Driftwood

Posted on July 10, 2012 by Kari

The driftwood tosses about in the sea

Worn by the waves and the turbulent water.

It looks like the end for the branch or the tree

But it’s just the beginning of beauty perfected.

The storm hews the edges, rough and ugly

Smoothing and softening each imperfection.

The salt and the sun bleach out stains dark

Cleansing and purifying in waters deep.

The wood, smooth and white tell a story

Of hot heat and waters deep.

Each line and each mark attest to the voyage

Of battle scars and beauty born in the rough waves of life’s journey.

Life is no different. We are tossed and beaten by trials. We are challenged and changed by the crashing waves of heartache. But in our heartache we are made perfect. The waves smooth out our rough edges, the heat cleanses and purifies our blemishes. We are wrinkled and scarred by the journey, but in the end, we are softer, smoother, and better for the deep waters and crashing waves that tossed and perfected us along the way.

Four Years out of Forever

Posted on July 8, 2012 by Kari

Saturday was mine and Darren’s four-year wedding anniversary. We were going to go to Quebec City in Canada to celebrate. That’s what we say every year. It’s always so hot and we always say, “you know, it would be so nice up in Canada right now.” But there’s just one thing about Canada…

Back when we were dating, Darren’s family wanted to take me to Canada. that’s a great idea—only I didn’t have a shred of ID on me. No worries, the Andrews say. It’s fine. You’re an American; the Americans will let you come back home. The Canadian border agents weren’t so confident but that didn’t discourage the in-laws. Off to Canada we go. It was lovely, of course—until I wanted to come home.

It turns out the State Troopers working the US/Canadian border aren’t easily charmed when you try coming back into the States without any ID. It doesn’t help that Troopers completely freak me out. What with their puffy pants and tall leather boots, Troopers remind me of two things: Male strippers and nazis. When I’m done giggling about the first, I’m completely freaked out by the second. So I try not to cross them fancy pants Troopers—especially by crossing borders illegally.

I did eventually convince the border agents that I was a very nice law-abiding US citizen. But now I’m scared of Canada. What if the fancy pants Troopers recognize me? What if I forget my Passport again? I think at this point it’s more likely I would row a boat to Cuba than cross the Canadian border with passport in hand.

So00000000000000…….I decided since I’m a good solid Missouri girl, it was time to introduce Darren to all that is the Bass Pro Shop ba da da da dahhhhh <—————- that was dramatic music.

You see, I love Darren and Darren loves boats so what could be better than wandering around the Bass Pro Shop looking at boats? I agree, nothing at all. We had a grand time and Darren even found just the right boat….I mean, not that we bought it, but yes, he found it. Maybe I’ll buy it for him for our 20th anniversary when we are shockingly rich. Yes, probably.

After that we decided on a whim to drive up to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. We always drive over Portsmouth when we cross the bridge from New Hampshire to Maine and we always say, “That town looks cute. We should stop there someday.” So yesterday was someday and we finally went exploring.

Okay, everybody grab a pen and paper; it’s time to take notes. Repeat after me: Portsmouth is the cutest place on earth. Write it down. Don’t forget. Go pack your bags because really, I promise, Portsmouth is the cutest place you’ll ever, ever go. Tonight when Darren falls asleep I’m going to pack up all our worldly goods and move us there. He’ll forgive me eventually and I’m pretty sure it’s worth the risk.

These were some of my favorite things:

There’s a German coffee shop

Darren likes to give me a hard time about my German background. He also likes to remind me of his “pure and far superior English bloodline.” The man thinks he’s royalty. So I couldn’t be more pleased with myself when I got him into a coffee shop flying a German flag right outside.

He’s trying very hard to look like he doesn’t like the coffee but even he had to admit how good it was. Truth be told, it was even better than Dunkin’ Donuts—gasp. Speaking of Dunkin’ Donuts, I saw a man wearing a DD shirt that said, “Friends don’t let friends drink Starbucks.” I almost hugged him. But he was a stranger and that would be weird so I let him carry on with his peaceful little life.

I ordered a Dirty Chai Latte and Darren went around calling it a dirty German the rest of the day. Can you believe him? So you know what I did?

I opened the mouth on this fat cheeky shark….

….and I pushed him in bahahahaha! Take that you bloody Englishman.

The German coffee was very good but you won’t believe what was even better…

There’s a vintage typewriter shop

Shut up.

And there’s perfectly inspiring street art

And there’s a man store

And the city is old, old, old with cobblestone streets and beautiful old buildings. It’s so quint and peaceful and I’ve never been happier in my life.

I’m putting my things in a box right now. Don’t tell Darren.

Click here to read about the time we finally did make it to Quebec City 🙂

Between Here and Forever

Posted on July 1, 2012 by Kari

Sometimes I can’t figure out what the point of life is. Every day is so much like the last with work, bills, cooking, and cleaning. We go through the same routine over and over just to accomplish all we need to survive in this world for one more day. But why? Isn’t there more purpose and meaning to my life than doing the laundry and filling out stacks of paper at work?

I was thinking through all these morbid little thoughts the other day and the thought hit me: The point is not the activity; the point is the result of the activity.

Let me explain: At work, I sit at a desk filling out stacks of mindless paperwork. I hate that desk. I swear, some of that paperwork ate parts of my soul and is eyeing my imagination and creativity next. Sometimes I think I might die at that desk…just die of boredom right there in my chair. But then I had that thought and it made me realize the point is not the work I do sitting at that desk, the point is the character I’m developing by sitting there doing stuff I don’t want to. Sitting there has helped me develop (mostly against my will) patience, endurance, persistence, and the ability to push through and accomplish what I must even if I think it might kill me. The work itself seems pointless; it seems like I’m whittling my life away on nonsense. But, there is purpose—that being the better person I am hopefully becoming by pushing through difficult situations.

I know it’s been said many times in many ways, “Life is a journey not a destination.” I’ve heard that saying so many times the truth in it was lost on me. But I’m starting to realize how true it is that life is more than just a race from one goal to the next. Life is more than what I do day in and day out. Life is the person I’m becoming. Life is the lessons I’m learning. Life is routine, yes, but even the routine serves a purpose in helping me grow and change through the boredom and struggles.

I’m starting to realize I need to stop getting bogged down in the daily responsibilities of life and need to start looking for the lessons and opportunities in my daily routine. I know myself. I know I will always get bored easy and I will always hate that desk. I love change and love having something new and exciting to look forward to. But life doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes you just have to sit at your desk and fill out paperwork like a grownup.

This is the life I’ve been given and this is the road I’m on right now. So rather than trying to just change and escape my present circumstances, what can and should I be doing to grow and change right now today? That’s a question I will be asking myself a lot going forward.

Someday that desk will be behind me; but I hope it’s not left behind even one day before I’ve learned to accept the life I have with gratitude and contentment and not one day before I’ve learned to grow and change wherever I am, whatever I’m doing.

“Fear and doubt always seem to find people who are looking for them; hope and courage do the same thing.” Bob Goff

How Reading Taught Me to Write

Posted on June 28, 2012 by Kari

I had a lot of trouble learning how to read when I was a kid. I don’t remember how old I was when I finally put the words together, I just remember being the very last kid who could make her way through the jungle of words in a book. None of it made sense to me. I couldn’t grasp how the letters and sounds were supposed to come together and actually mean something. I thought I was stupid and really believed there was something wrong with me. I believed I would never be smart like other people. I hated reading. I hated books. I hated words. I couldn’t spell. I couldn’t even pronounce words correctly. I avoided books and reading because they reminded me of how stupid I thought I was and brought to my attention everything I wasn’t good at.

I was a physical kid—always outside climbing trees and building forts with my brothers. I didn’t want to sit still and learn anything. I believed I couldn’t learn and that I wasn’t smart enough to understand like other people.

But then when I was 11 I picked up a book called The Penny Whistle by B. J. Hoff and something changed inside of me. I have no idea why I picked that book up or cracked it open because it wasn’t something I normally did. I remember loving the illustrations in the book—crisp, detailed pencil drawings that looked like you could touch the page and get graphite on your fingers; perhaps that’s what drew me in. Regardless, it was the words that kept me. Finally, for the first time in my life, words made sense; they ran off the page like water and I drank them up—consumed them one by one to the very last page.

I pulled The Penny Whistle off my bookshelf today—it’s tattered with a piece of tape on the cover. My name is written in black marker on the inside cover with the date July 18, 1997. I flipped through the pages and found the grubby fingerprints off an 11-year-old throughout. The book falls open to my favorite illustration of a tree standing stark against a winter backdrop.

When I held that book today I actually had to stop and take a deep breath to fight back tears. Why? Because that simple little book changed my life. I don’t even remember what the book is really about; the story is lost but the change it brought inside of me remains. When I poured over that book as an 11-year-old girl, I found something inside of myself. I found words. I found ability and intelligence. I found stories. I came alive and knew I had value, capability, and something to share. I went from hating books to loving them—loving the stories held inside two covers. I fell in love with words and began to see them as colors on a palette and the blank page as my canvas. There, reading that book, I fell in love with writing.

When I was a teenager, I remember being sick and bored one day so I cracked open Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster. The name Daddy-Long-Legs amused me and, for no other reason, I started reading. I read the whole book that day without ever putting it down. I’m not an avid reader even now so it means something when I can’t part with a story until it’s finished. I gobbled up each book by Webster and learned one important thing from her stories—the writer’s voice. I don’t know how to describe Jean Webster—her imagination, her childishness, her sharp sense of humor—she wrote like she was having a witty conversation with each of her readers. I fell in love with her style and find now that my own voice in writing grew out of the whimsy I so love in her books.

Even though I struggled through school and language has always been a challenge for me, I have found that reading is the best lesson I ever learned in writing. In reading, I actually see the way language is laid out on a page in sentences and paragraphs. Instead of just hearing about and practicing the proper construction of individual sentences and parts of speech, I can actually visualize and grasp sentence structure as I read. The more I read, the more I learn about writing. The more I write, the more I want to read and learn more and more from the words and characters acting out the world of grammar on the page. I may never be a very good student. I may never be able to fully understand the complexities of the English language. But I do know the more I read the words of good writers, the better writer I too can be.

“The problem was too big for the lot of them. But her mother always maintained that you had to start where you were or you’d never get anywhere at all” (p. 37, The Penny Whistle).

Perspective

Posted on June 25, 2012 by Kari

I spent Saturday exploring Plymouth, Mass where the Pilgrims first explored this land. In the late afternoon, a storm blew in over the ocean. A fierce wall of slate gray clouds stretched like reaching hands over the face of the water bringing darkness and chill of cold air over everything it touched. I stood by the bay awestruck (and a little scared) by the clouds billowing and changing overhead. There’s no view quite like a storm at sea. You stand by and watch as in slow motion the storm reaches and stretches consuming every sliver of sunshine and blue sky in its path. Huge swaths of rain fall and wave like ribbons. I stand on the bay snapping pictures of the ever-changing sky until the winds blow hard and the drops begin to fall–then it’s a race back to the car before the torrents let loose and all the slate gray from above comes splashing down below.

Today I’m home caught again in the ruckus of a thunderstorm. The rain falls fast and hard as the gray clouds zip by overhead. But today I can’t see the storm–only the rain and the sound of thunder. There’s no panoramic view or way to gain perspective on all that rumbles above. I couldn’t see the storm coming and I don’t know when it will leave.

Isn’t life the same? If only I could stand on the bay and watch life stretch out before me. If only I could see the story beginning to end–dark though it may be and threatening, at least I would know. I would know when to stand in awe snapping pictures of the overwhelming beauty and when to run for cover from the heartache and hurt. But life doesn’t give us warning or panoramic views. Life doesn’t tell us when heartache is coming or when it will leave. We stand in the storm seeing and hearing only the rain and thunder–not the beauty and majesty of the clouds that bring our trouble. I think of the storm at sea, and try to remember that even trouble falls from beauty and brings beauty in its wake. The storm lasts for a season and at times we believe we will be consumed–but we won’t. There is brightness after the rain. Rainbows to bring light, color, and the hope of a promise.

God may come in storm clouds dark, fall on us in trials and pain–but there is beauty in the panorama of it all. If we could stand on the bay and see his plan–see his purpose stretch out in fierce beauty from beginning to end–then we would understand. Then we would be awestruck at his divine plan. We would stand in the falling rain, and though we may be afraid of the storm clouds and thunder overhead, we would see there is a beginning and an end–a purpose stretching with beauty and hope through all the dark clouds and rain drops that beat around us.

Though you stand in the thunderstorm and see no plan. Though your heart is broken and overwhelmed. Know, always know, there is beauty overhead. Know the rain falls from beauty and brings beauty in its wake. Know, always know, there is a plan.

Mad Love

Posted on June 19, 2012 by Kari

Today I should be writing about something awfully important. But I’m not. I tried you know. But I’ve just been sitting here in a standoff with my computer screen and the two of us (the computer and I) decided it’s best if today I just drink coffee and write something unimportant. I hope you don’t mind. If you do, well, don’t read it genius. So, today, I’m going to just tell you that I have mad love for a few things in life. Isn’t it funny how we all have our likes and dislikes and how our loves and hates make us each the unique people that we are? fascinating :] Here are a few of the things that make me who I am, for better or for worse. I wrote them down in the order they came to me so now you see how cluttered and befuddled my brain is:

Potatoes. coffee. beige. Thoreau. scarves. boots. leather bags. Fossil. Harrison Ford. mocha. Dunkin’ Donuts. books. tea. blogging. brothers. words. nature. birds. Faith. pasta. architecture. paper. Darren. Rachel T. laughter. letters. Ashley B. adventure. dreams. flowers. Quick Trip. Missouri. dirt roads. sweeping plains. moody oceans. the woods. Jean Webster. Daddy-Long-Legs book. Boston. cannoli. Italy. travel. walking. poppies. feta. art. brown gravy. french fries. dresses. ruffles. hugs. warm blankets. fireplaces. the smell of smoke. birch trees. fall. pumpkin spice lattes. black nail polish. camping. flip-flops. green chilies. Anthropologie. OneRebublic. barns. the country. Gilly Hicks. journals. maps. sci-fi. sweaters. jeans. ink. Relevant Magazine. The National Geographic. Prison Break. Little Women. silence. wood floors. colonial houses. Massachusetts. bookstores. cafes. Chipotle. trees. fire flies. flying. clean sheets. American Eagle. home. Pontiac. America. cello. navy. sleep. writing. typing. Cracker Barrel. a clean house. nephews & nieces. pictures. sarcasm. poetry. warm clothes. bacon. tree houses. WordPress. #2 pencils. decorating. creating. honesty. surprises. school. birds singing. fire. black eye liner. rain. seltzer. Arnold Palmers. cheese. olive oil. bread. being left-handed. 7. Twilight. Shakespeare. Hugh Jackman. archaeology. typewriters. vintage. Abercrombie & Fitch. mud. Country Living. The Office. blush pink. canvases. psychology books. home. feathers. gray. Bryan Adams. rotary phones. down blankets. York Peppermint Patty coffee creamer. family. freckles. florals. cider. Pottery Barn. Cavallini. green beans. mom’s fried chicken. spaghetti sauce. blue prints. Brian Regan. murder mysteries. staying up late. mascara. C.S. Lewis. getting packages in the mail. changes. mason jars. Xbox. pie. you. dandelions. red woods. tire swings. typography.

Unfortunately, potatoes outranked both my husband and my faith but at least I’m honest :]

What makes you you?

The Too Busy Church and What it Has to Lose

Posted on June 14, 2012 by Kari

Church is a very busy place. In addition to the regular Sunday services, many churches also have programs galore for all ages almost every day of the week. The programs alone are not a bad idea; having a Bible study for women or a special activity for teens can go a long way in building relationships both with God and each other. But in trying to be actively involved in church, many families find themselves pulled in a million directions all at once. You worship together as a family on Sunday, mom is gone to a program for ladies on Tuesday, you’re back for prayer meeting on Wednesday, your teenager is dropped off for a youth activity on Thursday, and your 3rd grader is taken to a special program on Friday. Don’t forget the men’s prayer breakfast on Saturday and you’re back again on Sunday morning. And that’s just church stuff–not work, school, or any of the other activities a family participates in.

We have families running, running, running trying to keep up. But what are we keeping up with anyway? With each other? With the expectations of our fellow church members? With God and what we perceive he requires of us? With our own perfectionistic standards? What? Sometimes when we are trying our hardest to do everything right and make everyone happy, we lose sight of what actually matters most. We exchange the busyness of activities about God for quiet time actually spent talking to God. We trade programs intended to build up families for actual time with our families.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to bash church or any of the opportunities a church offers. I know each program offered is meant to help believers, not hinder them. I love my church family and love the time I get to spend with them. But I also see individuals and families are the building blocks of any church. If families grow too busy to spend time with God and each other, then the building blocks of a church can begin to crumble. A church family is only as strong and healthy as the individual families of which it’s comprised. If families are falling apart because they’re too busy to stop and listen to each other, to solve problems and grow together, what will become of the family of God as a whole?

With all the opportunities and distractions life offers, I only hope we can learn to keep our priorities straight. To love God first–and because we love him and desire to worship him together–to gather in church as the family of God. But in doing so, not to become bogged down and distracted by extra activities that pull us away from what should be our next priority–our families. If we want to honor Christ and worship him together, let’s honor him privately in our individual lives and homes by setting aside all that weighs us down and focus on all that brings us closer to him and the people who matter most. Let’s value our families and the time we spend with them, remembering if we lose our relationships with them, we have already hurt the family of God even if we do show up for church on Sunday.

Night Mail

Posted on June 12, 2012 by Kari

You want to hear a story? Oh good.

So, the husband and I attended a university where guys and girls still live in separate dorms across campus from each other. You can call it old-fashioned but having separate dorms led to something rather adorable in my book: Night Mail. You see, the guys and girls each had a wooden box rigged up on wheels with a rope on the front to pull it around. In these boxes the students would leave letters and packages addressed to each other and at night, after we were all back in our rooms for curfew, a couple of guys or girls (depending on who’s turn it was) would grab the wooden box and roll it across campus through the dark laughing and giggling about all the love letters and cologne drenched envelopes being sent from one heart to another. Once to the other side of campus, the boxes were exchanged and the letters dropped off in stacks at each of the dormitories. Then a couple more students would take the stacks of letters and slide them under Romeo or Juliet’s door. It was a hoot…and quite romantic, really. I remember how exciting it was when a letter with my name came sliding under the door. I would snatch it up, hop in bed, and pour over the words of the man who would later become my husband. Darren and I now have boxes of letters from our dating days. So much of our relationship is scripted out in the words we wrote back and forth as we came to know and love each other. Darren the artist filled his letters with drawings and illustrations that still make me smile when I come across them. My favorite picture he drew was of me calling him:

The little guy jumping in the air–gets me every time :]

Between night mail and all the time we spent living across the country from each other, written letters became a staple in our relationship–and we still write each other letters today. Sometimes old fashion is the best fashion of all, kids ;]

Telegrams Rock -(Stop)-

Posted on May 30, 2012 by Kari

I have this very cool friend, Ashley, that just gets me. She’s the kind of girl who peeks into your soul and takes a piece of your heart with her. Okay, that was a little bit dramatic but you know what I’m sayin’. She gets my stupid sense of humor and my love for random weirdness and there are just very, very few people in the world I have more fun with.

Ashley and I write each other hand-written letters all the time because we are awesome like that. Ashley taps hers out on an old vintage typewriter (named Watson, because it only makes sense to name your typewriter?) and I write mine on my very-special-occasion fancy pants stationery used only for the people I love best of all. Every letter from Ashley is a riot. I have thought about starting a place on this blog just to share her letters because they are just too funny and wonderful to keep all to myself.

ANYWAY

The other day I went to the mailbox and found a big yellow envelope with Telegram written across the top of it. I first squealed then ran to the house to open it up. When I opened it I found an old-fashioned looking note that read:

DEAR KARI -(STOP)- EPIC ADVENTURE AHEAD -(STOP)- POSSIBLE JAIL TIME -(STOP)- MOVING TO LAND OF VERY LARGE COWS -(STOP)- TEXAS -(STOP)- THEY FRY FOLKS DOWN THERE -(STOP)- BOSTON IN AUG -(STOP)- HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING ILLEGAL IN AGES -(STOP)- CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU -(STOP)- AM SECRETLY TERRIFIED OF SAID VERY LARGE COWS -(STOP)- LOVE ASHLEY B -(STOP)-

After reading this, I danced around the kitchen for a solid five minutes squealing about how this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I get excited about real mail–but a freaking telegram on vintage paper in a big yellow envelope? Well kids, it doesn’t get any better than that.

Check the website out at Telegramstop to join in on the awesomeness. Or just be friends with someone really awesome who knows how to make you dance around the kitchen for five minutes.

Island Hopping in the Caribbean

Posted on May 29, 2012 by Kari

Last week Darren and I took off on our first real vacation. We both needed some rest, refreshment, and quiet time together so we decided the beach was just the place to be–a beach as far from our house as possible that is. So, on Sunday we flew to Puerto Rico and from there hopped onto a big fat shaky boat and set sail for the Caribbean. On Monday morning we woke up as the boat was rolling in to the lovely island of St. Thomas.

We bounced off the boat and found a taxi–and by taxi I mean a pickup truck with benches in the bed–and told the driver we wanted to go to a beautiful beach. We ended up at Magen’s Bay–perfectly beautiful with white sand, palm trees, clear water–perfect. We found a little spot to put our stuff and splashed right into the crystal clear water rolling onto shore in turquoise waves.

Darren and I are very white, white people. Darren is fair-skinned with freckles all over and I’m fair-skinned without even freckles for protection. Every single time we go to the beach we end up frying to a crisp and being miserable the rest of the time. So we decided we would outsmart the sun and tan before we left. Tan, tan we did and pretty soon we were both a nice golden brown and very pleased with ourselves. When we got to the beach at St. Thomas we didn’t even bother with sunscreen. We jumped in the water and laid out on the sand soaking up the rays–daring the sun to touch us. The sun is not to be trifled with, kids. My skin started feeling hot. Then it felt too hot. Then it felt like I was on fire. I put my sun hat on, wrapped my beach towel around my shoulders, buried my toes in the sand, did everything I could to escape the sun’s hot angry rays–but it was too late. I dared the sun and the sun won. Apparently our cute little American tans are no match for the equator and by the time we gave in and left the beach we both looked like red sun boiled lobstas. I was fairly certain we would have to be taken back to the boat on stretchers.

{Before the sun ate us}

We found a taxi back and ended up spending the rest of the day tracking down and putting on aloe vera and vowing to never taunt the sun again.

The next day was spent at sea making our way down to Barbados. So you know what we did? We slept all day. It’s amazing how tired you can be and not even realize it. You go and go and go and keep on getting by until you finally sit–and then it just hits you how completely exhausted you have become. So we slept until we couldn’t sleep anymore and woke up to Barbados. Carefully considering and learning from our experience the day before regarding sun burns, we thought it wise to spend another day at the beach :] So another taxi we got and zipped FAST along the busy, crowded street of Bridgetown until we were dropped off at another even whiter white sand beach.

We noticed big moody clouds rolling in overhead but paid no attention to them. We found a nice spot on the sand, put lots of sunscreen on this time, and relaxed. BAM. The sky opens up and pours all her wrath and furry down on us in a torrential downpour. We snatch up our things and run for the beach house through the pouring rain. The beach house was right next to us but we were still completely soaked before we could get inside. The people laughed at us and said the sun comes after the rain–and they were right, it came back out in a few minutes’ time. The clouds still looked pretty upset though so we chucked out some money for beach chairs and a big sun umbrella to hide under–good thing to, because it rained several more times and we stayed perfectly happy under our big fat umbrella.

Next, the fat shaky boat took us to St. Lucia. We wanted to see the Pitons and more of the island so we decided to take a bus tour. The big bus zipped FAST FAST up the steep mountains, down the hills, around the sharp curves, past pedestrians and vehicles, through the rain, over the slick muddy roads as we held on tight.

We saw banana plantations, fishing villages, a botanical garden and waterfall, the Pitons of course, and the beautiful scenery of the lush green mountains towering all around us. After the wild bus ride we wobbled off onto solid ground momentarily only to climb on board a catamaran for a better view of the coastline. It rained and rained and we huddled inside under the roof trying to stay dry as the boat bounced up and down like a water roller coaster over the fat cheeky waves. It was a lovely day even if it rained and rained.

{Can you see the ocean in his sunglasses?}

The next day we arrived in St. Kitts and since the sassy sun had made a return, we decided to spend another day on the beach.

The sun was so hot and angry, the only place we could be comfortable was in the water–so the water it was. And you know what, kids? I learned how to swim in the wild blue ocean. Can you believe I never learned how to swim? Well, I didn’t and ever since I moved to New England I’ve been wanting to learn. But the water in New England is sooooo cold I’ve never had the fortitude to do it. But, in the warm Caribbean water with nothing to do but splash around and enjoy the waves? Well, it was the perfect opportunity so I started flailing about like a baby learning how to walk and Darren patiently showed me what to do–how to kick, how to move my arms, how to breathe, and so on. And you know what? By the end of the day I could get around without sinking. I’m a regular fish now! Okay, that’s a lie. I would probably still drown if my life depended on my swimming skills but it’s a start :]

{Now I’m a fish}

I also held a monkey–that has nothing to do with swimming but I did ;]

The time we spent in the water at St. Kitts was my very favorite part of the trip. Having Darren teach me how to swim showed me so much about him–his patience, his gentleness, his protective nature (he held onto me tight–so careful of me when I was in water too deep trying to keep myself up). That day really helped me step back from the hustle and bustle of life and just see my husband all over again–see the man who stole my heart and who keeps on stealing it each day in spite of me. I love him.

{Who couldn’t love this kid? He really thought he could steal the boat–everyone cheered him on too}

{Perfect sunset at the end of a perfect day}

On the last day, the fat shaky boat took us to St. Maarten. St. Maarten is divided and owned by two governments–half French owned by France and half Dutch owned by the Netherlands. We wanted to see both sides so we took another horrifying taxi ride over to the French side.

We got out at the open air market and walked around taking in the beauty and culture of the island.

Darren spotted a fortress on the mountain and decided he just had to see it. He looked at me excited, wanting to know if I was ready to climb up there? I looked at him in my long black dress and flip-flops and reminded him of the 400 degree temperature outside. And he wanted to know if I was ready to climb up there? Sooooo, because I love him and because he has big brown eyes, I climbed up that mountain in my long black dress and flip-flops in the 400 degree weather. And you know what? It was worth it. Here’s the view from the top:

Darren is not very good at staying out of trouble. He decided to mess with a cannon…

And he got arrested…

And then he got out and took over the land and now it is run by three countries–France, the Netherlands, and the Land of Darren…

And I am his queen–overlooking the land from my fortress above…

After taking over St. Maarten, we decided to spend more time in the water so we took a ferry over to the beach and got thrown about by the wild waves.

When we were all worn out and thoroughly covered in sand, we returned to the fat shaky boat for the ride back home. This beautiful sunset bid us farewell…