Relate-able

I can not relate to this picture. I don't understand beaches or white fences along the shore or lobster boats or wearing navy colored canvas shoes without socks. I wish I knew more of these parts of New England. I hope to seriously, set aside time to get out to those bordering states that are within reach. It is possible to take day trips to other states- something impossible where I'm from.

It's funny how images and art and scents evoke very distinct people or places or times in the past. For instance, Clorox wipes (the fresh scent ones, not the original scent that leaves your hands wreaking of bleach) remind me of my wedding day.

In a flurry of cleaning and dusting and mopping and preparing, Lora and I prepared her home for Chris's and my wedding day. (Well, our marriage day...) And those Clorox wipes played a huge roll in getting the house clean, let me tell you. It's not something I normally keep underneath my sink alongside the windex and lavender scented pledge and magic erasers- so the scent makes me think of cleaning at Lora's house- specifically the day before the Sunday which Chris and I got married.

And her house, it was really like my own house. She and her husband- they were the kind of friends that let us dig through their pantry when we were hungry. I could be honest if No, I didn't really feel like going to Target with her, "but call me when you go to the plant nursery." Between the four of us we could provide you with financial planning, feed you a deliciously flavorful meal, sing over you and encourage you along; speaking truth in love. We built a freaking patio together in the the Texas heat for crying out-loud!

The smell of welding brings to mind my dad and playing in and around the garage in my parents home when I was a child. "Never watch the welding flames and torch, it will harm your eyes," he'd tell me.

The boldness from just a dab of A-1 steak sauce makes me think of eating roast on Sundays after church, when I was growing up. We'd demand A-1 steak sauce in order to pour it, not only on our already moist and fork-worthy meat, but also on our green beans and potatoes. This resulted in rationing of the steak sauce, and my parents limiting our intake- hiding it on the top shelf of the refrigerator behind something we'd never be interested in, like buttermilk. Or worse. Trying to replace A-1 with Lea and Perrins. These are not the same thing. They do not taste the same. But I understand, at the upwards of $3.00 a bottle, for a mere 6 oz. of the stuff, keeping three girls happy in their A-1 fix was not an option. We would have been drinking the stuff if it were available.

And all of these, scents, sounds, people- they make up who I am. At 31 years old, I'm finally comfortable in my own skin. In admitting when I'm tired, angry, uncomfortable, worn out, or just plain at a loss for words.

I don't have to finish a book that I'm not enjoying just because a friend recommended it. I don't have to say "yes" to every offer for coffee, or brunch, or wine at 10:00pm at night. I can feel okay volunteering with women in a city park- cleaning up flower beds, because it makes me feel alive, even if other people don't "get" that.

And I can be okay, and alright when I forget to buy butter or shatter a plate or drop a stack of papers all over the slick tile floor and half to spend ten minutes re-doing what I just did. It's okay. It's really okay. We, as humans, can relate to flaw, with failure, with messing up. No one can relate to perfection.

I can relate to tractor treads left down a dirt road and the smell of rotten tomatoes. I know the sound of a cassette tape clicking over to Side B. I know that way four o'clocks close each night at dusk, but open their petals again the following morning with the sun's rise and the cicadas chirping. I am a wife, daughter, sister, friend, encourager, follower of Jesus Christ. I'm free. I'm healed. I'm chosen. I am a Confident Heart.