wifersize wednesday: i've got the joy, joy, joy, joy...

I was reading a New York Times article - forwarded to me by Andrew - which had very nice things to say about marriage. In fact, it links a successful marriage with overall health and happiness. The author, David Brooks, quotes:

Marital happiness is far more important than anything else in determining personal well-being. If you have a successful marriage, it doesn’t matter how many professional setbacks you endure, you will be reasonably happy. If you have an unsuccessful marriage, it doesn’t matter how many career triumphs you record, you will remain significantly unfulfilled.

And, later, he mentions a study claiming that "being married produces a psychic gain equivalent to more than $100,000 a year". Most of us know a married couple or two that challenge these findings, and have more of a marital deficit than a surplus, but let's FOR A MINUTE think about the couples that are doing well, the couples that are still in love, the couples that are better for being married, the 50% that aren't divorced or separated. What are they doing right?

A reader left the comment:

The flaw that always exists in happiness surveys is that one never knows if good marriages make happy people or if happy people make good marriages.

which got me thinking. I like the idea of, and have written before about, "epic tales of retrospect". Couples that are most happy are those constantly retelling the parts about their relationship that were the best, that were the happiest, that were the most blessed. Of course stories linger in their past that are difficult, upsetting, disappointing, infuriating, and heartbreaking, but they even manage to tell THOSE stories with a "happily ever after" tagged on the end. Are they delusional? Or do they merely see the glass half (or entirely) full?

I figure it's neither happy marriages making people happy or happy people making good marriages but rather people choosing to rejoice that make both. "Rejoice" means "to be joyful again", and isn't that what epic tales are made of? Let's remember all the good times, again, and feel joy over them once more.

Bill Johnson says: "There's the choice of joy and there's the demonstration of rejoicing. If you wait to rejoice until you have joy, you will only have it in seasons. But if you rejoice to have joy, you can have it all the time."

Brooks warns that "most of us pay attention to the wrong things" in marriage, in our faith, in life. Wouldn't you rather be constantly joyful - if even to be confused with delusional - rather than seasonal?

"Joy is the serious business of Heaven."
- C.S. Lewis

number 38

I heart the website Stuff Christians Like (a spin off of Stuff White People Like, which I also heart) and its creator, Jon Acuff, posted this a few weeks back. So I responded. As did 726 other people.

However - and I'm not sure how he decided - I became #38 in a 127-question quiz Acuff wrote called:

The “Is that contestant on American Idol a Christian? Scorecard”

38. Wears TOMS shoes = + 1 point

To add up your score with over a 130 other ideas on this scorecard, visit stuffchristianslike.net.

The questions were assigned at random which is awesome because I ALSO LOVE TOMS SHOES.

Because I'm a Christian. And I'm white.

foto friday: dodie's chair

My great-great aunt Dorothy is a legend. We all called her "Dodie" since my grandmother (when she was a child...that's how far back Dodie goes) couldn't pronounce Dorothy. Dodie lived through two world wars, scarlet fever, and 20+ years as a retired, single woman living in a high rise at Yonge & Bloor. She passed away when I was 18 but she's still one of my heroes.

When she, in her 80s, was diagnosed with cancer she invited family members to her apartment to pick out what they'd like to take. The thought horrified me, mostly because it was my first old-person-almost-about-to-die situation since my grandmother died when I was 8, and partly because I just wanted Dodie to stick around. Forever. I didn't want her stuff, I wanted her.

When I was younger (5? 6 years old?), as we walked through Queen's Park to feed the pigeons, I asked her, "Dodie, when I have kids you're going to be their great-great-GREAT aunt, right?" Dodie squeezed my hand and answered, "We'll just see, won't we?"

Now here we were, her closest family members, in her apartment on Isabella street, half-visiting and half-scoping the place. I remember sitting near her oversized armchair, on the floor, with my back against the arm while she played with my hair. She asked me what I wanted to take. I said nothing. "Pick something out, for me. It would be nice for me to know what you took."

In the end, I asked her travel journals and photo albums, and a poem about the city of Toronto she had written and my uncle Jeff had framed. I remember feeling pleased that it pleased Dodie to have me ask for those particular things. To me, Dodie was a world-traveler but was also a Torontonian at heart. Just like me.

Along with those prized possessions, I inherited a few pieces of furniture after she died. They've resided with me in four apartments and, now, in our first house. One of them was her oversized armchair which we've opted to reupholster and put in our (current) guest room/(future) baby room.

And when our baby is old enough, I'll tell stories about great-great-GREAT aunt Dodie. We'll sit in the oversized armchair and look at travel photo albums.

Anyone know of a reputable reupholsterer?

foto friday: up in the air

The best man on the planet turned 30 on March 6th (he brilliantly chronicled about this milestone here) and as a surprise I took him on a private flight around Toronto. As born-and-raised city kids, there isn't much left in the way of Grand Things that we haven't seen/done in Toronto: the ROM, the Museum, the AGO, the TSO, etc.

We joke that, last year, Andrew took me to the CN Tower for my birthday and this year, well, this year I took him a little higher.

Here are some of the highlights:

Chris, a friend from work, who has his piloting license.
Also very good with keeping secrets.

The plane. Smaaaaall.
Yeah. We're talking small.
The view!
A 45° angle. Fun > what you're imagining.
Handsome on his 30th.
Headphones = looking important.
Andrew flying for a bit! Toronto is in the distance.

(belated) wifercize wednesday: lean on me

Sometimes things aren't as easy as we make them out to be.

Sometimes, after we've used up all of our own strength, all of our own resources, all of our own answers, and all of our own optimism, we're left with...well, our backyard that Solomon has used as his personal poop deposit zone all winter is a perfect symbol. We're left with what feels like a yard full of recently thawed poop. Which is not the only reason, but is a very good reason nonetheless, that we need God. Because God doesn't run out of strength, resources, answers, or optimism. We're finite. He's infinite.

I've been feeling my finite...ness? recently. In waves of yards full of recently thawed poop. When I feel overwhelmed by difficulties or, what's worse, in a holding pattern of comfort laced with dissatisfaction, I feel trapped. And I get cranky.

A good friend and co-pastor at another young adult congregation, Noel, spoke a few weeks ago on the process of waiting. She uttered such pearls of wisdom (obnoxious to me as they were in my time of waiting) as:

• Waiting is about relinquishing my rights and my control to make something happen.
• No matter what you're waiting for, you have a happily ever after because you are royalty (your Dad is the King).
• Timing = the situation being perfect and favourable for the desired outcome.
• God is working behind the scenes even when we don't see it.
  

Which brings me to marital vows. When man and wife pledge "in good times and bad" I'm sure they, like myself, are picturing epic bouts of illness, tragedy, and poverty. Although a spouse is handy to have when those times come, I find the waiting times are even more difficult. The sheer stalemate of some situations requires, by necessity, someone to lean on. Waiting is tiring.

In our wedding vows, we adapted verses that we love from Proverbs (Amplified):

"The heart of her husband trusts in her confidently and relies on and believes in her securely, so that he has no lack of honest gain or need of dishonest spoil. She comforts, encourages, and does him only good as long as there is life within her."

Even in my waiting, I can be thankful. I can be choose to be thankful for the things I have, instead of dwelling on the things I am waiting for. And, as the Sweet Divines say,

"If I had to make a list of things I need to make my life complete
I would check off a man 'cause I already got such a heckuva man."

manly men, girly girls

Ten years ago (wow...I can recount in decades now, like a real adult) I worked as a counsellor at a summer camp. Amid the slew of in-jokes, camp names and code words we coined a term known as "Fluffy kat" which we knew to mean a flirty girl. Cat spelled with a "k" because it seemed...flirtier. We had matching T-shirts commissioned in Huntsville: red lettering on white cotton. Tight fitting, of course. I'm sure someone still has a photographic evidence.

What reminded me of the Fluffy Kat phenomenon today was none other than the new spring/summer ad campaign from French Connection. The print ads are here, here, and here. The commercials (directed as mini French movies) are here. A co-worker's quote: "I just want to eat them like little French...macaroons."

Since I've been on a gender kick recently, these ads made me realize what I love about advertising and art. French Connection reveals just enough of a stereotype (the French-accented narration doesn't hurt either...who is to argue with the French?) that both sexes feel honourably and wryly represented.

The two sides are not competing, not arguing, not vying for power, but rather mirroring the other like flip sides of a coin. Equal, but different.

Also, this campaign makes me want to go to Paris in a way I have never before encountered.

Wifersize Wednesday: manly men, part 2

(click above image to read the ad)

Last week I posted about a turn I recently spotted in media: masculinity revived. Seems as if I wasn't the only one.

Heated debates here: The Inspiration Room, here: NY Daily News, here: WalletPop, to link but a few (including ones on websites called feministing.com, treehugger.com, and jezebel.com...natrually). Just type "dockers ad wear the pants sexism" into Google for more inspiration. You'll have your fill of "Does the Dockers ad campaign promote sexism? Click 'yes' or 'no' now!" banners.

Can't sexism go both ways? Haven't we been telling men to shut up long enough that they have forgotten how to speak up? Haven't we been telling them that they're stupid long enough that they've stopped giving their opinion? Haven't we been telling them that we're strong enough to do our job as well as theirs that they've let us?

(this can also apply to other "isms"...haven't we been telling our culture that youth prized above age so we are devoid of the wisdom that honouring the wise brings?)

When I read the Dockers print ad in the Metro on Monday, I was impressed. Impressed by its composition, impressed by its wording, impressed by its balls. I know this world would benefit from men who aren't afraid to be manly.

Just so we don't misunderstand each other: I'M ALL FOR EQUALITY. Equality does not mean sameness. I am equal to Andrew, but very (very) different. Andrew was the first to say that he didn't want to marry a pastor's wife, but a pastor. We are equally strong, ambitious, creative, educated, and opinionated. We plot together, plan together, produce together, and promote each other. But I love it when Andrew wears the pants.

Last night, for Tuesday Date Night, we caught "The Young Victoria" at the Revue Cinema. Emily Blunt and Rupert Friend do a tremenous job of portraying the young marriage between Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. It's not without its feuds over gender roles. Imagine, instead of who wears the pants it's who wears the crown! And yet their hope for a solid union - in marriage and reign - was in allowing Albert to be more than a first-class servant boy, and instead a man, a husband, and a father.