Eight Years

I hate the phrase "Time Flies." It's so cliche, and I hate even more that it's true. 

I remember moments of today, eight years ago. I remember Rachel smiling at me, Holley Johnson coming in first. I remember Jessica squeezing my hand, my dad's tears, Billy's face...I remember Jamie stroking the top of my hand, and that's about all, until I called my sister crying that night, saying I could come home.

Sometime I become frustrated not being able to remember those moments, and then I look around - and listen. My life today is nothing like I would have described on my wedding day. I'm so glad. Through my marriage I've discovered I'm so much more of a sinner than I could have ever imagined. I've learned I'm going to fail, most of the time before Jamie leaves the house in the morning. Most dinners are burned, so I've resorted to a variation of turkey sandwiches. I've resigned myself to the fact that if we are all alive when Jamie comes home, it's much better than the house being clean. I've found the cross is bigger than I could have ever dreamed, and I've tasted what is really means to boldly and desperately enter the throne of grace.

I'm grateful. I'm grateful that Jamie sings hymns at the top of his lungs. I'm grateful that he thinks before he speaks. I'm grateful he refuses to let me lead, yet refuses to let me retreat. I'm grateful he vacuums, does laundry, and provides for us. But I'm in love with the ways he longs to show his sons Jesus in every aspect of life. I love how he dies to himself daily on my behalf. I love how he's established a purpose for us to be missionaries here, now, and has determined that we will never "settle down." I  love that we have wonderful fights, because it shows me that Christ truly has victory over sin. But I'm broken that when he looks at me, he sees all I am and could be with the fullness of Christ, and he doesn't allow me to compromise for anything less.

I am the most blessed woman in the world.