your hands are open and begging for what comes next, but you still fight the uncertainty of being able to handle it.
When your dreams aren’t wild enough. 
When your dreams are lost in a sudden fire. 
When your dreams are buried under baby blankets or a husband’s work transfer.
Here is what you do:
You tell the person next to you.
Even if it’s a whisper and even if your voice shakes. 
Even if it’s just a sentence of pure hopeful truth.
Even if you have to do it with your eyes closed.
You tell the person next to you.
When you tell the person next to you, you light a spark and then a connection is made.
You speak your truth and you speak your truth and the more you speak your truth
the more your spark ignites.
And pretty soon, you look around and your broken, map-less journey has lit a damn wildfire behind you and you have
blazed 
a
trail
for the hopeless.
xoxo, B.

She hates me, you know? There’s a girl out there that hates me, spews nasty things out of her sweet mouth about me to all of her friends, and she actively campaigns to turn new friends against me.
The thing about this girl that hates me so much?
I don’t ever think about her.
Ever. 
...
Tonight, Craig and Tuck were wrestling on the couch, and in between giant Thor punches, Craig and I were talking about agents and book deals and wild, crazy dreams. We were talking about what if’s and game plans and next steps and he chewed his lip like he does when he thinks hard on something.
He is in my corner harder than I am. He chews his lip and he fights for my dream even when I don’t think I have it in me.
I say, “What if they hate it?” And he dodges another thrown punch from my favorite Captain America and he tells me they don’t matter. 
...
This girl hates me so much that others have started to see it, too.
They whisper to me, “Becky. Do you see this?”
And I whisper back, “No.”
...
I called my mom today and told her I was ready to step into the public speaking arena and I was ready to tell my story.
I called my mom today and I told her I had a vision and a plan and a dream and maybe people would think I was crazy.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked my mom.
“Never,” she answered.
...
There’s a girl that’s out there that hates me more than she hates anything else in this wild, holy, beautiful world, and I don’t see her because I’m too damn busy trying to own my own lane.
We’ve all got a group of people that will never clap for us. We’ve all got a group of people that will never help us. We’ve all got a group of people waiting to yank out their cameras to document the exact moment that we fail.
Keep your head down.
Keep your eyes focused forward.
The sweeties that are too busy figuring out how to not clap for you?
Well.
One day they’ll look around at their empty room and realize that they forgot to clap for themselves.
xoxo, B.

Maybe he won’t be a rockstar. Maybe he won’t bang his wooden sticks high over his head in front of a crowd. Maybe he won’t pound his foot on a pedal, and maybe he won’t bounce his head to waves of cheers.
But he could.
Maybe he won’t be an academic. Maybe he won’t cure cancer, maybe he won’t write for journals, and maybe he won’t roll up his sleeves on the front lines of science, and maybe he won’t cut his teeth behind microscopes.
But he might.
Maybe he won’t be a pastor. Maybe he won’t preach from a wooden pulpit worn from years of use. Maybe he won’t hold hands with sinners and preach about prodigal sons, Ruth, and floods. Maybe he won’t raise his voice in testimony and maybe he won’t lower his voice in prayer.
But he could.
Maybe he won’t be a doctor - a healer of wounds. Maybe he won’t stitch up the broken, maybe he won’t fight for lives, and maybe a white jacket isn’t in his future. Maybe he won’t snap on gloves and hold a scalpel.
But he might.
Maybe he won’t be an Olympic athlete. Maybe the Friday night lights are the only lights in his future, and maybe he won’t be cheered on by a nation. Maybe he won’t stick his feet in starting blocks, or tattoo rings on his ankle.
But he could.
Maybe he’ll never be a dad. Maybe he’ll never hold little hands in his and maybe he’ll never wake up in the middle of the night for a diaper change and maybe he’ll never stoop his shoulders at the end of the day in eternal gratitude for his full hands.
But I hope he will.
Maybe he’ll walk through this entire life without making a world altering contribution. Maybe he’ll just step through his days and sleep through his nights knowing that he’s good.
And kind. 
And brave.
Maybe he’ll help his neighbors and meet the needs of strangers.
Maybe he’ll hold his hands wide open. 
Maybe he’ll close his eyes and say a whispered prayer for you and me.
And that?
That’s good enough for me.
xoxo, B.

He promised he'd be my biggest cheerleader. That he'd be the one clapping the loudest, the one yelling the loudest, and the one in the center of the arena with me. He promised to hold my shaking hand, he promised to always nod his head yes at me. He promised to sing that anthem in my ear a little louder on the grey days.
He promised to make me a better person. He promised to help me keep my eyes pointed forward. He promised to help me stay focused, he promised to help me take bigger, scarier, more exhilarating steps. He promised to always have one hand on my back pushing me ahead.
He promised to love my little boy. He promised to mentor, to guide, to whisper soft encouragement. He promised that he'd be there on the in between days, the bad days, and the thank God that this is our life days. He promised to help me raise him up in love, in compassion, and through the fire.
He promised Sunday breakfasts. 
He promised honesty.
He promised to push his fingers through my blondish hair, and he promised to never run.
He never promised me perfection. Instead, he promised slow conversations. Hard conversations. Faithfulness. Assurance. He promised to live to a drum beat that only we can hear.
And I'm no expert, but those sound like pretty great vows to me.
xoxo, B.
ETA: Not married yet, mom. ♥️