Perception is Truth. But Perception is rarely correct.

What we believe to be the truth is shaped entirely by the information we have available. Trouble is, we’re never operating with all the information. So we make staggering assumptions which keep us at arms length from each other, and might even make us worse in the process.

Marriages are a great example of this. Ask anyone to talk about their married friends and they’ll probably describe the couple that’s having trouble, the couple that never fights, and the other couple who works but no one knows why. And invariably, if you are married, you begin holding your own relationship up alongside these others to see how you measure up.

“Look honey, they’re more considerate than us.”

“Yes, sweety, but that’s because he’s not such an asshole all the time.”

“Wow, look at them, I don’t understand why they stay together.”

“I bet people say that about us…”

And it’s all crap.

There are those that say marriage is being attacked and threatened. I say it’s been put on a pedestal and canonized to the point that we don’t talk about it candidly enough. It’s all whispers and suspicion and secrets and assumption – and then we apply all that misinformation into some mutated yardstick for our own relationship.

Which brings me back to the idea my wife and I had that sent us giggling:

In the blue collar factories of the world, places with coveralls and hard hats, there’s traditionally a sign with interchangeable numbers and a declaration of plant safety. Some variation of “Safety First! This plant has gone ______ Days Without an Incident.”

The numbers grow, changed daily to reflect the ongoing safety of the plant and encourage careful action. Occasionally something boneheaded happens and then big zeros wind up on the board. Everyone takes a sobering look around and tries to go back to work with extra care to keep all their fingers this time.

So there we are sitting in our small group talking about our desire to be transparent with each other. We’re all for that, as walking through life candidly with others is an enormous blessing.  And along these lines one couple said they’d had an “incident” earlier that day. Suddenly my wife and I found ourselves giggling at the thought of one of those boards in every kitchen, probably painted by some person with a little boutique and a penchant for overcharging on knick-knacks:

___ ___ ___ Days Without Incident.

Every house would have their own variation, but the message would be the same.
“Here’s how long it’s been since this marriage had a work stopping argument.”

Imagine going over to a friends house for dinner and seeing three zeros on that kitchen sign. You’d know right away that while dinner conversation may be wonderful, you’re eating in a warzone. It might even be possible to notice the half-vacuumed room or the slightly burned side dish to find the catalyst for what would otherwise have been a petty private argument.

There’d be no more hiding the truth that we’re all struggling to make this thing work. And I have to think the transparency would help us all realize our sameness, and find camaraderie in the sharing.

It would be pretty hard to lust after someone else’s spouse once you realize they’re just as hard to live with as your own. Or maybe that couple everyone thinks is perfect seems to never get to double digits on their board. Would that be sad? No, I say it’s comforting.

I can get so caught up in the little argument, or disappointment, or failure because it exists in the fortress of my private life. Once the windows get opened and my little perspective of truth meets the fresh air of reality those problems morph to a manageable size.

I’m not suggesting that big struggles don’t happen. Actually, if you don’t have one right now, then one is probably on the way. But knowing that everyone around you is engaged in their own fight for survival makes it easier to try again. Misguided perspectives asphyxiate in the fresh air.

I almost want to make the sign for our kitchen. I wonder how much it would motivate us? What conversations would it bring up the first time a visitor saw the number? How quickly would casual comments about the weather turn into sharing something real?

I want long stretches of Days Without Incident. But as blessed as I am in my relationship I doubt we’d set any records. In fact, I doubt I know anyone who would… and that makes me love my wife and my friends even more.

Put on a hard-hat, and be careful out there.

In the last few years I’ve taken note of a few people who have remade themselves in their late thirties, forties, and so on. And in every case I’ve marveled at how they become ageless in the change.

I know a film executive who, upon losing his high-ranking position, looked at his life and said “I want to be a chef.” At the age of 39 he enrolled into a prestigious culinary school in New York. And since then he’s cooked for a living in high-profile jobs on both coasts.

Another friend who basked in the glow of the 90s internet bubble, made a killing, and then traveled the world when the bubble burst. Early this century he asked himself “what’s next?”, and inexplicably went to grad school and became a pharmacist. He seems very happy about it, and while I didn’t think anyone actually chose to be a pharmacist, apparently they do.

A former roommate of mine dabbled in nearly everything he could find all through college before winding up in strange third world countries working in public health and crisis management. When he decided on change, this marginally dedicated student headed to medical school. He’s well on his way to becoming Dr. Smith. (Not a pseudonym… he will be Dr. Smith and his patients will think he’s kidding.)

And then there’s the relative of a friend who has systematically changed careers every five to seven years and now, in his 50s, he’s a well-respected child psychologist. At least… for a few years I suppose. With wife and kids in tow he’s lived all over and made money in the internet, been a vet, had a corporate job in traditional business, and been a paid artist. “He gets bored easily” I was told when I first heard this story. But all I could think was… “Sounds like he succeeds easily!”

And I bet he’ll live forever. Well, maybe not forever, but at least until he stops shaking things up. That’s the lesson I’m finding in all this.

I have two living grandmothers, 85 and 90 (as of this writing…). And in the last year their lives have driven this point home. The 85 year old has been fading fast. She hasn’t been able to drive for decades and her social circle and number of activities has steadily decreased at the same time. The 90 year old has outlived two husbands and seemed to be fading herself until about a year ago when she got herself a boyfriend.

I promise this is not a blog about the dating life of 90 year olds.

The lesson has been seeing the huge improvement and new life provided by change. Sameness and lack of opportunity has worn and weathered my younger grandmother. Newness and activity is pushing the other into new health and awareness.

So where does that leave me?

Well, maybe life is a screenplay, and I’m nearly 40 pages in. I’ve past the first Act break where things really turn for the intriguing. And I’m marching my way through the destination part of the story. Problem solving. Striving. Working to advance the plot.

But Act 2 needs help. Without careful planning it sputters to an unfinished halt somewhere between 60 and 80 pages. With new ideas, and maybe a twist toward the unexpected, you can launch your story strongly to a triumphant 100. Maybe you can get to 110 or more if you’re telling a really great story.

So I’m pondering Act 2. Thinking about new things. Looking for character development and a good action scene to liven the plot. I’m just not sure what it is yet.

The truth I’ve come to is that change makes you ageless. Rewrites make better stories. And apparently life, like screenplays, needs good Act 2 surprises in order to have a strong ending.

We’re thrilled that our son is so fascinated by books, and he often grabs them and sits, happily flipping through each page and speaking in gibberish. He understands the concept, he just has no vocabulary or actual retention. Supposedly this is a good sign at this age… as opposed to doing it later in life when it involves help from people in lab coats.

All of this mock-reading has exposed me to all kinds of children’s books. And as a writer I’ve been struck by the fact that writing for children is mostly inane and completely lacking in an actual writing talent. Suddenly I understand why random celebrities become moms and then make the talk show circuit as a “new children’s author”. It’s like getting your driver’s license and then going around calling yourself a race driver… operating at the lowest level doesn’t make you an expert.

Don’t believe me? Let’s break down the basic tenants of literature available for the under 3 reader. Pages as thick as a laptop. Bright colors. A story which can be broken into simple sentences and mentions the following: Animals. Colors. Body parts. Basic social concepts. Textures. Shapes. And possibly family. And the real award winning kid-lit does something amazing… it combines things from the list!

Plus, if laid out in simple sentences, the average book could go out as a Tweet. 300 words is the equivalent of War and Peace among children’s books.

Some of you might be saying “I think it’s a lot harder than it looks…”. But I just can’t shake the fact that some actresses who can’t put a thought together without a script in front of them start breeding and decide “I’m the Hemmingway for toddlers.”. These are the same folks who can’t tell you how to get from Hollywood to Disneyland without a GPS.

So, I’m thinking of becoming a children’s author, and I present to you my first work, “Something on your finger”. But without the proper pictograms and industrial cardboard pages you’ll be able to read it quite rapidly.

Something on your finger, Yellow, Green, & Sticky

Touch it. Squeeze it. But it’s awfully Icky.

Don’t wipe on your sister, that’s not where it goes.

Wipe it in a Kleenex, that’s where you put stuff from you nose.

See? Body parts, colors, textures, family, social lessons, and even brand awareness. I forgot shapes, I suppose, but I’ll include that in the sequel “Something in your Closet” – It’s a toddler-horror and it’s gonna be the Twilight series for the under 2 reader.

Watch for me on the talk show circuit.

So since my son has been born he’s flown many, many times. Frankly, I’ve lost count, and I applaud my wife for surviving the recurring madness. However, I have only taken one flight with the two of them and it established airports and airplanes as places where new and exciting things can happen with your child.

When we all flew a couple of months ago my son wasn’t walking yet. He’d stand up, sway like a drunken sailor, and fall to the floor with a spine-shattering violence. Then crawl away at a speed which defied logic. So, as we waited to board, our little man was crawling around a bit. He found an empty bit of carpet and stood up. And people noticed.

Then he tried to take a step, with much swaying and falling over. But he kept trying. Standing. Falling. Stepping. Swaying. And before long it only took a cursory glance around the terminal to see a good number of people watching our little guy try and walk.

And walk he did. Right there in the Southwest Boarding Area of the Salt Lake City Airport. He stood up and defined the term toddler as he tromped around in circles. I actually heard “ohs” and quiet applause when he put it all together.

I was awash in thoughts and feelings about this moment. Of course, I was damn proud of the little guy. And I enjoyed the irony of sharing this very personal family moment with a horde of other people.

But I kept thinking that he’d been able to stand for weeks. He’d toyed with the idea of walking and never really dedicated himself to making it happen. He waited. Then, when he had a captive audience… showtime!

Which means he’s like his Mom.

By the time we got to his latest plane-ride, walking had become a well refined part of his life. The downside is that sitting still is now deemed completely unacceptable and he wants to walk everywhere he can… right now. My wife took on the task of flying with him anyway, and I watched her pack things to try and keep him occupied instead of climbing the seat in front of him.

A portable DVD player has made him an easy-going car traveler, so she packed the player and a set of noise-cancelling headphones for the plane. I scoffed at this, because even though he likes to watch “the glowy box” in any form, he won’t leave anything on his head for more than 30 seconds. And he has a bad habit of dropping or throwing anything which begins to bore him.

When they landed I got this picture from my wife:

He sat for more than an hour and watched his DVDs. Meaning my wife had one of her least stressful plane rides with the little guy. And again I was awash in thoughts on this moment.

Yes, I was proud of him again. And the picture made me laugh. Then there was the thought that we’ve done him a great favor by helping him engage with screens at such a young age. The whole world is screens anyway. Or… maybe we’ve scarred him for life… Anyway, no matter what, the kid was stuck in a boring situation and was perfectly content to kick back and watch a movie.

Which means he’s like his Dad.

This is your in-flight entertainment. But fasten your seat-belts. It’s gonna get bumpy.

It’s difficult for me to remember the last time I saw something completely new. I mean something so decidedly different that it left me without a similar experience to draw upon and compare. Yet everything in our lives was once as mind-freezing as an alien encounter. This is the constant experience of a toddler.

The strange side-effect of witnessing this, is the way it cuts loose the bonds of cynicism and allows an adult the chance to live on two planes at once. In one universe you know all about the crazy new discovery made by your little person, but in the other universe you’re able to look at it and marvel along with them without excuse.

We adults have to have an excuse. We need a reason to get excited. We can’t stop in the Starbucks line and poke the saran-wrapped sandwiches just to watch the dressing bulge. People would stare. Someone would sigh or yell at us to get moving, and after enough time people with either badges or white coats would come and take us away. Yet stand in the same line with a toddler and the whole world lets you poke and prod and marvel at the squishy goodness of it all.

I’ve been having this experience with animals. At this point in life I’ve seen a good example of just about every creature, so I find them fun to watch, but never shocking. Meanwhile my son has gained an obsession with elephants. We watch countless elephants go by on video and in books and he’ll raise one arm and make a weak and warped elephant noise over and over. (The truth is it looks like he’s doing a child’s version of the Hitler salute, but we know what he means and just try to keep our little Aryan masterpiece from doing this in public.) He can’t say elephant, but it fascinates him beyond all other creatures. To my son, Elephants are like Justin Bieber with better hair.

What I’m most enjoying about this elephant-a-palooza is the chance to notice the following:

Elephants are freaky and fascinating. I mean, really… legs like trees but they can’t run well. Ears like satellite dishes but they aren’t known for their hearing. (By the way, why do we associate elephants with great memories? They seem to get stuck in the same mudhole every year without remembering it happened before). And of course, the strange fact that an elephant’s most dexterous limb… isn’t a limb at all. Try grabbing your next meal with your nose.

And don’t even get me started on giraffes. Longest necks in the world, but no voicebox. What’s going on there?

I guess it just proves that even God gets bored. After making every possible permutation of quadrupeds, riffing on the basic ideas of cat, dog, and horse until he was pulling out his beard…

“Hey Gabriel… come look at this one. It’s nose is it’s arm… “
“That’s awesomely strange and wonderful, your Almighty-ness.”
“Yes. I know.”

And He went off to make a platypus and follow up with an ostrich.

So now here I am like a strange guide into an alien safari. It’s all new stuff, and it’s all cool enough to get stared at, touched, turned over, and maybe even chewed on. And really, how much can you say you know about something if you’ve never put a handful of it in your mouth? Or at the very least, paused and marveled.

Poor kid got cynical me as a father. Which leaves me scrambling to find the wonder in everything… and pass it on.

The Octopus, for example. Eight legs and no bones. Did God skip a step? Was there a bet in Heaven? Was this the result of a creation themed game of ad-libs? Forget area 51… aliens are already here.

And my son hasn’t even seen one yet.

I don’t remember learning English. I’m sure I was full of questions about it, but I truly have no memories of asking about a word or learning a new phrase. For me, vocabulary exercises are linked to those specially hellish memories of classes which couldn’t end fast enough. Yet, now that we’re spending time parroting things for my son I’ve gained a new perspective on the enormous mountain of learning associated with English. In fact, maybe I need to learn something else because the scale can’t be larger than the jumbled mess of rules and exceptions which make up my native tongue.

The depth of English struck me today in two separate moments of vocabulary. In one, I joked with a co-worker and my little throw-away quip fell flat because of my word choice. I didn’t miss-speak or accidentally offend, but I used a word which required a split second of “wait, what does that mean?”. Jokes that miss large sections of your audience are only funny if you’re Eddie Izzard. I. Am. Not. So this turned into a brief conversation about the differences in our vocabularies. Of course, this was also comic gold.

How is it we can grow up in the same country, with the same language, and same basic educational system, yet glean such different ways to communicate? Word choice is as unique as our fingerprints. And there’s no telling what can spark you to mine the depths of your verbal vault.

This evening my wife began reading a new book for our small group. And there on the first page was a word she hadn’t seen before. Now if we’re all honest, any book that you makes you think will probably contain a word or two you aren’t that familiar with. For my wife, it just happened to be on the first page – which means she got it out of the way, and can now go on with enjoying the read.
Anyway…

The word was: “exegeted”. Some of you are now asking google what it means, and that’s fine. Others of you may do what I did:

“Oh, from the word Exegesis,” I said, and began to offer a marginal definition.

“Exa-Jesus”, my wife says to me. As in – Used to be the Son of God and then got tired of the hassle and passed the role on to someone else. The Savior Formerly Known as Christ. (Much to my chagrin… this is not the definition)

Which made me wonder… when did I learn the word “Exegesis”? Why on earth did I retain this word? And more importantly, how could I better use the brain-space being wasted by words which will only cross my path every dusty decade or so. After all… I’ve forgotten 80% of the math I ever learned. Which really doesn’t matter because my phone can calculate the return trajectory of Apollo 13 better than a room full of 1960s rocket scientists. But, somehow my brain has decided that words need to be pulled to the core while anything dealing with numbers can be marched to the exit.

I am a superfluous confluence of vernacular.

My apologies. Apparently this line of thinking has stirred the words in my brain like kicking an ant hill.

So this is the challenge awaiting my son… learning not only enough to communicate, but also tolerate his father’s outbursts of strange syllables. He’ll have to apologize to his friends for my vocabulary tourettes. Then help me figure out how old he is by counting on my fingers.

Ultimately, I’m just marveling how we all grow into such different aptitudes. How do the same core ingredients splinter into a cornucopia of varied skills and interests? My son learned perfect rhythm months ago but can’t say Hippo. So mostly, I’m hoping that all our instant access to definitions and new information will keep my brain sharp while it hones his into a marvel. Cause I’m still learning my first language.

-Note= No thesaurus was used (or injured) in the making of this article. All these words came out of my head, but spell-check nearly exploded trying to get them right.

I’ve focused in on one trait; I’m often tripped up by my own expectations.

As a writer, life is a series of scenes and possibilities. Say one thing and a whole moment, or conversation, or evening goes a different way than it would have if you’d said the opposite. So I spend far too much time over-thinking. I don’t live in this current moment very much. While others might think “let’s go get a nice bottle of wine and enjoy ourselves…” I’m already thinking how everyone get back home. Or which members of the group will have to be chaperoned once they get tipsy. Or how those same folks will have to deal with tomorrow. Yup… I’m a buzzkill.

This future-thinking also means I’m calculating the end result and building up my expectations for that outcome. And this can create a world of no good news. When I’m expecting the worst, and it happens like I think – well, that’s hardly a victory. But when it turns out better than I expect, I’m more caught off-guard than genuinely pleased. Far worse are those times when I have high expectations, as great things can happen which still fall short of my measure and I fail to see the blessing because it missed my mark.

I look back on my accomplishments, my marriage, or some fun excursion and often see – in hindsight – that I was in an enviable position. But in the midst of those moments I was often disappointed in some way. Feeling the gap between my expectations and the often great reality. Only after the fact do I really see how wonderful things were in that moment.

I hate this about myself. And even with this realization I still find myself more likely to brood in a moment than get lost in one. So I’m trying to lose my expectations. To not think what a moment could be, or should be, but only see it for what it is – and wonder at the discovery.

On the other side are the “positive thinker” crowd. Those folks who say everything will turn out wonderfully if you just believe it will. And believe it or not I’ve tried that exact approach. I’ve gone through seasons where I focused on everything turning out wonderfully. I believed in the flowers and candy. I expected to hear “yes” more than “no”. I tried it for a while, in fact. But, that little expectation problem still gets in the way. And I discovered that the people I know who believe in positive thinking are the same people I call “lucky”.

You probably know a lucky person. I know a couple. These are the folks who stumble into good fortune. I’m not saying these people have perfect lives, everyone has struggles and failures just under the surface. No, I’m saying those people who seem to always win the free item, or go home with the pretty girl, or fall into a great opportunity… even while their lives are a mess! The lucky person gets away with a warning, the rest of us get the speeding ticket.

I’ve come to expect this too… and there I go again.

Now here we are… 2011. And as I look out over a new year I conclude I want to be surprised. I want to remove my bar of expectation and be blessed in the now. I will continue to strive for success, because it’s not in my makeup to quit. But when success comes I hope to be lifted on the joy of it like surfer on the wave. I must learn to live in the moment.

I already expect I’ll fail. Which proves just how hard this is for me…

However, I’m talking about lessons – observations, really – I would not have come to without our little guy around. So, here are my top five for year one:

1 – Cattle Roping was invented by parents

I grew up in Texas, so by default I’m supposed to know how to rope, ride, and chase critters. Or so they tell me. But I have to admit I’ve always wondered why there’s so many theatrics when it comes to roping a calf. It’s a small, dumb animal. The roping horse is like Steven Hawking by comparison. So, for the even more intelligent human to come sailing off the already superior horse, tackle a calf, and tie its legs together kinda feels like you’re picking on the little guy.

Bear roping. Now that’s a fair sport.

But now I’ve realized that some cowboy with a little one at home got an unruly calf one day and figured… “Wait, I know how to handle this”. Thus, calf roping was born.

Don’t believe me? Try putting a diaper on an infant who can crawl. They no longer want to lay on their back. To them, everything is more interesting than lying there while you, quite literally, deal with their shit. So I’ve held both wrists and ankles in one hand while I perform the world’s fastest and least graceful diaper change with the other.

I’ve also said, screw it, and diapered the little minion while he’s crawling away. Which was about the time I realized the purpose of cattle roping. In fact, I’d probably be damn good at it.

2 – Hardcovers are awesome

Somewhere in this world of valuable space, scarce finances, and ebooks I decided that hard covers are a complete waste. I realize that is supposed to be sacrilege for a writer, but I see no purpose in a brick of reading material when it’s easier in softback, ebook, or audio file.

But Hardcovers are the greatest thing to happen to infants. You become thankful that your DVD collection is in those bulky, unnecessarily-large cases. “Sure, son, beat yourself in the head with Citizen Kane. Hurts, don’t it!”.

And the books children read are as thick as Science textbooks. But, they’re only six pages long. Each page is made of an individual two-by-four with rounded edges. Why? So that papercuts are impossible, and the pages won’t fall prey to the fate of normal paper which is…

Ripping. This is the natural pastime of unreading toddlers everywhere. My son loves flip books – they have handy flaps on each page which make tearing especially easy. And Dad’s car magazines exist for the sole purpose of creating confetti balls.

Which leads me to a new measure of childhood maturity, it’s not handing them the car keys, but actually reading a magazine.

3 – You will make noises

Ever looked at a parent and wondered how they became insane enough to repeat an annoying noise over and over while they sit at a restaurant? All it takes is one child discovering their voice or timing out and you’ll turn into a master of stupid sounds from an annoying made up language.

These little ones discover noises they can make and use it like a new toy until something else gets their attention. That leaves only a frazzled parent between you and a restaurant filled with an infant’s screaming. Suddenly, the parent turns into a makeup-less clown on a no-sleep bender. Faces. Chirps. Tongue out shenanigans. Partial words said over and over associated with jerky rocking motions into the child’s face. The only other place this happens is in the nice quiet hospitals with the white coats and straight jackets.

“Honey, is that man insane?… Oh, no wait… he has an infant.”

And this ewok noise I’m making is keeping him quiet. So go back to your dinner.

4 – Born to Dance

What makes us human and above lower forms of life? Complex thought? Tool building? Or maybe our construction of huge systems and cities?

I’ve come up with one. Rhythm. Not just the sense and awareness of the beat, but the uncontrollable urge to shake your ass. A part of me always thought you learned to really hear and appreciate music. But my son has been bobbing in time with sound since he could sit up. Give him a tune and he’ll shake and flail with abandon, a trait we all lose at some point when we get self-conscious. But for now, he’s a sucker for a good beat, and he was born that way. I lost it. I hope he never does.

5 – The Matrix exists.

No, I don’t mean we’re all living in a huge constructed program being used for batteries. I’m talking specifically about the “download” in the Matrix where a person doesn’t know how to fight one minute and then a moment later has all the knowledge to take down an army of Bruce Lees.

I’ve watched my son learn in this way. I don’t know where the huge brain needle is when this happens, but one minute he can’t do something and the next it just… clicks.

Clapping was this way. No idea. Can’t get it. No awareness. Then, literally, he woke up one morning going “Hey guys, look what I can do… applause.” I didn’t upload the program. And my wife wants to kill every nurse that approaches him with a needle, so I don’t think she did it either.

The most impressive one has been climbing the stairs, cause unlike clapping you can get injured if you do it wrong. The first few attempts were more like lucky falling and fumbling, finding himself atop a stair, maybe two, before getting bored of the whole enterprise. Then a few months ago, my wife looked around to discover our little guy had vanished. Where was he? Completely upstairs and still on the move.**

But going down the stairs eluded our little guy for quite some time. We tried to help. We moved him through the motion. We sat by him and let him try different things. However, as you may have noticed, there are a lot of limbs and coordination involved when you’re crawling down something. Then, a few days ago as I watched… he simply did it… no explanation or trial runs, he just coordinated all his limbs and climbed down the stairs.

So I began to wonder where this chair is he gets strapped into for a download. There’s a few things I would like to learn this way and save all the pesky practice and failure. After much thought, I think the key is naps.

**(As a side note, she told me this story with fear for his safety and concern that her moment of looking away was proof of terrible mothering – and my gut reaction was… “Awesome… good for him”. – which encapsulated the difference between men and women. I suppose it also labels me as one of those “hard knock” parents – “Yeah, let him stick his finger in the socket, he’ll only do that once!”. Thankfully he does have his mother.)

I have no doubt there will be many more revelations of the world through my son’s discoveries. But for now the little guy needs to be roped, and then he’s going to chew on a hardcover book. Eventually, he’ll go down for a nap while we make a series of strange noises, at which point I intend to sleep as well because I’m hoping to wake up speaking French.

We laughed a lot. In fact, it felt like two people excited to be dating. And all of this got me thinking about the changes of our last few months and the strangeness of marriage.

This summer marks a new chapter in our life together. Chapter one was Los Angeles, and it’s all we’ve known. Chapter two begins in Park City and we are starting over in nearly every way possible.

A strange side effect of this change is we’ve both felt a release of secret tensions which built up over our last year in Los Angeles. No matter how well we tried to cope with my lack of income and our dwindling options, the situation created tension. And fear. And unhappiness. But we were head-down and hanging on so I don’t think either one of us realized the pressure building.

Then we moved, and I started making an income again, and life took on a bit more security. This brought down the walls we’d built for survival. And brutal honesty flared up. Pent up frustration bloomed. Displeasure was no longer weighed down by more important concerns and we found ourselves in a martial free-for-all.

Two weekends ago we had a huge fight, complete with yelling at each other in public – which we simply don’t do. Tears. Screaming. Both of us feeling hurt, unheard, and unloved.

It could be said we cleared the air. Said things that needed to be said. But the result created an uneasy truce, like animals in a circling standoff.

Darkness invades. You pull away, only to suffer horrific tearing as you realize the years of letting this person in has allowed their roots deep into every part of your being. Wonton destruction ensues.

You can’t trace how you got to this place from that happy day at the altar. You look at young infatuated couples with equal parts jealousy and cynical distain.

Then the really toxic idea enters your mind. The thought that this is your new normal. This person you are bound to for life will always hurt you this much, and you will always hurt them. And being married will never feel good again.

In those moments, I try to remember something one of my best friends said:

“NewsFlash: Marriage is Hard!”

In the last year, three of my friends got divorced. A lawyer would describe each of them as completely “amicable” separations, but the human toll has been complete and total carnage. Severe pain and lingering questions like smoke clearing from a battlefield.

I can do nothing but love these friends. I can’t judge them, or second guess them, or even think I know what hard decisions ended each of these marriages. I’ve seen that path in our marriage – like standing at a crossroads in a dark wood and believing that the more frightening path actually leads to a brighter dawn. For some, it does.

But this past weekend reminded me that marriage is one of the most extreme and elastic of relationships. The great lows are matched by great highs, and marriage can not be judged from the outside. Our time together may have looked like a couple in the early stage of infatuation, but the laughter and shared experience was backed by more than a decade of digging into each other. Only time and openness can create this kind of connection. The trust to leave nerves exposed results in a person knowing you in ways you didn’t think possible.

I’ve come to think of marriage like a hike through spectacular jagged mountains. You’re taken by the beauty and experience of the journey and you reach a high ridge to see the spectacular world before you. But this leads to complacency as you descend the peak into the next valley below. And the valley air stagnates and bakes out your will to continue. You think you can’t possibly go on. If the valley is long enough and low enough you begin to wonder why you came on this journey at all.

Should you choose to fight onward, then a climb awaits you. Up out of the valley with exhaustion, sweat, and pain. And always the peak seems distant.

Yet when you get there, you look again at the break-taking world around you. The worst moments seem far behind. The deeper the valley, the more amazing the peak. I wish we could camp out at the peak. Build a marriage on the shoulder of the mountain. But I know it can’t last and life is not lived in a world of sameness.

The hardest thing for me is to remember the truths I’ve seen in these dozen years.
- No conversation or fight is ever as bad as I imagined it would be. So I need to speak up before I talk myself into believing in WWIII.
- Valley’s are hot and terrible, but like a forest fire of destruction – new and stronger life can form in its fertile wake.
- A quick, true laugh with my wife can wipe out our longest fight.
- I have no idea what a good marriage looks like. Because every marriage has days on the mountain in celebration, and days in the valley in bloody warfare.

After twelve years I can’t define our marriage. I couldn’t say what others see in it or believe to be true. I just know I’m always surprised when we reach a mountain top. The views get better. The memories of our struggles fade faster. And I do everything I can to take it in and cherish every second.

We passed the milestone of a dozen years with the joyful infatuation of teenagers with a driver’s license and a savings account. Lost in laughter, fun, and celebration. My favorite anniversary since the day itself. As little as two weeks ago I would have never dreamt it possible.

I know that somewhere on the journey there will be another valley. And the quickest way back to the peak is straight though the middle.

And right about now I’m thinking how blessed I am to have such an amazing hiking partner.

So amidst the packing, I’ve found another way I’m a lot like my dog.

Everything in the world she’s known is being uprooted. Items pulled out of their places. Boxes being filled. All her normal places to nap or hang out are being disrupted or removed systematically.

And each day she gets a bit more unsettled. This is a dog who truly hates suitcases, so I imagine our packing 100 boxes must seem like Chinese water torture. Her tail dips a bit more, creeping down between her legs. She follows closer, scared that things will turn for the worse. Then, she finds herself even more in the way, and more concerned.

This is the same dog who hates the heat. Loves the snow. Revels in the mountains. Finds wildlife of all sizes to be her obvious playmate and long-lost friend. Essentially, this short haired dog thinks she’s a forest raised husky. She’s up for a good adventure in the outdoors and she’d really like to be let off leash to go explore.

But in her mind this situation is all bad. She has no comprehension of what Park City, Utah has to offer a pup like her. In her mind, she’s being forced into a change. And any decision she didn’t make for herself is bound to be something she will hate.

And just before I really shake my head at her… I stop.

Cause I do that with God. Every time change comes I brace for the worst. If I didn’t choose it for myself, then I know I’ll hate whatever’s next. I never really believe that God would push me reluctantly into something I would actually enjoy.

Yet my dog doesn’t want to risk or step out of her comfort zone. She wants us to stay in Los Angeles. Never leave this rented condo. Never alter her schedule. Stay unchanged because change is bad.

While on the other side of the change is a world she can’t understand, but one her master knows will be so much better.

Ouch. I’m doubting God a lot. I don’t trust my Master’s plan any more than my dog trusts me to move somewhere she’ll like even better.

So my first thought is I should be back on leash. No more of this running around.

Then I have a better thought. Quieter. Stranger. Which means it probably didn’t come from me at all.

Maybe God has had a bunch of things to teach me: about my pride, my cynicism, my trust issues. But he couldn’t tell me directly because I wouldn’t listen. He needed to show me.

What I needed, was a dog. A needy, hyper, intelligent, suspicious furball to fear change so that I can learn that things beyond me can be better, and change can be good.

Makes me wonder what He has in store for me. For us. And what other lessons I’ll learn through my dog.

Read Part 1.       Read Part 2.