Of all the stories I get to tell, the one of meeting my husband is one of my favorites.
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cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
Of all the stories I get to tell, the one of meeting my husband is one of my favorites.
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Dance is one of those words that evokes a visceral response inside me – simultaneous anxiety and longing, joy and fear.
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I had been dating him for a few months when, while cooking dinner in his kitchen, he wrapped his arms around me and began singing a tune we could slow dance to—right there, next to the hot stove.
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I remember the feeling like it was yesterday. I was terrified.
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I still remember filling out the intake form for a therapist the Friday after everything imploded with my engagement.
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Four years ago, around this exact time, my then husband went under church discipline for reasons that don’t need to be brought to light, but they were crazy.
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“The weekend does bring a huge flood of emotion. I just wanted to say thank you for understanding. I can’t wait to see you.”
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I was hungry and tired. It was warm, very warm.
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I remember a small 1960’s green book my mother kept with her cookbooks.
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Out on the patio with my feet propped up, I can see the tips of my wedding shoes peeking out over my laptop.
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