44

They have never called each other out of each other's name in anger. Not once.
They hold hands while shopping, hanging out or worshipping at church.
They flirt and giggle together like teenagers.
They get through painful times by telling jokes and laughing.
They really like hanging out together. Dancing, singing, shopping, traveling...
He still calls her "fine" and "gorgeous" before she even has time to ask how she looks.
She still swoons over him when he puts on a suit.
They match on accident most every time they get dressed.
Their children and grandchildren would rather chill with them than with friends because they are that cool.

They are my parents and they have been married for 44 years as of 12.21.2013. There are no words I could write that would do their love story justice so I'll just let them tell it. Enjoy a chuckle and some wise chitchat from my parents Michael & Mattie Criddell.

*Disclaimer: This video contains contagious amounts of love and adorable-ness.

 

Sometimes There Will Be Beer

James had to go to an AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) meeting FOR A CLASS ASSIGNMENT one day. No one knew who he was. He was not a teaching pastor or a seminary student. He was just there to be with them and learn from them. This was a room full of gruff looking men who came to be rid of their ugly addiction. Some now chain smoked just to keep from drinking. Many of these men would come to a meeting everyday if they had to. They thrive on transparency and community. They need constant covering and accountability. James came home that day and smelled of cigarette smoke for the rest of the afternoon. And he thought nothing of it because these were G-d's people who are doing the best they can muster up to make it. As a minister these were his people.

I chuckle and tense up and pause as I write how the meeting ended...As James tells it - The person who was leading the group said, "And we know there is only one person who can get us out of our (you fill in the colorful expletive) situation. And that's who?"

And the rest of the room replied, "the Father" in unison, followed by the Lord's Prayer.

I tense up because some adjectives should not ever be used in the same paragraph as G-d. I chuckle because I know that G-d is not nearly as tense as I am because sometimes there will be cuss words. Sometimes unfiltered prayers will rise from unchurched lips through a cloud of cigarette smoke to the ears of the Father.

I saw this video. It's pretty amazing.

I love these lyrics which strengthen my own faith but I also love this random group of people worshiping G-d publicly in a non-church setting. One attentive youtube viewer caught a glimpse of a bottle...a beer bottle perhaps...maybe A&W Root Beer. No one knows but this particular viewer wanted an explanation of it's cameo during a time of worship.  I read their response and thought..."Oh, you missed it." You missed how G-d was moving in that place just like He moves in AA meetings and at Groups Homes for rebellious, disrespectful youth. If you aren't careful you'll miss the work of the Holy Spirit on the heart of the drug dealer, the abuser, criminal, the ex-stripper, your brother, or mom, niece or neighbor...because all you see are "beer bottles" all you hear are cuss words and all you smell is cigarette smoke.

Don't get me wrong. I believe in holy and righteous behavior before a holy and righteous G-d. But some us have been on "Sin Patrol" for far too long. Because sometimes in the midst of addiction and vulgarity you, if you are looking for it, you can see the sanctifying work of G-d flooding lives with mercy and grace and that is something you do not want to miss.

But the Music Never Stops

I sang in the school choir from the 6th to 10 grade. Bass, Treble, half notes, quarter notes, mezzo forte, uhh decrescendo and ...Do a deer, a female deer. Yup that's about all I got. I have not sung formal pieces of music since the 10th grade so the technicality of these works are, for the most part, lost on me. I don't mind either. That is not an excuse to revel in ignorance.  I just mean that I still love these complex, transcendent pieces of wonder because they are simply complex and transcendent. What I love most about the symphony is its pure emotive nature with no words sung at all. So when pianist, Christian Zacharias stopped the music because of a cell phone interruption I just could not blame him.

When interviewed he stated that

"Music lives on something completely different than being disturbed." 

and

"We prepare all this and this is the least you can do to honor it in listening"

English syntax is bruised a bit because of his German accent but I took him real seriously because Germans don't play...around...because clearly he plays the piano...I digress.

How awkward for the the poor guy in seat 53A. You, alone, were responsible for bringing the piece de resistance to a crashing halt while ushering in the fullest most humiliating silence, ever. No wonder you couldn't slide your hand down and quiet the electronic symphony in your pocket; Sir Zacharias' glare was set to stun-mode. All because you weren't paying full attention. 

There is complex transcendent wonder all around us. The sweetest symphony you will ever hear.

"The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge." 

Psalm 19:1-2

And we often do not honor it by at least listening or watching. We disturb this masterful work with busyness and our noisy requests requiring G-d to vie for our attention. But G-d is G-d and he has nothing to prove. He won't roll over and sit. He won't give signs and wonders just for ooo's and ahhh's  and He won't ever stop being G-d. He can't. 

The music won't stop even when you are distracted.
Because we are a part of the song.
You are not a disturbance to the work of G-d but you are his sweet instrument and he is ready to use you.

Silence distraction and pay attention.

And He will keep on playing. Showing you his beauty and wonder as he waits on you to join.

We're Just Warming Up~Personal Repost

There is this captivating moment just before a symphony begins where we wait with baited breath and intrigue. Murmurs and coughs settle in your ear and the wait is tangible. The silence is full like someone blowing up a balloon almost too full before it bursts. The audience palpable is comprised of people who have perused the program to the point of empty memorization. No one really knows what those Italian and German songs are.

 In all honesty most of the audience can only hold an intelligible conversation on the top Olympic Dream Team composers…you know them already...” Bach, Beethoven and Mozart ok and maybe Chopin…At best we are wannabe-connoisseurs of musical wine-tasting. We swirl the glass, sniff and examine the legs but we have no idea what rare libation we are drinking. But we read with intensity and hopeful recognition that we may be fully engaged with this temporary community. We hope that everyone with take the experience seriously. No one would dare take part and talk or laugh at an inappropriate time. This is just as much to feed the Mozart within us as it is to share love and be immersed in something pure and existential with a stranger. 

Music is a soothing dose of perfection. It is science, emotion, creativity, creation, physics, community, mathematics and language in a beautiful dance. It is a drip of what heaven stamped eternity must feel like. So, that moment before such an experience is hope-fully exhilarating. The imbecile and the guru both become servants of the inexplicable. The complexity of music teases all of our senses. If you aren’t fully consumed by it then your soul cannot be freed to sing. As we stand on the music precipice of melody that moment before the dive is quietly wondrous and necessary. It whets the appetite…but the warm-up can be confusing. Instruments and notes alike bicker in a cacophony of fine tuning. Violins, then saxophones, the obo wants in on the action and won’t wait its turn…even the gentle triangle rings out of time…every part is being perfected to play its role in this great symphony but what a battering it does to the ears. The audience knows, however, that the tune will change…Oh, they’ve read the program and even in their rudimentary understanding music they know that this is not the song…not yet. Just…wait for it. In fact this hodge-podge of senseless reverberation is a part of the entire experience because the coming together is nothing short of a miracle.

Shhhhh….here he comes…the conductor. When he steps to the platform we fear not for he will tame this noise and bring….harmony yes…sweet harmony. Before it sounds you know it’s there in the fullness of the wait. Can you see it? Look close. Harmony appears at the tip of the baton and demands attention…ahhhh yes, there you are. “Tap, tap tap” That valiant stick is raised in the face of wayward echoes and when it comes down the concord flies. You didn’t get dressed up abandoning the comforts of home for no reason. This occasion is worthy of your time. The confusion, the noise…that’s not the headline for this concert…we’re just warming up.

Deep Trust

I dated a guy once because I didn't have any other options or any good reason not to. My heart wasn't really in it.

Puzzled, a close male friend of mine asked me why I dated him and my response was,

"Well, because he asked." 

There was no glimmer in my eye at the thought of him. My stomach was butterfly-free. I never even knew his middle name. 

Pretty crappy and pointless and kinda mean; I am well aware. I was going through some thangs. And I would never tell him that. I'm sure that would have really hurt him. Because I never really chose him. Fate and good timing were just on his side. Not exactly a best-selling romance novel.

In the midst of being good stewards: working, planning, tithing and saving James and I were (I was) slightly-majorly annoyed by some disappointing news. I have noticed that when disappointments come one of us is at peace and one of us is not. And we switch places. Rarely are we both swerving and sighing while throwing righteous fists of indignation in the air. Thank God. This time...it was my turn to swerve, sigh and fist pump.

James calmed me, reassuring me of everything that Minister, Reverend, Pastor, MDiv, Chaplain Mo already knows about the God who NEVER forsakes us or looses control. But I was still having a moment so he said to me...

"Well, we just have to trust God. 

That is the place where he has brought us. *chuckling* I mean, what other choice do we have?"

And I appreciate this truthful reminder from my husband, my partner in this crazy adventure but that statement was the chorus of my heart-song for God and it sounded like such a passionless tune. Trusting him because I had nothing else to do?...what a shallow example. what a sad show of faith...what a pitiful reason to trust.

James told me a story once of a family friend who is a master rescue diver. During a training he swam to the bottom of a lake and was supposed to just sit there and wait to be rescued by the trainees. He was down there so long that he took a catnap. (Seriously!) When he surfaced everyone was frantic wondering where he had been. Unbeknownst to him a huge storm blew in right after he went deep. Where he was, there was no storm. The waters were not stirring at. all. 

As much as natural bodies of water terrify me that's right where I want to be.

My husband had already gone to the depths. I could tell by the quiet resolve in his voice. He was choosing God...choosing depths...choosing trust.

When James told me the unfortunate news I could feel the winds shift and cool as the storm rolled in but I also heard God (and I mean, I heard him) say to me, "Come deep, Monique, Come deep." It took work but I turned away from the choppy surface and kicked my legs hard past the current until I got to the place where the water is easy and still so I can sit, chilled out, at the bottom of the lake with James and the Lord. 

Trusting.

Not because I have nothing better to do. Not because I am passively (passive-aggressively) waiting for another, better-feeling option. But because the thought of God gives me butterflies. Because I am in love with Jesus and I KNOW Him to be trustworthy. Because he is stronger than any foe I will ever face. Because he is the potter and I, the clay. Because saying the name of Jesus makes my heart tender. Because I am the apple of his eye. Because there is not a more peaceful place on earth than in the deep with Jesus living out the best love story the world will ever know. Because there is no better choice than to trust Him.

The Proper Balance of Estrogen and Testosterone

I talk to James about everything. If a thought crosses my mind chances are I am going to share it. I process my day with him via texts while I am at work. I call him during lunch for a mid-day vent. And when I get home I wait for my cue..."How was your day, baby?" And he always listens...reluctantly pausing a game of Candy Crush on his I-phone or putting his own conversations with best friends and family on hold.

It is no wonder that over the past few months he has been urging me to hang out with my friends. He reminds me that our home is open to them for as long as I need a good visit.

For the past 7 months after our wedding I went into hiding. I think that most people expect this from newlyweds so none of my friends pestered me when I didn't want to come out and play. They just figured that I was boo-ed up. And while I had somewhat convinced myself that all I needed was my hunnie, really I was mourning the shift my life social life had taken. My closest friends were salted everywhere from Texas to Timbuktu and James' crew is all within a 30 mile radius...Fair...Nope, just life. Pouting in isolation seemed like a reasonable response.

The month of May 2012 was the best month ever, graduation, new career, and a proposal. Then June dumped on me and the remainder my friends began to move away. Life took a break-neck turn.  I was not prepared, at all.  I had just endured one of the most intense seasons of spiritual growth and independence, trusting a special group of people with my fears, tears, mistakes and joys and next thing I know Waco seemed a little wack without my girls.

Who would paint their nails with me and Say Yes to the Dress?

Who would laugh at my inappropriate jokes and applaud my public body roll routines?

Who would call me out for having a stank attitude?...this is dangerous territory for James Hoskins and he is not even about to paint paint his nails. Our love has its limits.
However, James does love me enough to kick me out of the house for a playdate. He knows how much the women in my life mean to me. How much I NEED them. I think he has known it even more than me.

For the past year and a half I have refused to make any new friends. I just knew that I could will my old ones to return to this crazy town of Waco, TX....the NYC of the south as it is more widely known. And  for this introvert, making new friends is exhausting...but I don't have to-my old ones rock. The friendship train rolled into Waco 3 weeks ago by way of me actually rolling up my bottom lip and picking up the phone. I will be riding it at least until November. This is my thank you...

DibbyDum~thanks for sitting in my bubble with me as we "watched" our favorite Friday shows and laughed at how broke we are.
Niesha~thanks for being a safe place to share "marriage life" and for inviting me to watch my niece be blessed at church and Tracy thank you for soul-clapping to some good ole black gospel music with me.
Christina~Thank you embracing your inner public spectacle and helping me make the world feel awkward.
Morgan~Thank you for allowing me to be fully self-centered for the entire month of September AND giving me 3 cakes!!!
Melissa~You are just ridiculous and wonderful and we still make an awesome team.
Callie~I will always be your chaplain but I am so glad that we are friends and future sewing buddies!
Angie~Thank you for finding time on your way to work or during a lunch break just to chat with me for a few minutes at least once a week.
Christine~my Lil Bit thank you for guilt-tripping me whenever you are in town and just saying that you are coming over.
Monica~Thank you for your hilarious transparency and strength. You are a hero of mine.
Katelyn~Thank you for laughing at my conceited selfie texts annnnnd for having Kari and I over next month for ThanksWeen 2013...be excited. (oh and for my Foster parents).
Cara~Thank you for making a point to come see lil ole me on your way to see your family.

James~Thank you for all the ways you LOVE, ESTEEM and ACCEPT my friends whom I adore and miss dearly. Your love for them makes me feel loved because they are a reflection of who I am.

I am so grateful for these women and so many others who are with me in this amazing, different, challenging and so-fun season of life. Thank you for reminding me who I am, all the facets of me, as I explore who I am becoming as a wife and minister.

I think this SONG pretty much sums up how I feel about you all. It was the first song that popped in my head and I'm not ashamed at all. Don't judge me. I worked at BU for 3 years.

Pregnant Elephants and Thank-you cards

One year.

I read somewhere that it is socially acceptable to mail out wedding "thank-you" cards within one year of the wedding...

12 months.

I'm sorry but that is ridiculous and I am more than positive that a lazy man with a proclivity for tardiness came up with this brilliant idea. He spouted it around his unmarried friends with great confidence while serving them fried foods and alcohol. In their happy, drunken state they were easily convinced so they told their friends. This idea then started circulating around the wedding blogosphere and within a few months this ludicrous practice became "socially acceptable".

Things that take too long to happen...
           -Vanilla extract to ferment (is that the right term?) = 2 months
                -Manatees to fully gestate = 13 months and elephants  for, a faint-inducing, 22 months

                       -James David "yes I used his middle name on purpose" Hoskins to partially complete 35 pre-organized "thank you" postcards = 6 months

                  

The plan I devised was simple..."I write to my folks and you write to yours. Finish at least one each day and we can get this done in a truly socially acceptable time-frame...friends feel appreciated and the wedding event is officially a wrap." 

Kinks in my plan: It was my plan and not our plan (like that really matters)

         To-do lists and phrases including the word "wedding" are forbidden immediately upon return from the honeymoon. Utterances of either turns you into the Charlie Brown school teacher.

I sent out all of my people's thank-you's on time avoiding embarrassment and shame.  James' pile was sad from neglect and gray with dust.  My plan was disintegrating after 4 months. I had to regroup and pull out the big guns.

Guilt-trip...it never fails. I called mom and pre-vented to release what could be toxic steam. She chuckled at me, knowingly and said, "Uh yeah, let me know how that goes." 

James would return from a very long day at work to find me surrounded by his cards. It didn't end there. I wouldn't frown or fret. No. I had a smile in voice as I asked him about his day. 

When he saw me with those cards his shoulders dropped and he turned toward our room as he mumbled, "I'm sorry, baby...I let you down."

Aha!

Wait...That felt horrible. 

Abort! Abort!

Guilt trips are for mean girls, manipulative lovers, and lazy parents who lack self-confidence, not for us.

Marital tet-a-tet's occur over the most inconspicuous things like budgeting and home decor and making the bed in morning and guacamole (I'll explain in another post)  and thank you cards. This talk lasted two hours...two very necessary calm, loving, guilt-free hours where James, under no duress, agreed to conquer his pile and I agreed to trust him and relax a little.

One week later the pile, still sad and dusty, taunted me and whispered lies to me about my husband.

But I love my husband and I'm discovering that marriage is definitely not 50/50. Teamwork isn't always the answer and he is not the guy who is squealing with glee over the chance to help with thank-you cards...not sure that I would want the squealing type anyways. Sometimes he'll do more than his fair share and most of the time I'll do more (let's be honest)....(love you, baby)

"James, dear, do you want me to finish the pile?...just tell me and I won't be mad..."

He did five. I did thirty...more...of his. And it only took six months.

apparently still acceptable and

We are still doing better than the elephant.

Roses, Rainbows and Recipes

I think I am the only freak of nature who is soooo over new things. 2013 is the "Year of New" and I am ready for the Era of "Been There Done That".

I cannot tell you how many times a lovesick fifteen year old took over my mind and body as I found myself, at 30, doodling my name over and over again...before we got married...

Monique Danye` Hoskins...Monique Danye`Criddell Hoskins...Monique Hoskins...Mr. &Mrs. James Hoskins...Mrs. Monique Criddell Hoskins

and I smiled and roses and rainbows appeared and a robin perched on my windowsill and tweeted a tune.

Yeah, the process of inaugurating the "new" was not that lovely and sweet. 

Ladies, changing your name is 1. annoying and complicated and 2. quite traumatizing. 

The social security lines are just long. 

There is nothing romantic about waiting for your number to appear on a scrolling marquee in a room full of strangers...Which is why I have yet to get a new license. Don't tell James. 

Although, I don't know if I haven't visited the DMV because of inconvenience or because that 2x3 inch piece of plastic is the last shred of my former identity; plus my picture looks great...This made the blog so I am guessing it is probably the latter. I love discovering things as I type. 

I can't help but to feel that changing my name is some sort of betrayal to my family of Criddell's. My poor dad, who adores James, "forgets" my last name each time we talk. 

"Hello, Mrs. Crid errrr uhhhh, Hopps...Husk...Hoskins...yeah that's it, Hoskins."

I have a new name attached to a man other than my father who has loved, supported and cared for me for 31 years. I have a new "home" because wherever James is that is home and it actually feels like it. I have a new job that James knows more about from day to day than my family. I have a new church and new friends. I have an entirely new family...I even have a new mac and cheese casserole recipe...You don't understand just how deep things just got. This may be more crucial than my name.

This dish is more important than Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas ham. 

It is a legendary Criddell recipe.

Angels take pause to sing when the oven opens. 

And yesterday I changed the recipe to something brand new....Don't tell mom. 

 I LITERALLY had to talk myself into it. . I changed my mind a few times.

Sundays are our clean eating days because we until the plate is clean. I'm talking about the most fatty, carb-infused meals I can think to make. It's a Hoskins' House Rule. On Sundays calories don't count unless you count them. So I turned on some gospel music, took out a few sticks of butter and got to cooking. James and I melted into OUR newness. This is what Sundays would smell like for us and our future family...reeeallll buttery and warm. 

As good as the new felt and always feels, at least momentarily, I could hear my old name calling out in desperation. 

She is afraid of  being forgotten.

She is just going to have to learn that she is not being left behind. 

She can come along with all of her old recipes and family traditions.  

The old has been so good to me but I still get butterflies when I write my new name. Roses bloom on Sundays at the Hoskins' house and the robins are warming up. Rainbows appear when we kayak. And I'm pretty sure that the angels gave a celestial, slow-clap standing ovation when I opened the oven to the new mac and cheese...because it.was.good.

Gold Nugget Bride

August, something, 1999, my parents were held up at pen-point by Xavier University of Louisiana. They emptied out their bank account and left me waving them goodbye as I forced and faked wanning confidence. I was now a XULA Gold Nugget (really, why did that name get all the votes?)...and I had no idea, whatsoever, how to be a gold nugget, because, what does that even mean, first of all, and second, all I knew about college was dating (which I had yet to experience), parties (which just was not my scene) and staying up to study (ok I can do that one). Was I just supposed to become a shiny, priceless metal destined for academic success overnight or would I morph overtime somehow melding my identity into that of my new future alma mater? Fear? I didn't even know what to be afraid of. I just knew if I was going to survive I had to become a nugget and quick.

August, something (the 8th I think), 2008 I dumped my savings into first month's rent, deposits, U-haul fees and first installments at Truett Seminary. I moved into a cavernous, snow white apartment furnished by A couch, A TV and A kitchen table...I had no need for the table. I dropped every dime I earned to pick a new identity. I went from being nugget (to a Lumberjack at SFA...you get the rhythm I'm beating out) now to a Baylor Bear. Bears are awesome! Right? I mean, we are both brown so that's a start. No one told me how to be a bear but I spent some time as a nugget and a Lumberjack so I could fake it til I made it. Baylor Bears study a lot while wearing nike shorts and drinking coffee. Since I was too old to fully conform I settled for hot cocoa and Adidas. No one questions a 28 year old black woman with a faux latte.

February 16, 2013 James and I (and our parents) spun around Waco flinging checks in every direction so that James could become a husband and I could become a wife. Ok, at this point I learned my lesson. Having successfully matriculating through adolescence and dizzying individuation I knew that preparation and research were key. So after 6 months of premarital counseling and great accountability from friends we pretty much gathered the gravity of 2 becoming 1. We did the "I do, You do", danced a jig and flew to Denver.

We returned a week later to begin work on one of life's most complicated equations...1+1=1.

I was comfortable with becoming one. And as of tomorrow we have been "becoming" for 6 months.

James is a good person to become one with. He is super loving and other mushy blog stuff you've read.

We have laughed at our collection of inside jokes and kitchen-danced a whole lot.

We have argued well and grown from dissent.

The only problem is I'm still one person. I made a mistake in my days as a Gold LumberBear. Growing each year, I still lost myself a little in the collegiate song and dance.

However, I haven't lost myself in this marriage. I don't think I am supposed to, either.  I just don't know what the heck to do with myself.

So this is one of the things that I have learned (I could have done six but that is uber predictable).

I am still me, one, and that is O.K.

James and I are two, different people who compliment each other like crazy and can't get enough of each other but God still calls us by name...Our own names...Not some odd Hollywood nickname mashup like JaNique or Momes (our names clearly do not mash well). God still calls me Monique. He is still transforming Monique to be a good woman not just a good wife. He still has work for his daughter to do on her own even though James and I may partner up from time to time. We don't have to always hike together, eat at a great restaurant together or shop together. That's not what gives the marital math problem weight and meaning...we aren't disconnected and doomed for divorce if we pray separately or pour ourselves into different ministries. These TWO become ONE because these ones are becoming like Christ. That is the strange math and He is the ONE we become even while we remain TWO and I'm so glad we have a lifetime to solve this equation.

Pillow Talk~Static Cling Edition

Just for future reference it is much easier to have hard conversations on soft pillows. Defenses are down in this neutral zone.

Last Thursday...
Surrounded by cotton, down and the Bounce-aroma of static-free sheets, James and I finished a conversation on race that began earlier that afternoon. Like I have said before, some of these conversations are avoidable and most are not. We have become quite shrewd at determining which is which. I am grateful for James who will diffuse what could be a heated discourse by reminding me that in OUR house we love each other in spite of skin color and we also love & honor each other because what our skin color means.

These are the Hoskins' House~House Rules

I do not think it is necessary to offer the world a verbatim because honestly I do not want to build divided platform and stir up the temptation to take a side...Know this...I will always take James' side even if I, wholeheartedly (my stake is firmly in the ground) disagree with him. You'll get it when you get home.

I will, however, offer you the take-away. They are the kind that can be read in any color. Trust me.

Marriage doesn't mean agreement...it may rarely mean seeing eye to eye...

A lack of agreement DOES NOT mean a lack of love or respect. I repeat, a lack of agreement DOES NOT mean a lack of love and respect.

Outwardly, James and I are as different as different can get...(hello Capt. Obvious). Of all of the places in the world our home must be a safe place to disagree, to process, to be right, to be wrong and to learn. It just has to be. We cannot berate, demean and bully the other into submission because there are a line of people waiting outside our door to do so.

James is not a black woman and I am not a white man. We never will be and that is OKAY.

This is not as easy to remember as you may think but whatever your differences are you must accept them while becoming a student of them and the black community has met no better pupil than Mr. James Hoskins....ha! Lemme teeelllllll you! My color represents my culture. It is more than just a conversation piece in the month of February. I love my blackness. I love to talk about it. I love to study it. I love to boast about it. I'm so glad James does too. But it ain't all about me so I listen to my man and hear what it's like for him to be a white man from Texas...and my eyes are opening up to something brand new that I thought I already knew. What a gift. You want to know how to "do" race relations in an edifying way?...come sup with the Hoskins' one evening. 

James' heart for me is LOVE and he is a GOOD man who fears God.

During our talk my emotions ebbed and flowed. I would like to say that I controlled them but I was lazy so I found myself just riding the wave in danger, at times, of getting swept away...until I heard the voice of God (which sounds a lot like Mattie) saying, "Remember his heart for you...remember his heart for me...remember his heart." The hair that had bristled up on the back of my neck would soften and smooth out as I relaxed and unclenched my jaw saying, "Help me remember...Thank you, Lord, for his heart." Conversation continued and the process would start all over again. 

Another take-away...if you are doing it right you become a prayerful schizophrenic. There was a lot going on in my head. I'm talking to him and talking to the Lord all at the same time. Giving up my need for control. Stripping off my desire to not only be understood but be right. Realizing that I don't need these things, I need Jesus. 

I NEED JESUS.

Pillow talk is precious to me. I believe it to be vital for a marriage to survive, wherever your pillow may be. Soooo many dreams are formulated there. Soooo many things are discovered and worked out. When hard conversations hit soft pillows I find myself clinging to Jesus desperately because he is the ONLY one who can change me....make me over...soothe me...truly understand me...He is the only one who can bring understanding to us newlyweds. He is the one who gives me kind words to say. He is the one who urges James to speak up and speak truth. He is the one we follow together. Hand in hand. Life happens everyday. We cannot run from the stresses of the world even in the safety of our home so we cling to Christ like static on sheets and Bounce doesn't stand a chance. 

Oh yeah...and...

We have miles to go before we sleep.

(no, I'm not trying to cop and twist the rhythmic words of Robert Frost)

For the love!...we are still learning. It took me four years to earn my MDiv and I am no where near being a Master of all things Divine. So,why in the world should we know how to do marriage by now? I simply mean we made vows for the LONG haul so if things don't get fully unfurled on some random Thursday in the 5th month of our marriage...psssst...it's ok...we have a long way to go and a lot of time to figure things out. 

Repeat After Me...

I talk to mom a lot these days and her pain is definitely my gain...My dad is an angel, but let's be real. They both did their fair share or pouting and growing up over the past 43+ years. When people notice the glimmer in my dad's eye and the pep in mom's step when she is with her man they nudge their spouse for some reciprocity and tell mom she's got it easy and couldn't possibly understand....Her response: "I have the marriage I have because of prayer. And I prayed because I HAD too." Guess who is not about to just figure things out on my own...This chick here. There is no shame in my game so I ask questions and sunbath in wisdom.

Here is what I love about Mattie Criddell:
1. She is completely disarming because of her honesty and transparency.
2. She honors my father by not sharing it all for the sake of bonding with her newlywed babygirl.
3. She TELLS me NOT to tell her everything because our business is not her business and she will always be inclined to take my side.
4. She doesn't always take my side. (That makes James a happy hubby.)

It's funny, a part of me doesn't want to continue to nitty-gritty of this post because it will reveal some of my mess. After all, you clean up before you invite company over, right? We, married and single alike, are under this ridiculous delusion that if every day isn't smiles, smooches and sweet-nothings then we are doing something terribly wrong. So we hide, pretend and make sure our blogs are Disney approved. We gossip about those we have vowed our lives to in some kind of passive-aggressive attempt at a plea for help or just advice. The truth of the matter is this relationship is a full-speed-ahead transformational journey where we find ourselves shredded of self-aggrandizement and righteousness and looking, acting and talking like Christ...our core, our rock, our true essence.

That is NOT a clean process, there may be wreckage and there SHOULD be carnage as we die to self...and self won't go down without a fight.

Walk into any marital living room and you will find stains of offense on the carpet under the rug, the dust of selfishness that has settled on everything, and a looming stench of pride, thick in the air, because someone forgot to take out old trash.

Thank God for Jesus and His place in marriage....He holds alllllllllll things together....He redeems the mess....He speaks through really good moms who care enough to tell it like it T. I. tis!

I talked to mom about an argument one of my friends had with her husband....small, laughable and resolved but an argument nonetheless (and it's the small ones that catch you off-guard)...and it really was a friend.

On not letting the sun go down on your anger, mom said this in her black-mama, "honey chile" voice,
and I quote,

"The wedding is so nice because someone gives you the words to say and you repeat it and then you smile and say, 'Oh, look what we just did!' But in the marriage no one is around to say, Repeat after me except for Jesus and if you don't say what he tells you to say you'll be in biiiiiig trouble."

I love that woman.

I'm sorry...I love you (feeling pissy)...I was wrong...You were right...Let's start over...

Not as fun to say as, "I, ___________ take thee, __________to be my lawfully wedded...." but they sure do clean up the mess. Like bleach and apple cider, Like a Brillo pad on old grease.

Everyday I am learning to pause, pray and repeat what the Lord says to say (or do). I'm new to this so my first reaction is usually visceral and very wrong. Mom also reminded me that marriage is spiritual warfare...Lemme break it on down. Satan, the enemy, attacks marriages. He wants us to take a stance in our right to be offended. He wants us to wake up with calloused hearts because anger was our bedfellow. But God is in our marriage and on our side.

Whatever YOU want to do, don't. Whatever YOU want to say, wait....How are you to humble yourself, stay in your lane and look like Him? What is Christ asking of you?

He is speaking...

Repeat after Him...

How Does Saturday Smell?

Pancake Syrup, burnt cooking oil, hot blow dryer, fresh laundry and Comet Cleaner.

When I was little deep cleaning our house was reserved for Saturday mornings. The day flowed something like this...I was the first up to take in a few private, meditative, reflective hours of Saturday morning cartoons (ahem, still do). It was my elementary quiet time (if you will). During this time I also made myself pancakes just like my mom taught me. Although, mine looked more like greasy splatter art. I used way too much cooking oil and milk. The fire was always turned up too hot...they were good nonetheless and I was fed while the parentals got some rest.

Mom  or my sister, Mardi, would blow dry my freshly washed hair, think Rudy Huxatable circa 1989.

Dad hand-washed the car in the driveway (wax on wax off), and ran errands to the store and dry cleaners.

Mom and dad's room was downstairs and mom sang old school and contemporary gospel while cleaning her bathroom.

Our upstair rooms were filled with the newest R&B hits 97.9 The BOX had to offer. We wopped it out while mopping it out.

Then after the house was spit-shine clean off to the movies we went. Parents would turn on jazz or classical music while the three of us sat shoulder to shoulder in the backseat of our Plymouth Acclaim guessing which instruments were playing.

Lunch at Marco's Mexican Restaurant...I got an authentic cheeseburger kid's meal. Then back to home central.

My Saturdays have changed a bit but the new Hoskins home is developing a smell all its own.

Saturdays begin with a little pillow-talk.

James goes into his room to pray for a while.

I listen to him play the guitar and sing while I sing to various songs on my Pandora stations. I fluff my curls and do the bathroom boogie to the R&B of my youth...not quite as holy as my hubby.

He offers to make breakfast...I offer to make breakfast...I cook breakfast tacos. I win? (wait a minute).


We promised that we would "do" marriage by attempting to out-serve one another. So far so good. We serve each other with creativity and gladness, really, don't gag at my newly-wedness...We are loving this season cuz it's just us and being a grown up on a Saturday is a lot of fun...New recipes, new back rub techniques, new adventures in kayaking.

Now Saturdays smell like eggs and olive oil, Lake Waco, fresh laundry and Shipley's...sometimes we both win.

I'm Milk Chocolate

My two childhood best friends are bi-lingual Spanish and English. They took it all through high school and college. They both have taught it in school at one point or another. It's hard not to pick up a little Spanish if you live in Houston for any length of time. I've picked up enough to impress people who don't know any. My dad tells people I am fluent but the only sentence that flows, is..."Yo se muy pocito pero todavia estoy apprendiendo." This means, "I know a little but I am still learning." Yeah, I have been riding that lame train for a decade now. I really need to buy Rosetta Stone and soon. 

James is bilingual too. He is fluent in Country and Modern-Jive. The sing-songy 'tude in his voice and his impressions of my dad soon morphed into a language all his own. If you close your eyes and listen closely you might think I'm talking to my sister...because my husband talks like a black woman...yes, it is weird. It's weird because he isn't mocking me; (most times) his cadence and phraseology is on point and relevant. 

The other day James tells me about a conversation he and his co-workers were having about a young black woman. During this conversation James asked his white counterparts a very common and appropriate question concerning the exact shade of her blackness.

 "What kind of chocolate is she?...like candy"

Ha!

Sweet bi-lingual James...they don't understand you.

He continues...

"You know...Hershey's, caramel, special dark...?"

So here is a language lesson for all. We black folks refer to our own color and the colors of our brethren in colorful, confectionery ways. It's a Willy Wonka (I've got the golden ticket) type of nomenclature. Easy to remember, up-for-debate and sensible. 

Halle Berry and Beyonce: Caramel~prounounced "Care-uh-mel"

Phylicia Rashad and my hot mama: Cafe Mocha (it's a smoother milk chocolate)

Djimon Hounsou (Blood Diamond)  and Seal: Special Dark or just Dark Chocolate

Tisha Campbell-Martin and Sade: Bright or Light skinned...there is a distinction, however, that only a trained eye may notice

                                                     Jasmine Guy: definitely Light Skinned

                                                     

Cree Summer and Tamia: Red or Red Bone...these individuals will often have a natural reddish tint to their hair. 

And I, my friends, am Milk Chocolate.

Before we were together my baby was living in a black and white, rabbit-eared world and now the hubs is seeing it all live in HD technicolor, asking questions about candy and making eyebrows raise in confusion. I am so proud. This kid gets an  "A".

"Mo" names than I can count

My mom says, that she named me Monique because it sounded "sophisticated"

Monique. Danye. Criddell..."it rings with professionalism", she says. 

When I told my parents that I wanted to be a neurosurgeon my name took on its own impetus. My initials were MDC, for crying out loud, MD Criddell...Medical Doctor Criddell=way to go, mom! Nailed it!

With this name I was destined to be a medical maven. It was kismet.

My mom held me in her arms and branded me with sophistication and purpose. She just knew that family, teachers, friends and strangers would learn of my name and utter it with the sincerest of respect and awe.

That dream faded to black shortly after I started private school at two. Much to my mother's dismay I was given a nickname. "Mo". Mom tried to stop it but it was too late. I don't think folks called me "Mo" because it was easier, either. This is just who I am to the world...not some stuffy uber professional physician but that down to earth, round the way girl that you feel like you have known for decades...(I'm postulating here but it sounds good to me)

I have acquired many a moniker in my short life. Here are a few of my favorite handles...

Moneca (pronounced Mo-knee-kah)

Mom is the only one who calls me this. She says it when she is being loving. It just sounds the same way a warm blanket feels. I just wanna wrap myself up in it. I also think she may be attempting to redeem "Mo" by adding an exotic suffix. Mom is pretty persistent. 

Scooter

This alias is the brainchild of the one and only Mike Criddell...my daddy, ya'll. He said that when I was little I scooted around a lot...always on the move. Hence the most logical nickname ever.

KeKe

Alright, I have a love/hate relationship with this name. I love the people who gave it to me. I hate the reason. I was ALWAYS the only black student in my class from the age of 2 to 18...there may have been one more but we were usually scattered. (Only blacks in the joint, stand up!). The sweet reasoning of my high school classmates went something like this: you are black and KeKe is a "ghetto" name so we will call you KeKe...That only stuck for one semester.

Moqui (pronounced Mo-Key)
My best friend and I used to work in the nursery at church together every Sunday when we were in high school. She gave me one of her wallet pics and signed it "I love you, Moqui." My best friend...spelled my name all kinds of wrong. We read it and laughed. it stuck. A week later everyone else and their mama (literally) was calling me Moqui. This ticked her off because it was her special name birthed from a typo and not theirs...15 years later and she stills hates it when others call me that.

Moie (pronounced Mo-E)
 My crew in college predominantly consisted of Indians from India. Most of their names ended in some "E"sound. Tigi, Romy, Letty and Angie (still counts). The natural thing to do was assimilate at least by name. To this day, Tigi and Angie still call me Moie. 

MoMo

This is my favorite. My nephews call me this...just "MoMo". And for some strange and yet perfect reason all children that I meet find their way to this nickname sans suggestion. It amazes me every time. I feel like I am knighted with a Nerf rubber sword into some secret toddler society where there are "No Adults Allowed" signs tacked up everywhere.

"I shall dub thee, MoMo."

It has taken a lifetime to acquire these names and more. New friendships mean new names because nicknames usually mean, "I love you". And when I met James I came full circle... and heard my name as if for the first time. 

Eight hours into our second date I noticed that he kept calling me Monique. I redirected him towards Mo-ville letting him know that my friends call me Mo and he was welcome to do the same. 

He said...

"No offense but Mo sounds like a guy's name to me. Monique is the name of a beautiful, intelligent woman and that is what I think you are...but if you prefer for me to call you Mo, I will."
(= way to go, James! Nailed it!)

Starry-eyed and swooning, I said...

"You can call me whatever you want."

It's been Monique ever since. He cut right to my mother's heart for me....He cut right to my heart and I love to hear him say my name.

Beautiful Day in Vietnam

Ya'll, I was close to being in tears last night over the wonderful Mr. Rogers. It's a wonderful day in the neighborhood whenever he was around. Ya feel me, 80's babies?! Someone posted a buzzfeed.com post on "21 heartwarming & beautiful facts about Mr. Rogers facts"

Somebody call the Pope and grant this man sainthood. Develop some practical theology curriculum based on his show. Something. His words were simply true. He wasn't rudely intrusive but he challenged mindless prejudice. He wasn't irresponsibly provocative but  he is legendary nonetheless.

He is kind of a big deal and I am a big fan if you haven't figured that out by now.

I want to buy a box set of his DVD's and show my children...

That's right. It's a sweater-jacket sleeve. Can we just stop for a moment and take it all in?...

I didn't cry when I got engaged or even at my wedding...Few things move me to tears but when I see just plain-and-simple good people being good...I can't help myself.

So after pulling myself together over and over again as I read through reasons 1-9 I get to number 10, barely halfway through, and I could no longer contain myself. Overwhelmed and misty-eyed with emotion I go into our kitchen to share the fullness of my nostalgic experience with James. I showed him this video...

Without missing a beat James says, 

"Did you know that Mr. Rogers was a Marine sharpshooter and he had over 150 kills during the Vietnam War?! He was a stone cold killer."

I just stared at him in refute...

"No he wasn't/didn't! And don't ruin my moment. I choose to believe in the "wonderful neighboor" Mr. Rogers not the assassin."

James began to research for instant evidence by way of Google on his I-phone. I love James and James loves history...war history...he knows it well. James is also a really, really good person, nothing contrived about it. So a bruised up, gun-slinging, trigger-happy, Mr. Fred "Go Ahead, Make My Day" Rogers is the perfect hero for James. 

And low and behold his facts are mere urban legend. I stared at him again now both relieved and slightly disturbed.  

With Mr. Roger's good name restored and all right in the world after a brief three minute unrest James turned to me..

showed me this picture...

and says, "Stone. Cold."

Spoiled not Spanked

It's not always hot in Houston...sometimes it rains, sometimes it floods. Ok, it floods a lot, and it is hot all of the time. I remember one day in the fourth-ish year of my existence when it rained in Noah go-grab-your-ark proportions. I was a wee tot so my memory of the peripheral details may be a bit skewed but here is what it looked like from my vantage point.

The news dosed out as many flash flood warnings as they could. My sister, brother and I watched the T.V. closely while my parents were still at work (I'm pretty sure they were at work). At some point they both likely called home to instruct us to keep safe inside. So between the sounds of the emergency tones blaring on the television, my parents clear admonition, and the neighborhood kids playing outside we determined (and by we I mean my brother and sister who are 7 and 11 years my senior determined) that going outside wouldn't be so dangerous after all. So into the deep brown bayou water we went. I remember I was wearing this one piece white terry cloth shorts set with a rainbow elastic waistband. I can still feel the heaviness of that itchy outfit when this memory surfaces. I also remember riding a neighbors canoe down the middle of the street. Then my mind flashes to being inside with my dad...my very upset, frustrated and confused dad. Mike Criddell was not a proud poppa that day. My sister and brother were served up a grade-A butt-whoopin that afternoon. I didn't see it but I have no doubt. Then it was my turn (here is where Mike Criddell starts telling the story)...up to this point I had never been spanked. Just as my dad braced me I said, "Hold on, daddy, can we talk?" He kneeled down looking me right in the eye, chuckled and said, "Naw little girl, I am about to give you a spanking." I continued..."I love you; you know that right?...but daddy it hurts my feelings when you yell at (or are upset with) me so I want to make a deal. If you don't ever yell at me I promise I will do whatever you ask me to do." I stuck my little bold 3 inch hand out for a seal-the-deal handshake and the old man took the bait....errr, I mean he took the deal and shook my hand. 

I can honestly say that my dad held true to his side of the bargain and I am certain that I probably did not. He has never yelled at me in anger. He never and I repeat, never raised his hand to swat my little well-deserving toosh.  My dad will tell this tale to anyone who will listen...in fact I'm sure you have already heard it, whoever you may be. He tells it to relatives and potential business partners alike. He is completely indiscriminate. This is more than a cute little story about a clever toddler who got her way one rainy, Houston afternoon. This story epitomizes my dad's character. It is the purest summation of our relationship.

That is dad's favorite story about me but let me tell share a few about him.

My Ace...
My dad calls me everyday just to talk. He sings, "Heeeeeey Good Looking. Whaaatcha got cookin?" And we enter into a discourse of equals. We are two old men in Central Park playing chess...my father and I. We are in tears laughing over silly relatives and Maury Povich revelations. We discuss politics and educational bureaucracy. The old man even receives theological counsel from me. Somehow I feel like his babygirl and his trusted colleague all in one sitting. I am loved. I am respected.

My Hero...
When he first spoke to James on the phone he talked about me for an hour. I asked James, "How did it go?" He said, "Your dad said he would walk any distance to get to you if had to...and you know what?...I believe him." I do too.

My Reminder...
When life is unfair, he reminds me who I am. A guy broke my heart once...made me cry. Dad was so gentle. He stood at the foot of my bed and said, "I once broke a girl's heart. She was kind and pure like you. I wish I had never hurt her. I didn't know who she was and he doesn't either, baby. Someday someone will know and he won't break your heart." And then he turned and walked away.

I watch him...

Every Sunday morning...
He looks at my mom during worship with his heart turned inside out. He is a pool of pathetic puppy-love around my mom and he has no qualms about it. In his eyes there is the dichotomy of pure joy and despair. He is in love and he refuses to hide it but you can see the hurt of the constant realization that he cannot live without her. I am blessed to witness this public look of love...his audacious adoration.

Whenever he is with my nephews...
He knows how to treat them like men. He rubs the tops of their heads. Firmly, "I am the Father. I am the leader."...Gently, "I know you. I see you. I love you."

These are the conversations that I remember. These are the sweet indelible images left in my mind by a man who knows no end to love and sacrifice. You haven't laughed until you have sat through his tales of being "Twinkie the Kid". You haven't danced until he has asked for your hand to bop with him through a Motown classic. You haven't seen a true champion of innocence unless you are his child. To be loved by Mike Criddell is a blessing and an honor. He is a student of his offspring. A keeper of promises. The tenderest teddybear Marine there is.

You see...
I am a woman who is loved well. I can identify and accept the love of my heavenly Father because of the love that is shown to me by my dad, Mr. Mike Criddell. Check the expiration date because I am spoiled and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Pip Pip Cheerio

Three actors and one company have made many folks in this great nation a tad bit uncomfortable and exposed.  People all over America were/are still raving "Cheerios done did it now!"

I'm not going to lie. I do feel quite special that I get to voice my opinion on the matter. My sweet hubs and I like to play this game called, "Is he/she black?" The rules are quite elementary. James sees someone and asks me, "Is he/she black?" What he has learned over the past two years (I originally typed five years. Getting a little ahead of myself) is that black people come in various tints and hues. We look different from each other...real different. We can be light enough to make our own brothas and sistas think us to be white. We may be infused with copper tones that leave the average onlooker assuming us to be Indian or Cuban. And sometimes we look black but the textures of our hair lend themselves toward Asian ancestry. We are the things crayola dreams are made of. So beautiful. So diverse. My eye is trained to notice nuances in the members of my vast black tribe because studies have shown that you actually notice more differences among those whom you look like (in short). I think that is simply fascinating. So, I like playing this game with James because it is ever-evolving and sometimes the answer is, "I just don't know what they are". 

We participate in this "I spy" sport for more than just amusement. We are also selfishly curious. This is a part of the sweet treat of mixing things up. Like Forrest Gump says, "You never know what you're gonna get." The potential gene pool for our offspring is a wealth of diverse biological permutations that neither side of the family has ever experienced before. How exciting is that? We used to worry about if our own identities would be lost in a sea of gray. Anxious tension rose and we quickly spouted off traditions that we would want to hold on too...I actually said Kwanzaa and I was adamant...not that there is anything wrong with Kwanzaa but I have never celebrated that A day in my life...ever. What can I say, I was desperate. Needless to say, we cut away from frivolous kibitzing and settled in the excitement of doing something new for our mixed up (albeit, futuristic) crew. 

Thanks to the miracle of modern technology I didn't have to look farther than Google to see my future offspring.

 Apparently, if James and I have a little boy it will look like me with a mustache and a Michael Jackson curl.

And our bright-skinned, green eye-ed daughter will be quite fashionable with her terry-cloth earmuff headband to keep her fro at bay. (I mean, what is going on here???)

Whatever they look like...I can't wait to see them...Whoever they are...I can't wait to know them. They have much to teach James & I. This is my prayer for them.

I hope you are welcomed into a world that thinks you are precious and worthy simply because you exist. I pray you understand that the expansion of your cultural backdrop is a gift to the world not a curse. I pray that neither James nor I force you into a check-box on a piece of paper but that you feel free to explore every aspect of you. I hope you dance. I hope you laugh. I hope you love well. I hope that you don't compare your skin color, eye color or hair texture to anyone, especially your siblings because God knows you may all be different. Shun negativity. Turn a deaf ear to mean people. Do Good. Soothe the scars of history by living a life of reconciliation. Know that you are beautiful. Know that you are loved.

Pip Pip, Cheerio!

*And, no, this is not some cute way to tell the world that I am pregnant because I am not.*

Skillets & Apple Cider Vinegar

There are so many neat spots on the campus of Baylor University. When I was a student at Truett I became quite familiar with the special spots around Truett Seminary.

There are these tables outside in the courtyard. I remember when my friend Michelle and I began a singing flash mob of sorts of Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. (I LUH that song). We started in and several other students stopped pretending to be studious and joined. Our canticle activities coincided with the Waco Regional Baptist Association monthly meeting right on the other side of a  wall of (not sound proof) glass doors...oops.

Oh and I love the study table on the third floor. There are no collapsible legs supporting that handsome display of oak and glass. It is a straight-up ascots and Bourbon type of structure, if you know what I mean. I felt like I was doing something with my life when I studied theology on the beary quiet (SicEm) third floor. Also, I was always under the impression that the more seasoned seminarians earned the right to that table so I didn't sit there until my latter years.

And every building has the esteemed "poo" bathroom. Don't act like you are too good to poo in public because we all find this bathroom in our respective places of work. Truett Seminary...3rd floor...I needn't say mas.

My favorite places are public but deceivingly romantic. The bench right outside the doors of the narthex and the long couch on the inside. I spent many a last-minute hour formatting footnotes and cramming in those places. I had my first conversations with James in those places. I reverted to my gitty second grade self on that long couch when, flustered and not wanting our conversation to end, I blurted out to James, "So you wanna come to my birthday party in the park?" Mind you, this query followed a deep conversation about the ails of being a mature 30 year old in seminary...forever a pathetic nerd am I.

That brown metal bench on the outside...the one on the left...that was where James sat eating his lunch one day. I passed him three times (or circled him like a vulture, whatever) while I talked on my phone in utter disbelief that I might actually like this guy. He says he watched me pace. I still didn't know what in the world we could possibly have in common when I finally got the nerve to say "hi" and sit my butt down. We talked for an hour just like we did the first time we talked on the couch.  James explained to me the importance of cleaning and disinfecting with apple cider vinegar. My ears perked up and my heart began to stir but I knew I was in love, in love I tell you, with my Moody-man,when our talkfest veered a smooth right to the land of cast iron skillets. I have had a lifelong love affair with my family cast iron skillet...Mom will turn over to me every, last thousand-year old heirloom she owns but I best not touch that skillet that we have been cooking with for 30+ years. My present from my parentals for my dirty 30 party in the park...my very own cast iron skillet (I still want theirs). My Moody man told me that he could burn, clean and oil it for me...I just about died. He was killing me softly with his words (in the best way possible) . He was wooing me with his cookware prowess and I knew he had to be mine.

My Mo-lijah Moment

You ever try to unwind the coiled telephone cord of a land-line phone? The more you pull and untwist the hairier the circumstance becomes. I felt an absurd amount of tension last week, AB.SURD. It wasn't regular tension either. It was wifey tension. If Webster's Dictionary defined "Wifey Tension" it would read something like this...

Wifey Tension /ˈwīfē/ /ˈtenSHən/:  stress felt from the overwhelming thought that you probably suck as a wife and need to get yourself together.

Marriage is not so much about two holy faces aglow in global ministry with your better half by your side as it is being open to God to use this holy relationship to slice straight to the heart of your own brokenness. 31 years alive and it's like Monique and Mo are just being introduced. I hope they can be friends because Mo is quite a little snot sometimes. And, maaan, I sounded jaded but I really do love this season of life because I trust God and I trust James and I don't fear this level of vulnerability because of the love I feel. I am exposed but not injured, humbled but not humiliated. And, really, this is the blessing of it all.

I called my mom and I was just about shaking and ready to cry. I told her of the many ways I was discovering my flaws and how I am ready to be done with them. James fully accepts me for who I am but Lord knows that doesn't give me license not to change. And we aren't talking major baggage, folks but whatever I am hauling around is heavy none-the-less. I mean, I whine when I should just say what I want. I nag when I promised myself I wouldn't be that woman. I don't always say "thank you". But the real crapper is that I'm so incredibly helpful. Let me tell you how helpful being helpful is when ain't noooobody asked for my help...So I am learning to trust James to be the man I love and married because he vowed that he would...loving, dutiful, selfless, focused...a grown man who was living an adult life long before I came along and doing just fine. Don't get me wrong we add to each others lives but my man is no child.

You ask, "Monique, when did you first know you had a problem?" I'm glad you asked. I was on my way to work one day while James was catching his last bit of rest before class. I leaned over, kissed him goodbye and I as walked away I said, "Did you finish your homework because you know you need to get it done?...And have you started your paper...you should to that today so you won't be stressed this weekend.." To this volley of questions prescribed for any lazy 3rd grader my husband smiled and responded... "Yes, baby...no, baby...good idea, baby." and capped it all off with a resounding "You know, you are going to make a good mother." (he says he was being sincere and I believe him).

So I asked my mom, shaking and fully irritated with myself (2 months later)..."Did you ever do this and when will God fix me so I will stop?". Her (eh, hopeful) response was that after 43 years of marriage God is still working those things out in her (and she had the nerve to chuckle).

I went to the lake last Friday for my weekly MyDay Friday...day-off...mini-retreat...time alone to read my books. I prayed(ish) but I didn't know what to ask for. I read. I pondered. I looked at the water and felt the wind hoping that the Holy Spirit might inspire a life-changing thought correlating nature to my current condition rendering a "fixed" better wife...Didn't happen. Finally in my fourth hour while reading a random line in a random fictional book God reminded me that the Holy Spirit is praying for me...He, Himself, the Holy One. This took my breath away. I had my own personal, still-whisper, Elijah moment...and it touched me to the core. So I going to stop pulling and untwisting because I have not a clue where to begin but the Lord's does so I think I will meet him at the lake again and see what else He has to say.

I failed

My nickname for all of my life has been Dr. Mo. When I was 7 years old I told my parents I wanted to be a Pediatric Neurosurgeon and I knew exactly what I was talking about.

I owned one of these. It is a life-sized, anatomically-correct 3D man that stood 6 feet tall.

My parents bought it for me when I was 9 years old. It collapsed to size of a notebook so naturally it was the "toy" that I brought to school for "show and tell". It was my best friend. I took it outside to play with and show all of the neighborhood kids (I just knew they were all jealous of me and my 3D buddy). 

I stapled and un-stapled him to my bedroom wall so many times that within a year the entire edge was punctured and tattered beyond repair. I would lay it on the floor with me while I watched television, studying every flap and caption. I memorized the handy dandy chart which was exhaustive with physiological names and definitions. 

Eventually, it just fell apart. Just about disintegrated in my hands. It was so hard to part with.

So why the trip down memory lane? Well, to remind myself that by all academic standards I am a failure. Institutions don't just measure success of a student by graduation. They also take into consideration whether or not that student is working in the field for which they were educated. I have two pieces of paper. One says that I should have become a physician. The other deems me a Master Theologian indicating that I should be a full-time minister.

Raise your hands if you followed through with academic success...Not so fast, Mo. 

I work at a Community College helping students figure out how to best manage their life and studies. I deal with everything from complete confusion and disorganization to homelessness and suicide.

Here is where I get my "Doogie Howser" on (cue circa 1990 & clicking sound of my computer keyboard) All I need is a blue screen and some white letters.

(Press Play and walk with me down Memory Lane. It'll set the tone.)

My Operating Room and my Pastoral Quarters are one. They are my office at McLennan Community College . I have seen a lot of healing take place in this sacred space. I have watched the hand of the Great Physician  correct brokenness and restore hope...all in my office...and the metaphors abound but the point is this. If nine year old me could have seen what was to become of her she may have fallen out crying on the shoulder of her beloved 3D friend but she doesn't understand what blessings lie in failed plans. 

I already know

Living together has afforded James and I front rows seats to each others quirks, sayings, strange daily routines. Speaking of routines, it is strange how they develop or really how they are birthed in the first place. The conversations James and I have before and after work have taken on their own personality. I fear them morphing into routine. Routine is safe in its predictability. It provides security and and control. But I fear routine and the banality it brings especially since I am a know-it-all. For those of you who know me I am certain that you have just been floored by a wave of shock and awe. Gather yourself and read on. Somewhere not so deep down inside of me I am firmly convinced that I know what is best. Perhaps that is just my personality but that would let me off the hook too easily.

When I come in from work I can see James' face tilt and twist while he looks into my eyes gauging my body language to figure out how to best engage his wife. 

James' daily thought bubbles...

"She's smiling and upbeat. Must have had a good day. I'll tease her a little bit and make her laugh."

"Oh no. She is frowning and quiet hope I'm in the clear."(as he goes over his mental honey-do list)

"She's just quiet...is she tired?...should I ask her about her day or does she want 30 minutes of peace?...I know, I'll turn off the tv/computer/game/put my book away so she knows she has all of my attention."

He just never knows what he's gonna get from day to day. Heck, I never know what he's gonna get from day to day and I'm me.  One thing is guaranteed each day...I will be right, duh. James knows what's up. He is a quick learner. However, one thing that really annoys me is that sometimes I fight the banality of the routine by interrupting James' stories. He tells the best stories but if I have heard it before I may say, "Oh, I already know." or "Yeah, Yeah you told me that." All the while I (the better version of me) am thinking to myself just let him talk because in this moment this story is brand new and I get to experience it's significance all over again. And I mean that. I've heard my dad's childhood stories a million times. I can mouth his war stories as though they are my own. My mom loves to relive her times as a little girl singing in the choir at church and she sings every hymn and anthem; every stanza in full voice...never do I even think to say, "Oh, yeah, I've heard that before" cutting them off like an 18 wheeler on the 610 loop. Never. Because these stories mean something...if not to me then to them and that is enough because they mean the world to me. This is more than a routine exercise. It is a time to deepen the intimacy between James and I so that I know his stories even better than he does. If I don't slow down I may rush through hearing him say, "I love you" as I reply, "Uh yeah you told me that earlier". And how tragic would that be? 

Mom was right. Sometimes we just need to shut. up.

Opening my ears like I'm opening my heart...I hear ya, baby. I hear ya.

A Rag Doll in the mouth of a Pitbull

That's me. The fro-ed out looking Annie doll lying, doe-eyed under the snoozing pooch. This is my life. Daily. 

Now I have my moments when my countenance is downcast and my mood is quiet unsavory. I can be stubborn, bossy, and downright mean. Sometimes I just cannot be pleased leaving James walking on eggshells trying desperately to offer up various forms of entertainment and compassion. However, I am convinced that James dislikes it most when I am trying to relax...alone.

I am not really into video games. James like the quest-filled adventures of Skyrim and the like where you walk and pick things up and talk to old sages in cloaks. I am a fan of a good throw-down by way of Mortal Kombat or Injustice, but video games just aren't my thing. Let me whip some virtual tail and be done with it after 3 rounds.  Our personalities are unswerving even in video games.  James likes a good full story with layer after layer of historical significance. I just want to get on with it already and move on to the next thing.  I 'd rather read a book, quickly.

Given the same long day for both of us, James will come in and unwind with controller in hand. I, on the other hand, grab a book and a pillow. And that is ok with me. Different folks. Different strokes.

That's not where this story ends though...there is another layer. Remember, sometimes when you are married you'd rather be alone but with your spouse. Because alone doesn't necessarily mean alone. It means something different. It is hard to articulate through a blog and it was a reprehensible notion for me as a unmarried but very much in love woman just three months ago. Because married means round the clock, there ain't no better thing on earth than, togetherness...right?

Two of my dear friends from undergrad joined in wedded bliss when I was 22 (I'll call them J&T). I visited their one bedroom apartment in Nacogdoches some months after nuptials were exchanged and conducted the inevitable post-wedding inquisition of single-hood curiosity....

"How are things going?" (and if it is hard, who would really be honest anyway?)..."Did you get everything you registered for?"..."How was the honeymoon?" (none of my business) 

I don't remember the answers to those questions but after 10 years I remember J's response when I posed this question..."What has surprised you the most about marriage."

She said, "It's ok if we watch T.V. in separate rooms if we don't want to watch the same thing."

Not what you were expecting? I have kept that in my back pocket since 2003. I have taken it out and turned it 'round and 'round in my hand understanding more and more why this this is not a sign of a decaying relationship.  Rather it is a sweet and honest reflection on real love.

So, it's ok if we are doing different things in different rooms in this place we share but for us that separation can't last too long. Just when I think James is all settled in, fully enthralled by sharks on National Geographic or striving for a new trophy on some game, that's when he shows up bright eye-ed and curious at the threshold of our bedroom. Finding me completely relaxed and at peace with a book in my hand he says, "What are you doing, baby?" (insert a tail wag or two) I know what's coming next. Before I can respond he is on the bed with me playfully wrestling around like a Pitbull with it's favorite rag-doll. This lasts for minutes. We laugh and tease each other. We are like two mischievous children just before nap time. My book is a weak opponent to the will of James who wants to play. And just as quickly as it begins it ends...James's head is in my lap...he naps... and I can't reach my book...I love it and I feel so loved.

See that raggedy doll and snoozing pooch above...that's James and I and we'd rather be left alone.

Pillow Talk ~ Song Edition

I went home for Mother's Day which means I got to go to church. I was spiritually reared at The Church Without Walls in Houston, TX. Think black-Baptist-mega-church and you are probably on the right track. Amazingly gifted and charismatic preacher, hats, suits and high heels and of course a killer choir. These folks can SAAANG. When I go home I am immersed in gospel worship. It is food to my soul. It's like cake and cold milk, hot salty french fries dipped in BBQ sauce and ranch or the crispy burnt cheesy edge of mac & cheese casserole...its just too good. I go home and I get my "black church" experience and I don't hold back.

One old but not antiquated black church tradition is the antiphonal form of worship fondly known as Dr. Watts. It was created by this guy...

Ironic right? 

He was  born in England in 1674 and is a legend in black churches  everywhere.

God must have a sense of humor.

Anyways...singing "Dr. Watts" sounds like this... 

Last night our pillow-talk topic was my day of worship back home. I told James my dreams of joining a community gospel choir just so I can indulge my appetite weekly. I listed off the songs we sang in church with pure delight. I paused and looked over at him watching me talk. He turned his head, smiled slyly, opened his mouth and sang...

And he sang every.last.word. His melismas were effortless. His inflections were precise. I thought I was back home. He never ceases to amaze me..my white husband from Moody,TX.