It feels really good to get stuff done.  After a two-week morass of self-pity and Sneaky Hate Spiral, I’m off to a better start, this week.  The car has a new battery and alternator, which—even though I hadn’t planned on spending rent money on the car—is an investment.  We got Marshall’s shirt and pants, the guys’ shirts and pants, and my dress.  I’m about 10 napkins away from my quota (200), and all but 50 are hemmed.  I broke into my new sewing machine for the first time (shocking that it took this long) and hemmed a couple myself last night.  Which was inspiring, I just don’t know how to tell you.  Colleen has been serging them all, up to this point, and it’s great to know I can help her finish them.

And the flowers are coming up so lovely, the bunting Rose made is really cute, and things are just getting squared away in general.  Mason jars found.  Glass jugs beginning to be found.  The rings are in the mail.  Cakes and cake cards, it’s just — it’s good.  I’m loving it.

Especially working on the liturgy this week, typing up the order of events, including the music—fingerstyle guitarist and mountain dulcimer player—and the ceremony, the dear friends reading Song of Solomon and Matthew excerpts and Berry’s “The Country of Marriage.”  This liturgy is beautiful.  The poem is beautiful.  I cry every time I read either one of them.  Bodes ill for the day of.  Man I don’t want to cry through this whole thing.  Ha ha, Marshall’s going to totally lose it, I know.

I want to finish out this month as sane as possible.  Want to so bad.  As graceful as possible, as generous as possible.  I know that won’t be a lot of grace, or generosity, or sanity for that matter, but I hope it will be some, and that I will be able to love my friends and family this month the way they deserve to be loved.  This is one of the things I’m most nervous about, actually.  They are the ones being generous to us, in this season of our life, and it’s hard to know how to tell them that.  We’re just inviting them to watch us make a promise, and getting them barbecue and old-time music.  I don’t deserve a fancy bachelorette getaway weekend, or a fun dress-up lingerie party, or the dozens of amazing presents.  Or this man. Oh my God.  Never have I deserved this man.

It all kind of feels like a big, happy joke: we’re not that big a deal, but some people have some love for us, and love (even the smallest love) is huge.  It’s bigger than us, the givers and the receivers.  Which is why we understand that love must be God, and God must be love; that love is what heals and makes, and discovers the hidden, and fills the empty.

I really am going to not listen to the Berry poem.  Since am hoping to retain poise.  Um.

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