Skating Into 30

The ice snapped and popped like Rice Krispies under me as my skate blades sliced across it. A single spotlight cast a golden glow about the rink…save for the outer edges where the light couldn’t reach. The dozens of illuminated hotel windows in the background made me wonder if that was how the Titanic looked on its final night as it sat alone and foundering on the dark Atlantic.  In the distance, I could just barely make out the snow dusted mountains rising up around the lake like noble protectors. Overhead, the stars were like thousands of tiny pin pricks in the dark fabric of the February sky.

It was just Andy and I on the rink that night. The thwacking sound of our sticks passing a rubber puck between us was the only proof of our presence in the pristine environment.

That glorious night on Lake Louise is how I rung in my 30^th year on this earth. 

 

When I began contemplating my 30^th birthday months prior, I knew I wanted to do something major to commemorate the occasion. I wasn’t nervous or bitter about the impending new decade. On the contrary, I was excited and willed it to arrive as soon as possible.

My 20’s were a transformative time—to an extent of which I may never experience again in my lifetime. I earned a college degree, met and married my best friend, bought my first house, and was baptized into the Catholic Church. My 20s blessed me with more than I could have ever hoped for in my life. But they were also a time riddled with mistakes, loss, and hardship. I entered my 20s soft and eager to let the world bring all my dreams to fruition. But by the final few years, I’d grown harder and learned that the world, in fact, owed me nothing and the only right I had was to play the hell out of the cards I’d been dealt rather than the ones I thought I deserved.  

In many ways, with or without my consent, my 20s sculpted me into the person I needed when I was younger….and the person I will need to be in the years still to come. For that reason, I am grateful for all the good and the bad my 20s. And that’s also why I was all the more eager to put them behind me and start with the clean slate of my third decade. 

In ushering in such a new and exciting time in my life I chose to venture up to one of the most beautiful places on earth….and one that I’ve longed to see in person for years. A mere hamlet in the heart of Banff National Park in the Canadian Rockies, Lake Louise is known for its turquoise, glacier-fed lake ringed by high mountain peaks and overlooked by the stately Fairmont Chateau Resort Hotel. Because of my love for hockey, I was thrilled at the idea of visiting Lake Louise in the winter so I could skate outdoors on the beautiful rink atop the lake. 

A mere 9 hours of driving was all it was going to take to get us to Lake Louise. But we made a few pit stops first along the way.

Our first major stop was a surprise night stay the Banff Springs Hotel—compliments of my parents. My parents have stayed there a few times before and always raved about it. I’ve seen some stunning photos of it, but like most things, the personal experience was far better.

Driving up to “the Castle” as it is called, all I could think was how this must be how Harry Potter felt up on first seeing Hogwarts rising up through the trees. The sun was nearly set by the time we arrived but the illuminated hotel gleamed out through the darkness. With its stone walls and nimble turrets, Banff Springs truly does look like the Canadian Hogwarts. 

After checking into our room and enjoying a lovely dinner at their 1888 Chop House restaurant, we set about exploring the nooks and crannies of the curious hotel. We walked through a magnificent ballroom complete with chandeliers, stone walls, and floor to ceiling windows. How I longed to be wearing a flowing gown in that moment so I could’ve twirled about like a princess. We also walked down a stone staircase that is supposedly haunted by a bride who fell to her death on it the day she was to be wed. 

In our gallivanting about the darkened hallways, we ran across two other ladies doing some exploring as well as some knowledgeable hotel staff. Thanks to them we were shown some “behind the scenes” sites in the hotel. They showed us a room, now used for storage that contains a 100+ year old painting of the island country of Grenada— likely there since the origins of the hotel. The staff also pointed out a bar area that was actually once used as a Catholic confessional. Tucked behind every corner and down every hallway was another historical remnant, photograph, and mysterious door to somewhere worth exploring.

 Our evening at the Castle ended with a refreshing soak in their hot spring pool. The more my skin wrinkled under the steamy waters, the more grateful I felt for such a peaceful weekend away from it all. 

I woke up the next morning officially 30 years old. But wedged in between all the plush pillows on the bed, I decided that 30 didn’t feel so bad. Plus there was the fresh promise of more adventure on the horizon with our continued journey towards Lake Louise. After grabbing some quick coffee at Starbucks in downtown Banff and doing a little window shopping we were on the road again.

Our final stop before setting our sights on Lake Louise was a quick gondola ride up to the summit of the Lake Louise Ski Resort. It was rather awkward getting in line with snowboarders and skiers while we were merely dawning our jeans, hoodies and shoes, but the views were well worth the spectacle we made of ourselves.

 Just minutes after leaving the ski hill, we finally arrived. And let me tell you….Lake Louise was even more magnificent in person that anything I’d imagined or seen in photographs.

We were brought straight up to our room, and after dropping our bags, we rushed to our window that overlooked the lake. Save for my honeymoon in Fiji, I have never had such a phenomenal view from anywhere I’ve stayed. Below us lay the large public skating rink as well as 5 smaller rinks being used for a pond hockey tournament that weekend. I could have sat by that window for days and just savored every detail. But being the adventurous types that we are, Andy and I had every intention of hurling ourselves quite literally into that beautiful landscape and taking it all in.

After enjoying a tasty dinner at their famous Walliser Stube restaurant, Andy knew perfectly well that the only thing I wanted to do next was to finally feel that ice under my blades. So after tugging on a few more layers, snuggling a beanie down over my ears and packing two small gear bags with our hockey skates, gloves, sticks and a couple of pucks, we headed outside to the rink. 

We were stunned to approach to edge of the rink and find that not another soul was skating. It felt like this big frozen gift God had delivered just for me. Never before have I laced my skates up so quickly. My first steps onto the rink were a bit shaky and hesitant, but then it all clicked for me. Before I knew it, Andy and I were skating full speed back and forth across the rink trying to outrun the rather unnerving sounds of the ice crackling beneath us. We passed a puck back and forth between us….often losing sight of it amongst the shadows our bodies cast. 

At one point, I paused near the middle of the ice to catch my breath. With my right arm hugging my stick I tilted my head skyward to see the faint glimmer of the stars peeking through. The night was still. And beautiful. And peaceful. And perfect. I smiled a smile larger than any I can remember and willed dozens of prayers and words of thanksgiving up to God. I swear I could’ve skated around that rink till dawn. It was just one of those moments you don’t want to end. But eventually we packed up our gear and decided to call it a night.

The next day—our only full day at Lake Louise—was jam packed with activities. We spent the first few hours of the day snowshoeing up a rather steep trail which offered glimpses of the towering peaks surrounding the lake. I was rather grouchy and winded by the end of it, but the body always feels grateful for a workout by the end. 

After cleaning up from our hike we met with a photographer to capture some priceless pictures of us in the area and, of course, skating together on the lake. Looking back at the photos now, the beauty of them almost seems too remarkable to be real. But I tell you, it is truly that real. 

The rest of the day was a blur honestly. But we spent a good share of it on the ice because that was where I most wanted to be. I wanted the memory of skating outside with such an amazing backdrop tattooed on my mind for forever.

Before I knew it, our trip had come to a close. Some part of me wanted to drain our bank accounts and max out our credit cards so we could stay as long as possible. The weekend had been too beautiful and perfect to be over already. But I knew it was time to really embrace turning 30, which meant returning home and start working my ass off to make my 30s truly the best years of my life.

I will forever hold my birthday evening of skating on Lake Louise close to my heart. But I know I will return again…..and again….in both summer and winter to take in all the gloriousness it has to offer. 

New Year, New Determination, New Plan

“It has to start with love…”

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself sitting in Mass with my husband listening to the priest deliver his homily. While I can’t remember all of the specifics of what he was discussing, I know it had something to do with learning to heed God’s call to live a more selfless and Christ-like life. That notion is one that is frequently brought up at Christian churches each week….but during that particular Mass our priest said a phrase in relation to it that especially caught my attention. He explained that in order to execute any of the wishes God has for our life, it must first start with love.

Now, I know I should have been thinking about my baptismal Christian calling during such a reflective moment, but instead, I was thinking about my path towards becoming a writer.

Seven years ago when I moved my college graduation tassel from right to left, I had zero plans for what I was going to do with the rest of my life. I’d just received a bachelor’s degree in English Writing but I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with it. All I knew at that moment was that I loved to write. And I hoped that—somehow—that love would be enough to sort out all the unanswered questions.

In the past seven years I have stubbornly pursued my love for writing by taking on assignments from local newspapers, regional magazines and anyone else who threw writing opportunities in any form at me. I’ve landed cover and feature stories as well as respectable by-lines at times. I’ve also done dismal, thankless work that rewarded me with neither payment nor byline. But through all of it, one thing has always remained…my love for the work. 

Not having been able to make a real career out of writing yet, I’ve long been on the hunt for a more full-time job that would bring me some sort of comparable satisfaction and reward. The past year, in particular, has been fraught with rejection on that front despite many tireless efforts, however. As I found myself quickly approaching 2017 and my 30^th birthday I realized I’d become a haggard and desperate mess. I felt worthless, stuck, and incapable of doing anything bigger with my life. I felt like a failure. 

But one day I was finally over it. I woke up and reminded myself that I wasn’t a failure, or worthless, or incapable. I was the exact opposite of all of those things. I was the girl who rode my bicycle 100 miles in a day just to see if I could do it. I had joined a hockey team as a novice player where I was the only girl and didn’t know another soul on the ice. I’d secured a 4.0 GPA throughout college, which involved acing several classes many told me couldn’t be aced. I’d found a way to continue my love for writing while still working 40 hours a week at another job.  

In the midst of all my recent failures and rejections, I realized that the issue all along has been that I kept trying to put the controls for my happiness and success in someone else’s hands instead of my own. Why was I letting strangers try to elevate my life when all along I’ve had the skills and tenacity necessary to do it on my own?

That epiphanous moment was the one in which I finally pulled out and played the one card I should have been playing all along. It was the card I’ve had crammed way down in my back pocket for years because I was too scared and disbelieving to play it. It feels like it is my last hand to play but it’s the one I’m willing to put all my chips on. The card has my name and my name alone on it and when I laid it down, I did so with sheer love.

This past November I launched a business plan of sorts to get my life, career, and self-esteem back on track. It involves numerous parts and pieces---many of which are still in the process of being completed—but I feel confident that I know what is necessary to get the job done. The goal at the end is to launch a professional, trustworthy, and passionate writing business that I can hopefully make a more substantial career out of. 

The plan began by consulting with my graphic designer aunt about crafting me a unique logo and business card. Our initial meeting together began by looking at logo ideas and me telling her how I planned on hiring a marketing agency to build me a website. By the end of our meeting, however, she had me convinced on building the website myself. 

Over the past two and a half months or so I have struggled through the excruciatingly frustrating process of building a website without having a prior clue about how to do so. But with Google as my right-hand helper, I managed to piece together a simple and rather pleasant looking first site to display some of my writing and to reach out to the far corners of cyberspace for further opportunity. Today I officially release it out into the world with my blessing and dearest of hopes. And it is an especially opportune time as I recently celebrated the 4 year anniversary of this blog which is the time of year I like to reflect on my most recent writing accomplishments.  So be sure to check it out at 

http://laceymiddlestead.com/

 

While my business plan is still very much “under construction,” the completion of my website is by far the biggest burden off my back. And at the end of it all, I know it will be the piece I am most proud of. There is still much to do however, including getting my business cards printed out, hard-copy portfolios made, newspaper ads designed and perhaps more business attire purchased. The process is taking longer than I wanted or hoped but I am committed to presenting a polished and professional product regardless of how long it takes.

 So I present to all of you this day, my humble website and a sneak peek into the larger plan I will be launching in coming months. I still have no idea what the future holds for me and my career as a writer but this time I’m the one calling the shots and leading the way…..and I rarely let my own self down without one hell of a fight. 

In closing, I’d just like to thank my parents and grandparents for their endless support and encouragement of all I do but especially my writing. Thank you to my husband who has picked me up off the floor (quite literally) on more than one occasion in recent months and convinced me to keep moving and giving it all one more try. And thank you to my Aunt Wendy, for your creativity, patience, guidance and for always believing in me more than I believe in myself.

Graceland Part 2

“If you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would you choose?”

At some point in time we’ve all been posed this question. While it is often asked as a form of entertainment in a group or party setting, I believe our answers to it our significant. Who we would choose speaks immensely about who we are, where our passions lie, what we are afraid and curious about and what we are desperate to have guidance on. 

It’s been a long time since I’ve been asked to consider my answer to that question. Honestly, I can’t even think of any of the people I would’ve picked in my earlier years when I was asked—although the list has undoubtedly changed. But I think for most of us though our answers would be different each year depending on our age and life circumstances. 

When we’re younger, we want to meet the heroes in the books and movies that help shape so much of our conception of the world. Or we want to meet someone famous like a rock star, president or someone from the royal family.  We want the chance at our own celebrity moment and to be able to brag to everyone afterwards about who we just met. But as we grow older and start to see more, hear more, do more and learn more about what this life can really be—all the good and the bad of it—I think we find ourselves more desperate for answers to the big questions. And the chance to have dinner with anyone on earth that has lived a large, full life and that possibly has the answers to those big questions is an opportunity I think we would all jump at. 

As I find myself a mere two months away from celebrating my 30^th birthday I realize I am filled with nothing but big questions on life and all that God still has in store for me. When I imagine actually having the opportunity to sit down and talk with anyone on earth for a few hours, several considerations come to mind. Like who is someone that could teach me how to deal with the hardships, disappointments, and strings of failures that life is often wrought with? Who could teach me how to be successful and what the true definition of success really is. Who could teach me how to make peace with my past and instead move forward with hope and fearlessness? Would could teach me how to be truly happy at every moment in my life no matter my circumstances? Who could teach me more deeply about God and how to live my life more according to his will? 

So who would my dinner guest of choice be today?  There’s only one major name that comes to mind—Mr. Elvis Presley. I know that he would not only be able to answer all of my questions but his answers would deliver me from all the fear and doubt I am too often burdened with. My recent trip to his Graceland home in Memphis, Tennessee only reaffirmed that for me. 

In Elvis’ short 42 years on earth he achieved more than more of us could in 100 years. He earned countless awards and recognitions and will forever be honored with the title of the King of Rock and Roll. But when I think of Elvis, I think most about his compassion, generosity, humbleness, and unconditional love for all mankind. And during this Christmas season, I have found myself thinking about Elvis a great deal and the kind of example he still sets for us on how to live our lives.

Most people know Elvis as one of the legends of music history whose voice, stage presence and show attire were always larger than life. But unlike many celebrities today, Elvis’ life wasn’t always so grand.  In fact, he had the most humble of roots. He was born in a two room shack in Tupelo, Mississippi and spent most of his youth dreaming of the day that things would be better. He has even been quoted as saying “When I was a boy, I always saw myself as a hero in comic books and in movies. I grew up believing this dream.” Fortunately for Elvis, God did have larger plans for him and his dream did come true. 

 

By the time Elvis finally passed onto his true home he was known and adored worldwide but never once did he forget about those less fortunate than him or take for granted the blessings bestowed on him. During his lifetime Elvis gave away houses, cars, motorcycles, jewelry, clothes, and money—many of which were personal items of his own--as though they hardly mattered to him. He was also a frequent contributor to numerous charities in the Memphis area and elsewhere including the March of Dimes and St. Jude’s Hospital. Elvis also held a number of benefit concerts, including one in Hawaii that raised funds for the USS Arizona Memorial. 

While touring Graceland two months ago, I saw numerous framed checks Elvis wrote in making donations to different businesses and charities. Many of these donations Elvis made on the strict conditions that his name was never to be released as the donor. Elvis understood that the point was to do good deeds for the sake of doing them…not for the notoriety of it. Like it is said in Matthew Chapter 6 of the Bible, “Take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them….when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right is doing.” (Matt 6:1-4)

Outside of his charitable giving, Elvis was also very much a man of God. His spiritual journey began as a child where he listened to the preaching and gospel music at the Assembly of God Church he attended with his family. But Elvis’ interest in religion and search for meaning and truth in life continued throughout the course of his life. This involved delving into the study of numerous faith denominations and ideologies. He was an avid reader who sought answers from books like The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran and the Impersonal Life by Joseph Benner. And if you’ve ever heard or seen any of Elvis’ gospel performances, you’d know that through every word of those lyrics he was seeking and praying to God in those moments as well. 

 

One of our last night in Memphis, I had the opportunity to tour Graceland at night. As I was walking down the sidewalk between some of the out-buildings, I was struck by the deafening silence of the grounds save for the faint chirping of crickets. I found myself wondering if Elvis ever wandered the grounds on nights as still as that and contemplated the large questions we all have about life, love, and God. I’m not sure that Elvis found all the answers to his questions during his lifetime, but for me, the way he lived his life has certainly been the answer to many of my questions.   

Elvis achieved an extraordinary amount of fame, fortune and success in his 42 years on this earth. But he lived each day of those 42 years with thankfulness for all he had as well as determination to pass on the blessings of his life to others. He was never too wealthy or famous to share a few kind words with a common man. He never stopped seeking out truth, meaning and ways in which he could become a better man.  Elvis is a man who nearly 40 years after his death continues to elicit adoration, curiosity and respect by the masses. He is the man that, given the opportunity, I would gladly sit down to dinner with and discuss life. 

  

Graceland Part 1

“It’s been 84 years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in….”

This quote was one of the opening lines in the iconic movie, Titanic. Decades after the sinking, the character, Rose, shared with a scientific crew what it felt like to be one of the passengers on the ship’s maiden and only voyage. A few weeks ago, I shared in a similar experience when I stayed at the Guesthouse at Graceland Hotel in Memphis during its opening weekend.

It’s been nearly 40 years since Elvis Presley left the building for the final time—having been called home for some much needed rest. Since then, family, friends and adoring fans have fought to preserve the musical and humanitarian legacy he left behind. 

Tours of Elvis’ beloved home, Graceland, began in 1982. Over time, the property across the street became dotted with touristy shops offering every type of souvenir imaginable plastered with the King’s face. Up until recently, the only accommodations available for guests making the pilgrimage to Graceland were a Day’s Inn and the Heartbreak Hotel. Both were similar to the types of establishments Elvis had to put his guests up in while he was alive—never having had a formal guesthouse on the grounds of his home. But a comfortable and luxury guesthouse was something he always dreamed of.

Some 30 years in the making, the Guesthouse at Graceland is Elvis’ dream finally brought to life. And I was there to share in that historical moment.

My dad has been a lifelong Elvis fan…and not the kind that likes to collect corny collectables and grow out his sideburns for Halloween. He is the true kind of fan who has come to know, admire and respect Elvis as much as a person possibly can having never met him. Four years ago, I made my first trek to Graceland with my dad and he showed me around and brought Elvis, his home and the life he lived to life for me far greater than even the most knowledgeable tour guide could. A year ago, when we first leaned that construction was starting on the Guesthouse, we both agreed that being there for the opening weekend was a must.

When our plane finally touched down in the land of the Delta Blues the day before the hotel officially opened, I believe all of us (my dad, mom, husband and I) were all brimming with excitement. When it was time to catch a cab to check in to the hotel the next day, it was all I could do to keep from hanging my head out the window to catch the first possible glimpse of the hotel. When it finally came into view, it echoed so much of the look of Graceland. With the front paying tribute to Graceland’s colonial architecture and a long driveway that wound up to the doors, it really felt like we there to be guests in Elvis’ own guesthouse. 

 My eyes widened and mouth dropped open when we first walked inside. The lobby was stunningly lavish with touches of gray and fuchsia. With unique wing back chairs, mirrored ceiling and exquisite floral centerpiece, I could tell immediately that the Guesthouse was designed to reflect the unique and trend setting style that Elvis exhibited his entire life.     

  

 From record shaped end tables and blue suede drapes in the bar, light sconces with Elvis’ initials down the hallways, a heart shaped gas fireplace out by the pool, lightning bolt lights in the Founders Room and even a grand staircase designed to model the stairs leading up to Elvis’ private quarters at Graceland, every thoughtful detail of the hotel whispered Elvis. I say whispered because the touches were obvious but not overt. One of the guest speakers during the weekend explained that Elvis was and remains the type of person that you only need a minute detail of to recognize. Whether it’s the corner of a glitzy cape, an oversized gold ring, some aviator frames, or lush slicked back black hair, a true Elvis fan can spot him from a mile away. It doesn’t take much.

  

 

Nearly every feature of the hotel was subtle…..except for the one I nearly stumbled into within my first twenty minutes. I was lagging behind my parents as they wandered down one of the hallways towards the hotel’s theater. Quickening my steps to catch up with them I suddenly looked up to see a large group of people walking down the hallway toward me. My heart quite literally stopped when I realized that the front runner of the group was Miss Priscilla Presley herself. Dressed to the nines in stilettos and a brightly colored dress, she was absolutely beautiful and moved towards me with a grace and determination that shook me. The moment was over so quickly but it was one that I will never forget. 

Priscilla was intimately involved in the design of the Guesthouse and worked to make sure that a tasteful tribute was paid to Elvis’ life and career. “We didn’t want it so Elvis-themed and Elvis everywhere, because you can see that at Graceland,” said Priscilla. “He wouldn’t have wanted a hotel full of his picture.” After three nights at the Guesthouse, all I can say is, well done. Elvis would not only be stunned….he would be immensely proud. 

Over the course of my weekend at the Guesthouse I was privileged to listen to stories and conversations shared by members of Elvis’ band, two of his movie co-stars, a girlfriend from his early days and others who had the opportunity get to know Elvis on a more personal level. They didn’t talk about Elvis the performer who jumped about the stage in flashy jumpsuits. They talked about the real, down-to-earth Elvis who kept his band members up till all hours of the night regaling them with hilarious stories. They talked about the humble Elvis who desperately only wanted to make one good film in his career so that the industry would quit making fun of him. They talked about the Elvis whose fascination with police led him to acquire not only several personal badges from cops but also a ticket booklet and light for the top of his car. 

 

When I told people I was going on vacation to the opening of a hotel I got a lot of strange looks. Yes, my family and I also visited Graceland and paid our respects to Elvis at his grave, but we really did go for the hotel. Because for Elvis fans and the city of Memphis, the Guesthouse is more than just a hotel. It is the glorious beginning of a new era for Memphis and the Elvis legacy. Not only will the hotel work to clean up the rather dismal and run-down part of the city that is home to Graceland, but now when fans from all around the world travel to pay tribute to Elvis, they will have the kind of luxury accommodations that Elvis would have wanted for his visitors. 

 

I am grateful to my dad for not only making the trip possible for my husband and I, but also for raising me to respect and appreciate Elvis for all that he was. He was far more than a singer. Anyone who visits Graceland and sees the hundreds of signatures on the wall near the entrance to the grounds will see just how many people his life continues to touch even 40 years after his passing. Take a walk down the Hall of Gold at Graceland and you will realize that he accomplished more in his 42 short years than most of us could do with 100. Watch one of his recorded concert performances and you will see a singer who literally dripped passion for the work that he did. Spend a night at the Guesthouse and you will understand that a person who inspired the building of such a grandiose hotel isn’t someone who is dead and gone in the grave, but rather very much alive in the fans that refuse to let him go. 

 

During my tour of Graceland, I found myself lingering in Elvis’ racquetball court—a room that has been transformed into a monumental display of all of his posthumous awards and several of his stage costumes. With his Aloha from Hawaii concert playing on a screen nearby, I fought back pooling tears as I looked up and around at so much success by a man who remained grateful, generous and humble up until his last breath. But I teared up even more when I looked to my right and saw another girl wiping away tears for what I knew were the exact same reasons. 

 On my way out of the racquetball court, I glanced up at an award I never noticed before. It was engraved with the words “Before anyone did anything, Elvis did everything.” I smiled knowing how immensely true those words were. Those words lingered in the background of everything I saw and heard during my weekend in Memphis. 

 

Elvis you may have left the world before anyone was ready……….but you have never left our hearts. 

   

Marriage

Laid out on the black velvet liner, the chain flickered with a brilliant radiance outdone only by the stars in a Montana sky.  When I clipped the delicate chain behind my neck and turned to look in the mirror, the light danced off its every groove and crevice. It was stunning. Perfect.

“I’ll take it!” I blurted out. 

“Ok, that will be $300,” said my friend Daniel, who works at a local jewelry store. 

I sighed as my head dropped and lips pursed together. 

“It’s too much money,” I said. “Andy would be furious if I spent that much on just a chain………..”

On the day I chose my wedding dress, I was wearing a small white gold cross necklace that my soon-to-be in-laws had given me on the night I was baptized into the Catholic Church.  The owner of the dress shop commented that afternoon on how perfectly it complimented my dress. That was the moment I realized it would be the necklace I wore on my wedding day. It already bore the memory of the most important night of my life but, more importantly, it represented the most important relationship in my life….the relationship that is meant to guide every aspect of our lives. For those reasons and so many others I knew it was the one piece of jewelry I was meant to wear when I spoke my vows. 

The only issue was that the chain was a bit long for the neckline of my dress. So a few weeks before my wedding, I visited a local jewelry store to inquire about a shorter chain for the cross. But instead of purchasing the expensive one, I simply had my friend clip a few links out of the existing chain and went home.

Flash forward to the night before mine and Andy’s wedding. We had just arrived at our rehearsal dinner and Andy pulled out a small white bag that he said he wanted me to open. As I gently pulled the ties and opened the bag, a delicate silver chain fell out into the palm of my hand. It was the chain from the jewelry store that I had fallen in love with. I was almost as stunned in that moment as I was the night Andy got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. 

The next day, I slipped the new chain through the loop on my cross pendant, clasped the necklace behind my neck, and left for the church to marry my love……………………….

Last month, Andy and I celebrated our first anniversary together. On that day I found myself reflecting on all I had learned about love in the previous 365 days. What came to mind was not all the blessings of marriage but rather all of the small, seemingly insignificant moments where unconditional love was shown—much like what was represented in that humble chain Andy bought me and in the cross it held. For me, the grace of marriage is found in many places….although not always the places that first come to mind.

Love is the look Andy gives me in the middle of Mass when we are supposed to be concentrating on the priest’s homily. It is him stepping aside to let me go into the line for communion first.

Love is holding Andy in the morning light of the kitchen and sending up silent prayers of thanksgiving to God for blessing me with someone so wonderful. 

Love is dancing to our wedding song on our anniversary in bare feet on the living room floor. 

Love is lying in bed watching TV and looking over to see Andy smiling at me. 

Love is found in completing frustrating projects side-by-side like scraping botched epoxy off the garage floor. Or spending three long days raking rocks in the yard to prep for installing a sprinkler system.

Love is Andy cleaning my motocross goggles for me even though I’m convinced they aren’t that dusty. Or buying me new hockey gloves when mine become so smelly I can’t stand them anymore. 

Love is Andy telling me to try again after I roll my snowmobile for the tenth time and scream at him that I’ll never ride again. Or him cheering me on as I take the checkered flag in absolute dead last after a brutal motocross race. 

Love is Andy holding my face up to his and telling me I’m beautiful after I’ve collapsed in shame over the way I perceive my appearance.

Love is Andy holding me as I cry on the bathroom floor from all the rejections and failures I face each day. 

Love is fighting over and over again with each other but always saying “I love you” before falling asleep that night. 

Love is Andy telling me I’m wonderful each day even though I still apologize to God each night for all the things I am. 

Love is forgetting why you first fell in love with someone—because every day you fall in love with them again for all new reasons. 

Since man first entered the world, love has been sung about, rhymed out in poetry, discussed over empty bottles in the twilight hours, brushed across canvas with oil and bristles, shot out through the fingertips and toes of dancers and collected in damp stains on our shirt sleeves. It is all encompassing and confusing…miraculous and wretched…..desired and despised. It will always be bigger than us—yet—small enough to witness in the dilating pupils of someone we cherish. And sometimes it is found in something as insignificant as a chain…or two perpendicular lines. But it’s there all the same.

Every day since I married Andy I have reveled at what marriage is. Not the big or beautiful moments of it. But the overlooked and ugly parts. The parts that make you wonder why anyone stays married at all or how they enjoy it if they do. 

The kind of love that marriage is supposed to be about is loving someone at their darkest…. when they can’t even love themselves…..when they feel like they’ve slipped too far to ever be rescued. It’s the love that always forgives and walks by your side each and every day. That is the love of Christ….and the love Christ blessed me with when he gave me Andy. 

My Home at St. Mary Catholic Community

The other day I read a quote by Anglican priest, Nicky Gumbel that said, “Church is not an organization you join; it is a family where you belong, a home where you are loved and a hospital where you find healing.”Gumbel’s words struck a chord deep within me and made me smile in agreement. It may have taken me 27 years, but I am happy to say that I found a church that over the past two and a half years has become a family, a home, a purifying hospital and so very much more. I am blessed to call St. Mary Catholic Community of Helena my church home.

Two weeks ago I had the privilege of sharing in St. Mary’s 50^th anniversary jubilee celebration. The event overflowed with vitality, grace, and peace. With the Bishop in attendance, a choir whose voices rose like angels, a decadent picnic and a blessing of one of the lushest gardens I’ve ever seen, it was a celebration that all in attendance will remember for years to come. 

With my husband, Andy, unable to attend the event, I arrived to the celebratory Sunday Mass early and alone. After blessing myself with water from the baptismal font, I meandered slowly down one of the aisles and took a seat at the end of one of the wooden pews. I was delighted to see that the choir and some accompanying musicians were playing prelude music before the service began.

With my arms folded in my lap, I sat listening as a stunning rendition of Ave Maria played on the piano and violin began. As each note was carefully drawn out across the strings and tinked on the keys, more and more memories of my time at St. Mary drifted into my mind.  

I remembered my first visit to the administrative offices at St. Mary….when I sat down with Deb Kralicek, faith formation director, and told her I wished to be baptized. That was the moment that marked the beginning of the single greatest decision of my life.

I recalled the first Mass I attended after deciding to join the church. My boyfriend (now my husband) was out of town and unable to accompany me so I attended my first Mass ever on my own….with no Catholic confidant by my side. I was utterly terrified. I sat down in one of the far back pews and tried to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze or drawing attention to myself. I prayed in that moment for God to give me some sort of sign to let me know that I was making the right decision. And just moments after my prayer Canon in D began playing. It was a song I’d always loved and I instantly teared up knowing that in some small way, that was God’s way of comforting me and letting me know that I was right where I was supposed to be. The more beautiful part of that memory is that a little over a year later, I walked down the aisle of St. Mary to that very same song and married my best friend and love. 

I remember quite vividly the most beautiful and grace-filled moment of my life at St. Mary—the night I was baptized and confirmed into the Catholic Church. There aren’t enough words to describe what that night was like. I remember professing my vows to God by the side of the baptismal font. I remember stepping into the warm water of the font and my robe flowing around me. I remember my head slipping under the water three times as I was baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I remember walking back down the aisle in my white robe for the first time. I remember the radiant light glowing from my baptismal candle as it was handed to me. I remember the sweet smell of the chrism oil as Father made the sign of the cross on my forehead. I remember the wholesome taste of the Eucharist as I placed it in my mouth for the very first time. I remember feeling forgiven…peaceful….saved. 

 I remember the immense inner peace St. Mary gave me when I brought Andy there just days after he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. I had contacted our priest and asked for the Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick to be bestowed on him. I had only been Catholic for about a month and knew very little about the church still but I knew this was the kind of moment where you have to turn to God. So I reached out to the only people I could think of….my church family of St. Mary. As soon as I notified the church of Andy’s condition, I was informed that the prayer groups were raising petitions up for his healing. People I barely, if even knew at all, were praying for us. I’ve never forgotten the immense level of compassion and mercy we received from the people at St. Mary during one of the most difficult times in our life. 

I can still recall how nervous I felt the first time I went up to read during Mass after signing up to be a lector. As soon as I was baptized, I knew I wanted to continue being involved in the Church. The most natural ministry option for me was serving as a lector. As a writer, I am particularly drawn to the written word of God. I understand the power of the written word. I know how hard it is to write down your beliefs and thoughts…especially when you are fearful of persecution. It is an honor to help preach God’s word and even better to help spread it through my own written word.

I remember sitting outside the confessional booth one afternoon reviewing my mistakes as I waited for my turn with Father. Soon, I was the last one waiting. When the girl before me finally exited the confessional, she walked right over to me, stuck out her fist to illicit a fist pound and said, "You've got this." I looked up at her and smiled as I pounded my fist back against hers. I don't know why, but something in that moment made me think it was Jesus in disguise...trying to comfort me in a moment of shame and instilling strength in me to make a good confession. I love that memory.

When it came time for Andy and I to plan our wedding, the location selection was easy. There is no other place on earth I would have gotten married than at St. Mary. Growing up, I never knew if I would get married in a church. And after meeting Andy, I knew that if we married someday it would have to be in the Catholic Church, even though I wasn’t Catholic yet. But when our special day finally arrived, we shared our vows in the presence of all our family and friends….and God. And we shared in the Eucharist together—both as full Catholics. I could have chosen to get married in beautiful Glacier National Park or on a mountain overlook like many Montana brides, but after being baptized and joining St. Mary I understood the importance of having our ceremony in a church and focusing on the sacramental aspect of the union. And having Father Richard—who baptized/confirmed me and anointed Andy—help facilitate the ceremony was an especially unique and touching aspect of our day.  

This past Lent, I remember the special honor I received when I was asked to assist in the distribution of ashes on Ash Wednesday. I remember sinking my thumb into the small bowl of gray ashes and drawing two lines across the foreheads of dozens of parishioners that evening while repeating “Repent, and be faithful to the Gospel.” My decision to join the church was largely prompted by an immense desire and need to be forgiven for the mistakes and sins of my life. So helping share in a day that reminds us that we all fall short of perfection and need God’s mercy was very special.

Also during this past Lent, I remember being asked by our musical director if I would give the address during one of the Friday evening prayer sessions. While I felt overwhelmed and unsure of what I should say in regards to the topic of mercy, I knew it was the opportunity I’d waited for since deciding to join the church. I wanted to share my story. I wanted others to know what truly feeling redeemed is like. I wanted to impose on people the urgency to turn to God at every moment in their life….regardless of how many failures or successes they’ve had. To simply be willing to turn ourselves and our lives over to God is critical because He will guide us, heal us, and save us in ways we never thought possible. Afterwards, people asked me if sharing my story was hard. The answer was no. History is the greatest testament we have to the fact that God often calls upon the most broken and sinful among us to help carry out his will. If I don’t share my story, I am dishonoring His call to me so I could be saved. 

While I have only attended St. Mary for the past three years or so, it is remarkable how many ways it has filled the voids in my heart and become a home away from home. The people and culture of the parish overflow with love, generosity, mercy, and faith. It is a community I feel blessed to be part of and I would do anything in my power to give back and support it in the way it has always supported me and my family.