The Little In Between Moments

Sometimes, I think, we devote so much time and energy to waiting and planning for those big milestone moments of our lives that we neglect to appreciate the small and seemingly insignificant moments in between. This past Christmas was a strange one for me. I knew going into it that it would be the last Christmas with my family before I get married. I know that next year, traditions may change and it is likely that there will be Christmases in the years to come when I won’t even see my parents and grandparents---who I traditionally spend Christmas with. The realization of that impending change only echoed what has seemed like an endless string of changes that I have struggled to cope with in the past few years.

Most of my closest friends have gotten married and popped out babies and no longer have time for me. Some friends have moved to other parts of the country and I hardly ever see them anymore. Others are wrapped up in their prospering careers and building their custom dream homes. And with wedding bells chiming in my ears daily, I now find myself on a collision course towards all those final bindings of adulthood…….and quite frankly, I hate it.

I don’t quite remember when times were simpler, but it was a long time ago. Thankfully, however, Christmas morning brought with it more than just presents under the tree. It gave me one of those “in between” moments. Those moments you don’t think much about at the time, but that mean something to you down the road. That moment involved me and my dad, two hockey sticks, and a slippery road.

The streets in my parents’ neighborhood were literally sheets of ice on Christmas day. I joked that if I had brought my skates over, I would’ve tried skating on them. Apparently my dad didn’t entirely think I was joking. After returning home from visiting some friends, he grabbed two sticks out of the garage and whacked a puck out onto the shiny street. He yelled at me to grab my new Toronto Maple Leaf’s jersey he’d got me for Christmas so we could take a picture playing on the street. 

With him in his Montreal Canadien’s jersey and me in my Maple Leaf’s one, we stood on opposite ends of the street passing the puck back and forth. I’m pretty sure the whole neighborhood could hear the loud thwacking sounds of the puck hitting on and off our sticks over and over again. As we passed, my dad told me how he was pretty sure it was the first time he’d played ice hockey in the streets since he was a kid. He said how when he was a kid, all the neighborhood boys would get together and make sticks out of plywood because none of them had real sticks. Of course, the sticks were only good for about one hit or so before busting, but they didn’t care. He recalled the glorious day, though, when the first kid got a real stick and they all oooed and awwwd over it and swapped it between them. 

As he talked, I forgot all about my wedding stress and worries about work, money, friends, kids and a dozen and a half other things. All I focused on was the feel of the stick in my hands and the reverberation of the puck hitting against it. It seemed so old-fashioned to be out playing in the street before a holiday dinner….like something you’d see depicted in a Norman Rockwell painting. It seemed like such a simple thing, but in that moment I somehow knew in my gut that that moment would matter to me later.

I’ve had a lot of unique opportunities in the past couple of years to share in some of my dad’s greatest passions. Hockey has been one of my very favorites. I have played in dozens of games with my dad and he’s been there to see me score all of my goals. Those were great moments. But I think that Christmas morning, out on the slippery street outside our house passing the puck between us, was the best one yet.

We always take care to appreciate, document and put to memory the big moments in life like graduations, weddings, and babies. But sometimes, just sometimes, it’s those little moments in between that will grow the deepest roots in our soul and keep us appreciating and loving life and all of the people we share it with for much longer than a lifetime.

A Best Friend

For children, Christmas is a magical holiday---filled with elaborately decorated trees, endless trays of baked goods and candies and presents that appear from a mysterious red robed man from the frozen north. As we grow into adults, however, Christmas tends to lose its magical nature. It becomes more about money, family obligations, and desperately trolling department stores for the best bargain. We forget those cherished elements of Christmas that made our eyes light up in merriment as a child.

But ask any adult what their favorite Christmas present was as a child and it’s a sure bet that twinkle will reignite behind their eyes. I was blessed to receive the best present of my life early on---for my third Christmas.

My dad was born and raised around dogs…..namely German Shepherds. After all, what boy’s life isn’t complete without a dog? Anyone who grows up with a dog understands the immense value they bring to the lives of both children and adults. It only made sense then that he would want a similar furry friend for his daughter to grow up alongside.  

In December 1989, just two months shy of my 4th birthday, Santa left a humble cardboard box on our doorstep with my new best friend curled up inside….Cody the Keeshond. 

She was little more than a wet nose and ball of fur…..but she was my very first puppy. I don’t remember that first morning we met but I always look back through the pictures fondly. We didn’t seem to quite know what to make of each other, but there was clear love for her in my eyes. 

If you’ve never had a dog as a pet, you can’t possibly understand how quickly and thoroughly they enrich one’s life. And if you have had one, there are never enough words to convey what they mean to you. Dogs teach us the true meaning of unconditional love---long before another person does. They teach us trust and loyalty. They show us how sometimes the simplest things in life, like someone coming home at the end of the day, can elicit the greatest joy. Dogs don’t stress about the big things in life…or even the small things for that matter. All they want is a bowl of food each day and the occasional belly rub or pat on the head. If you were to put your dog and your spouse in the trunk of your car for an hour, I can tell you right now that only one of them will still look as happy as ever to see you when you open it back up. No matter how many problems you have in your life, you usually don’t ever come home to problems with your dog. In many ways, dogs are just little furry people that tag along behind us all the time. They have their own vibrant personalities and traits that we grow to know and love as the years pass.

Cody became a member of the Middlestead family in December of 1989. For 13 glorious years she lit up the lives of everyone who came in contact with her. Then that moment came---the only bad time in a dog owner’s life---when we had to tell her goodbye. I spent one of my last afternoons with her laying in the grass out by my playhouse while I read Summer of the Monkey’s by Wilson Rawls. For those who don’t know, he is the same author who wrote Where the Red Fern Grows, a story that epitomizes the love and companionship between a dog and his owner. She had little energy and was clearly not feeling well at the time, but I like to think it meant something to her spending that time with me in the grass.

On June 17, 2002 Cody left us to run, play and eat as much as she wants in the best place possible. No time with any dog is long enough, but the love, compassion, friendship and joy they instill in us stays with us until the end of our days. I was so pleased to hear the other day that Pope Francis once again set himself apart from traditional Catholic theology by announcing that all dogs do go to heaven. “One, day we will see our animals again in the eternity of Christ. Paradise is open to all of God’s creatures," he said.

One day I hope to see Cody’s smile again and to finish the story we started together so many Christmases ago.

Love is Love...

A few days ago as I was scrolling my Facebook newsfeed, I came across a picture of two handsome men standing together holding hands. The left hand of one of the men was elevated slightly to show off a silver band on his ring finger. Both of their faces absolutely radiated happiness. The status accompanying the photo announced that one of the men had proposed to the other while they were out hunting for their perfect Christmas tree together. His response? "Of course I will!"

My first thought at seeing this post was, what a beautiful proposal! My next thought was how much I loved seeing that man proudly showing off his ring and demonstrating for all its significance.

Last week a federal judge overturned Montana's same sex marriage ban, making it the 34th state in the nation to allow such unions. All day long I watched as enthusiastic reactions to this news piled up on Facebook. I have been a devoted admirer of Montana my entire life, but on that particular day, I felt especially proud to call Montana home.

There are plenty of differing opinions on the subject of same sex marriage. From my observations, most of the people against it stand in opposition because they believe it desecrates the sanctity of the true definition of marriage. Most definitions of marriage are derived from scripture and because gay marriage strays from the traditional concept, it seemingly must also go against the will of God.

For several years before my baptism into the Catholic church, I struggled with the notion of joining for a number of reasons. One of those was because of the church's characteristic opposition to gay marriage. It didn't seem right to me to join a faith that was so openly against something I fully supported. I felt like I needed to agree with everything the church taught in order to join.

The more I considered joining the church, however, the more frequently I began attending Mass. And the more readings from scripture I heard, the more I felt drawn to the faith. Maybe it's the fact that I'm a writer that makes me turn more to the written word than the preached interpretations of it. And being a writer, I know just how many ways one can interpret a piece of writing.

During one of my RCIA classes, one of the instructors explained that Catholicism is the "thinking man's religion." It is meant to be questioned and thought about. If it wasn't, why else would Jesus have taught by way of parables? God won't hand us all of the answers to our questions about life.....he doesn't want to. He wants us to think and rationalize and come to see things for ourselves.

After thinking and rationalizing about my new faith----or rather the one that was always in me but took a while to come to light---I still find myself arriving at the same conclusion and stance on same-sex marriage. My opinion is that it should be supported even if it is not accepted.

Each of us is an entirely unique creation. That, I believe, is far more than deliberate on God's end. Christ taught compassion, unconditional love, complete acceptance and forgiveness. He didn't exactly play by the rules of the day either. He pushed buttons and went against the grain. He embraced the outcasts of society and extended an olive branch to those who hated him. And he paid the ultimate price by sacrificing his own life for all of us. ALL. Those who supported and followed him.....those who were unwilling to accept his ways.

I believe that each minority in society was placed here as a test and continued challenge for all of us. None of us are meant to walk this earth alone and unloved. But so many do because they are despised and ostracized for their differences. Even if we can't learn to accept everyone's uniqueness and chosen lifestyle, we should strive to support such things because that is a demonstration of compassion that this world desperately needs.

It was hard coming into a faith that is, at times, in opposition to some of humanity's individuality. But I realized that standing on the outskirts of something you wish would change and simply shaking your head at it, does absolutely nothing. Immersing yourself into it with the hope of enlightening others to an alternate way of thinking, however, provides an opportunity for growth and change. I believe this is true for most anything. Two thousand years ago, when God realized humanity needed salvation, he didn't send a mystical and incomprehensible entity to earth. He sent an average seeming man to walk among men and show them another way of thinking and living. Change must often occur from within and it is only possible when we are willing to look at life through someone else's eyes.

The Road Less Traveled

“I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference…..”

Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the chaos and struggle of a journey that we forget where it all started in the first place. Two weeks ago I received a beautiful reminder.

It was my soon to be sister-in-law’s 21^st birthday and Andy and I paid her a surprise visit while she was studying in the library at Carroll College. I don’t honestly think I’ve stepped foot inside that building since graduating. We wandered the two floors, weaving in and out of bookshelves and study cubes, trying to find her.  We walked by a shelf containing all of the bound theses that seniors from over the years have slaved away at to finish. My eyes scrolled over the book spines desperately searching for my own name. Finally, on the shelf with the other 2009 theses, I saw my last name and thesis title etched into the blue binding. I pulled it off the shelf and then stood there for a moment just staring down at the book in my hands.

As I was finishing up my junior year of college in the spring of 2008, I was asked if I was considering doing a thesis. I learned that I could only graduate with honors if I completed a thesis. Having maintained a 4.0 GPA my entire college career up until then, it seemed like a terrible waste if I didn’t graduate with honors. But what would I write about?

At first I proposed writing an analytical piece about female authors from Montana and how the region influenced their writing…..or something like that. I figured I would sort out the real details later. I jotted a brief description down on the application, had my advisor sign off on it and submitted it. I was officially writing a thesis! I didn’t spend a single minute afterwards thinking about that fact though or my undeveloped topic. 

Then one summer afternoon, just before I was to begin my senior year, everything I had planned changed. 

I was struggling to repair a broken friendship with someone at the time and was emotionally distraught over what to do. I found myself driving up to the tower on the top of MacDonald Pass—I needed to clear my head. I got out of the car, sat down on some crumbling concrete steps with a notebook in hand, and begin writing. I don’t know how long I saw there writing, but when my pen finally paused, I glanced up and felt an answer click inside me.   I knew what I was going to do for my thesis.

As soon as school began at the end of August, I immediately approached my advisor and told him I wanted to write a collection of poems for my thesis instead. I was told I would need to write a minimum of 20 poems for the project. A thesis without any boring research involved? Seemed like I’d found the easy way out……….I couldn’t have been more wrong.

For the next 8 months, I poured everything I had into writing those 20 poems. I didn’t have to spend hours hunched over library books or scrolling the internet for research sources. My sacrifices were much greater. I wrote 20 poems about people and events pulled directly from my own life. And let’s just say, I didn’t pick the happiest of moments or the most loving of individuals to reflect on. I had a tattered and tear-stained notebook I filled with the often aimless thoughts of my mind and slowly crafted them into works of art. It was exhausting. It was heart-wrenching. It required me breaking and giving up pieces of my soul in order to do it. And the worst part was, I workshopped many of my poems during writing classes in school. Whenever students or my teachers said something critical, I knew deep down that they were just discussing the words on the page. But to me, it always felt like a personal attack on my life because the poems were taken right from my life. 

Just before Christmas, I found myself paging through a booklet I’d made of the poems I’d written thus far. It was to be Christmas gift for someone who appeared in several of the poems. As I was reading back over them, I was overwhelmed for the first time in my life with a feeling I thought I’d never ever find. It was passion. I had finally discovered my passion and knew that being a writer was what I was meant to spend my life doing. That moment alone made all of the work thus far and the months of work I had yet to do before graduation all worth it.

A few weeks shy of graduation, I walked into the library and handed a lady my thesis, in its entirety. I knew I should have felt relieved and exhilarated like all of the other honors candidates. But what I felt like was that the real work was only just beginning. My thesis wasn’t an accomplishment to me—it was the inaugural step of a journey. It was something I simply felt compelled to do. And everything about me and my life since has been different ever since. 

Seeing my thesis in the library that night reminded me of how much effort it took for me to come to the realization that I am a writer. And seeing my words bound up in a hard back cover, inspired me to keep doing what I’m doing until I can walk into any book store in the world and pick up a copy of my own book. Choosing the path of a writer with any amount of seriousness absolutely means taking the road less traveled. But I have been walking that path long enough now to know with certainty, that it will truly make the difference in the end.  

The graduation poem I unknowingly wrote to myself

Finishing

Last Sunday I found myself out at Last Chance Raceway straddling my Honda CRF 230 bike on the start line of the Grand Prix.

"I must be crazy!" I thought.

Last year was the first time I actually rode on the track and it was terribly nerve-wracking to say the least. I also had one epic crash during my final lap of last year's Grand Prix that left my handlebars so cockeyed it's a wonder to me still that I was able to finish. Due to some personal issues and the busy nature of life I was unable to ride in any other races over the summer. I kept looking for excuses to bail on this Grand Prix too. I secretly hoped that it would snow or pour rain so I could respectfully pull out.

I was scared--I'll admit it.

I was nervous as hell last year too. But last year I was also blissfully unaware of what being in a race with other, substantially faster, riders is like. I remember finally connecting with Will Ferrell in the movie "Talladega Nights" when he goes back on the race track for the first time after a major crash and kept yelling out, "What was that? Were those the other drivers?!" Everyone was going so much faster than him that he felt completely left out.

A few days before the race I realized that my fear was making me try to back out. I have this rule in my life where if I realize I'm trying to avoid doing something I know deep down I want to do simply because I'm afraid, that I have to make myself do it anyways. I have learned that fear is usually a pretty good indicator that something is actually worth doing.

So there I was back on the start line. My dad had chose to ride in the same race that day as me but was in a different class. I searched for the red, white, and blue of his gear in the lines of rider lined up in front of me. Then I looked to my left and to my right at the other girl riders I was lined up with. There were only about 5 or 6 of us but we were still out there. We were still demonstrating, while in the minority, there are still girls that aren't afraid to get out and ride right alongside the boys.

When the flag was finally dropped for my class to take off, my bike wouldn't start. This didn't terribly worry me at first, until I kept feeling the seconds tick off and still my bike was dead. I tried choking it, not choking it. Giving it throttle, no throttle. Nothing. The minutes crept by and I stood alone on the start line as all the other riders had left. So much time had passed that my only thought was to push the bike off the line and be done. But finally my engine revved and I was good to go.

With tears welled up in my eyes I sped off around the first corner of the track. There was no way I would ever catch the other girls and have a shot at actually beating one of them. It was devastating to know I was done before I'd even began. But I wasn't raised to quit things so I knew I had to keep riding.

I rode the fastest I ever have in that race. Which made knowing how far behind I was even harder. I think the only thing that really kept me going was an article I just had published in Distinctly Montana magazine about 5 things women should know about motocross. It wasn't quite the article I'd pitched to them or the one I really wanted to write about. But I wrote it anyways because it was still an opportunity to write about a highly underestimated category of riders. As I rode I kept thinking about the article and about the girls I sat shoulder to shoulder with on the start line minutes earlier. None of us may be the fastest riders on the track today or ever. That's not the point. The point is that we are out there. We are pushing ourselves. We are raising the bar for what women are capable of. And perhaps most importantly, we are raising the bar in men's minds about what women are capable of. We are a small breed of women, but I feel privileged anytime I ride beside them.

There was only one other girl in the junior women's class I rode in so I got a defaulted 2nd place trophy. I wasn't exactly pleased because I truly believed I could've brought home the 1st place one. But I just kept reminding myself, you finished. You rode alongside dozens of men who have been riding far longer than you and who at one point in there lives probably rode in races where not one single girl rode. The times are changing and I feel proud to be one of the few leading the way in that change.

 

How I Became a Writer....

With my Editor’s announcement a week ago that he was ceasing production of the print version of the Helena Vigilante, I found myself reflecting on all the many blessings I have received in regards to my writing in the 5 years since graduating college. While I have been bestowed with numerous writing opportunities, the blessing I am most grateful for is all of the amazing people I’ve stumbled upon and who gave me the only thing I could ever really ask of anyone—A CHANCE.

In the first 6 months after graduating, I struggled desperately to find a job….any job really.  

I landed my first freelance writing gig with the now disbanded Queen City News. One random afternoon that first summer after college, I picked up the phone and dialed the paper’s number and put in a desperate plea for any writing work they could divvy out. Cathy Siegner was the editor. She was the first person who believed in me. I wrote some extremely fun pieces for them—one of my favorites being an article on different business owners in town who bring their pets to work with them. From the typical dog and cat to a stoic iguana, I certainly had my share of interesting subjects to interview with my first writing job. 

As the months ticked by and no other full-time jobs presented themselves, I became increasingly desperate. I found myself sitting outside on my parents’ deck one afternoon flipping furiously through the phone book hoping some job idea would jump out at me. Towards the tail end of the yellow pages, I found a listing for a technical writer named Hugh Ambrose. The name held no significance to me whatsoever and I’ve always hated the thought of technical writing, but I picked up the phone and punched in his number. After several rings all I was left with was that lonesome beep of the voicemail signaling me to say something worth listening to.

Cue the most random and awkward voicemail I have EVER left!

To this day, I can’t remember exactly what I said but it was something along the lines of, “Hi. My name is Lacey. I’m a writer. I have a degree…..in English. I’m poor….I mean I am really passionate about writing and am looking for work. Call me.” 

It took a couple of days but I did finally get a call back from Mr. Ambrose. That phone call turned into perhaps the most unique job I’ve had to date. Turns out Mr. Ambrose is truly a writer…..as well as the son of highly esteemed and recognized historian and writer, Stephen Ambrose. You might recognize titles like Undaunted Courage (book about the Lewis and Clark expedition) or “Band of Brothers” (10-part HBO mini-series about WWII). Well Mr. Stephen Ambrose wrote Undaunted Courage and was the producer and one of many historical consults on Band of Brothers. His son, Hugh, became my temporary boss in the fall of 2009.

The call I received from Hugh Ambrose that day started out with praise for my moxie. Apparently my awkward voicemail scored me an A+ on his interview scale. He told me he did have some work he could use help with. He was writing a book called The Pacific, which was a non-fiction piece on WWII. This book was also the basis for another HBO mini-series by the same name that was already in production. And get this, Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks were the producers!!! Apparently he had recorded a bunch of interviews with WWII veterans and needed the recordings transcribed. “Hell yes!” I said. Well, maybe not those exact words. 

I met Hugh a few days later and he handed me a box filled with cassette tapes. I spent the next several weeks in front of my computer typing as fast as possible. I never thought I would make it through them all in time to meet his deadline. Somehow I did though. A year later, I met Hugh again at the library for a book signing of his completed work. And several pages in, in the acknowledgement section, my name was listed. He signed a copy of his book that day for me and told me he knew I was going to go on to do great things….he said he knew that from the moment he first heard my voicemail. 

After my transcription gig, I went back on the hunt for work. My now-fiancé, Andy, suggested I place an ad in the newspaper basically advertising myself. I thought it was crazy but I was too desperate not to try it. I got several interesting calls and some that were just plain strange. But one in particular hit the mark. It came from Shawna Swanz, head of special projects at the Helena IR. She opened the door for me to freelancing for the IR, and 5 years and dozens of articles later, I still write for her from time to time. The opportunity she handed me allowed me to meet so many amazing people in the Helena community and truly confirmed my belief that I have what it takes to be a journalist.

Then about 3 years ago I landed one of my most special writing jobs. Just like with Hugh, I sent out a desperate message to Shane Castle, the editor for the Helena Vigilante. My mom had showed me the monthly paper one day and told me I should contact them about work. After submitting a bunch of my clippings, I met Shane one day for coffee to discuss writing for him. I liked him immediately. And one of the few things I’ve always remembered about that first meeting with him was him paging through my clippings in front of me and saying that “There’s no question that you can write.” It was such a small comment, but was the kind of reminder I think all writers need from time to time. 

For the past 3 years I have written some of the neatest and best pieces of my career, in my opinion. I wrote articles about such interesting people as a boot maker, wedding photographer, sushi chef, figure skater, unicyclist, snow plow driver, skateboarder, and midwife. And that, my friends, is only a small sampling. I had the opportunity to sit down, like a big time journalist, and interview past governor of Montana, Brian Schweitzer. I got to interview my ballet teacher of 13 years, Beth Barry. I even got to document my 137 mile bicycle ride to Lincoln, Mont. and back as well as my first game of hockey. 

 Looking back, every single one of those pieces makes me smile. They gave me a respect for the beautiful variety of individuals we have in this world and the unique passions each of them has.

In February of 2012, a dear friend lost his 32-year old sister, Theresa, to Leukemia. He asked me to help him write her eulogy. That event, alone, I could devote 6,000 pages to talking about. And even though I’ve tried a few times, there aren’t enough words in all creation to explain how that request forever changed me, not only as a person but as a writer. I still can’t talk about it, or even write this, without tearing up. The words I eventually turned over to him with blood shot, puffy eyes, was far from my best work. But it is the work I am the most proud of to date. It opened my eyes to the true good that can come from mere words. And it confirmed in my heart forever that my calling and purpose in life is to be a writer.

One year ago, I landed my next biggest writing accomplishment by having my first article published in a magazine. It was a humble piece on the Montana pronghorn in Distinctly Montana. I hounded the editor, Valerie Harms, for months to let me write a piece. Guess that’s just living proof that the squeaky wheel really does get the oil. I’ll never forget the day I walked into Safeway and picked up a copy of the magazine, opened it, and saw my name and picture in print. It was AMAZING!

While I was still in high school my cousin’s husband, at the time, asked me what I wanted to major in when I got to college. I told him English. I said I wanted to be a writer. He just laughed and told me good luck. He told me that I would never get anywhere with that. Well I just wrote over a 1,000 words explaining just how much I HAVE accomplished with the very thing he told me I’d fail at. And if I saw that man today, all I would say to him is, “Watch it, I’m just starting to spread my wings.”

I chose to become a writer for many reasons. I realized I was meant to be a writer after completing my senior honor’s thesis in college. I came to understand that I need to do something GOOD with my writing the day I helped my friend write his sister’s eulogy. And all of this…all of this was made possible because each of the people I’ve mentioned here and countless others believed in me and were willing to give me A CHANCE. For that I am forever indebted to and grateful for.  

Refusing to Give Up

“A true relationship is two imperfect people who refuse to give up on each other.”

I stumbled across that line the other day and found myself smiling as I read it. Last week, on September 12, I celebrated my 9 year anniversary with my now-fiancé, Andy. This date also marked exactly one year until we take our vows and begin our forever together finally.

9 years.

Sharing your life with anyone for that amount of time, in any capacity, is an enormous accomplishment. And it takes so much more than love to do so. It requires learning to see someone for who they truly are--scars, flaws, vulnerabilities and all—and to still want them in your life at the end of the day. It means committing yourself to someone even knowing you might want to walk out on them more often than you want to stay. You have to do the seemingly impossible and learn to love them unconditionally. You have to be absolutely stubborn in your refusal to EVER give up on them. And perhaps most importantly, you have to put all your trust in God and know that if you don’t give up on him, he will help make sure you don’t give up on yourself or your relationship.

In 9 years, Andy and I have seen more than our share of ups and downs. We have walked through dark places and fought demons together that many married couples don’t survive. When we attended our first marriage prep session with our priest and he asked why we thought we were ready to get married, I wanted to burst out laughing. I don’t think it was his question so much as his implication that the biggest step was still before us that seemed so funny. It’s just that when you’ve been with someone for 9 years you’re more than married—even without the rings. You’ve already made the commitment in your head and in your heart. And I think even God knows that. 

I used to feel bitter sometimes when I’d attend weddings and see the youthful and ignorant bliss of couples that were so in love. I knew that I would never have quite that look about me on my wedding day if I married Andy because we were simply too far past the honeymoon stage. But when I was forced to sit down and process Andy’s MS diagnosis earlier this summer, I realized something that changed my unpleasant disposition. 

I realized I will be even happier on my wedding day than most because I know all the way through to my bones that our marriage will make it. Not because we are so passionately in love, but because we have been through hell and back together and never once gave up on each other. 

When Andy proposed, I knew immediately when to say our vows---our 10 year anniversary which to no coincidence in my mind fell in a perfect timeframe and on a perfect Saturday during one of the most gorgeous months of the year in Montana. It was meant to be and foresaw long before by God I have no doubt. What better way to ring in a decade together than by committing ourselves to each other publically before all of the family and friends who have helped see us through so many trying years. 

It will be a beautiful and blessed day…..10 years in the making!

Our first adventure together in Lincoln, MT

Our 1st Valentine's Day together...boy oh boy he must really love me!

Fabulous New Years!

 

Drive in movie night in Butte

   

4th of July celebration

Great day of sledding in Lincoln, MT

Does Montana get any more beautiful than this??

Fabulous Las Vegas!