Feeling a little nostalgic today, so I’m blogging old school style. Remember that kind of blogging? No one was trying to make money or get a book a deal. People were just connecting to people who shared something in common with them: they liked to put their thoughts and feelings into words. Eventually, you found yourself returning to the pages where you had a little more in common with a person, and then settled in with the people you decided you liked – and they liked you, too. It was a world of its own, and I’m glad I got to be a part of it. I’m glad I’m still connected with some of those blogging friends, and they’ve now become real friends. That’s pretty cool.

What’d I tell you. I’m feeling nostalgic. Everything has a little halo around it.

So, how did I find myself here? Well, it was kind of weird and unexpected. John Stamos has published a memoir, so he’s all over Instagram, pumping out lots of reels to promote himself. One of those reels fell into my feed, and I ended up looking at his posts.

Now, you have to understand something about John Stamos. He lived in my husband’s neighborhood. So, in my mind that associates him forever with Southern California, specifically the neighborhood where my husband grew-up. That means memories of the first time I met his folks, and we watched that weird John Irving movie with Robin Williams together. It means memories of the last time I saw Doug before Boston, and I really thought it was really the last time I’d ever see him.

It reminds me of the incredibly awkward Christmas evening the future in-laws spent with their future daughter-in-law, alone, when she gave them the stupidest gift in the history of future daughter-in-law gifts. It’s so embarrassing that I can’t even tell you.

It reminds me of the drive to their place from my apartment in Long Beach—that wonderful California Bungalow design is probably still my favorite. And, when I think about that apartment I think about Doug dropping me off and sitting outside talking. What did we talk about then?

That’s when we sat in his car so long I ran in and grabbed a blanket, because it got cold. No, of course, I didn’t invite him to come inside. Never even crossed my mind. It was too much fun to sit together in his dumb little car.

We fell in love in that dumb car. We fell in love over Rocko’s Broccoli-Cheese Soup. We fell in love over a cases of 20# paper and a Xerox 9500. We fell in love over slices from Pizzamania. We fell in love over long-distance phone calls between Boston and Long Beach. I did see him, again.

As I sit at my laptop here, looking around this spare room of ours, I see so much evidence of who we are today, and who were back then. He’s pretty focused: saxophones, keyboards, his laptop and recording gear, HopeMail envelopes everywhere. Shelves of Bibles and overheads and instrument stands stuck here and there. A slide whistle. And, I’m all over the place. Baskets, balloons, and bin. Art I wish I had more wall space to hang. Sewing. Baptismal robes. Stacks of letters from inmates I want to write back. Mementos. Craft supplies. Christmas gifts. Paper in so many forms. Surprises. NBF work. Bins of bins.

Anyway, as I was thinking about John Stamos and the way he talked about his marriage to his first wife, I got really sad. Apparently he had a lot of issues in their relationship and was very angry at her after the divorce. I watched two clips of him talking about her, and there’s this hurt still there. I guess he had to come up with a resolution to his feelings, though, so in the two different clips he blamed himself for not focusing more on his career during their marriage. He said that’s why the marriage failed. That’s a stupid answer. And, he looks uncomfortable saying it. It’s like, dude, you know you’re lying, and we know it, too. But, the truth slips out in between his twitching and grimacing: he was ready to have a family. He’d achieved as much fame as he needed, and wanted babies now. She, on the other hand, was a star on the rise. She didn’t want babies. She didn’t want to be a wife and mother, yet. He still resents her for that. I am forced to believe he actually really loved her. That made me sad. He’s married now to a little girl who gave me the son he should have had 30 years ago. He struggles to say that famous line people always say when they have regrets, but want to sound like they don’t: “It was all meant to be.”

Like cheese fries.

So, I look around at this room that I used to be ashamed of people seeing – so messy, right? I must be a flawed person. As Snoopy would say, “Blech.” Give me a break. I do a lot of stuff and I live in an 800-square-foot apartment. I love this room. It’s where I meet with God. My desk and chair and laptop work best together right in this spot. I love looking across the desk at my husband doing his thing. Wayfarers’ legit started in this room. It’s all good. It’s our life. It’s who we were 35 years ago amplified by time and God’s goodness. Did I mention the dried flowers? My mother-in-law’s knitting basket? This is what making a life looks like. It’s not messy: it’s full. It’s beautiful. It’s touched with the unexpected sticky note on the wall from a grandbaby. I Love You.

It’s a good life.
A life touched by God’s grace,
A life preserved by God’s mercy.

When I fell in love with Doug, I didn’t know what that would mean. John’s (I think we should be on a a first-name basis by this point) book is called, If You Would Have Told Me. Can’t we all say that about our lives? I mean, what is this life? What is this kind of goodness called? I know life could have taken other turns. There were so many times we could have disobeyed God. Well, I mean, there were so many times we did. I think God gave us just enough chances: infinite. Every day, twelves times a day, and twelve times more.

I’ve told Doug recently that I do believe there are some things that could have been better—gone better—if we’d obeyed sooner. It was not all meant to be, John. God didn’t require all that pain and sin and stress and whatever. We could have made better choices financially, when he was working a “real” job. We could have exercised more. We could have prayed so much more and turned off the TV a lot sooner and put away vain ambitions earlier. I would have gladly skipped all my nonsense years, when I let the Enemy get such a stronghold. So much vanity.

God hears those prayers, though. Those desperate prayers we cry out to Him, those prayer promises we make to Him—vows we can never keep, but sometimes we really mean them.

He looks down on us with mercy, too. He knows what we’re made of, where we came from, how strong (or weak) a stuff we’re made of, and He has compassion on us. I know He had compassion on me.

It was January, 1988. Doug’s grandfather had passed away and he had to go to Arizona for the funeral. It was just a few days, but it felt so long. No cell phones in those days, remember? No text messages, no photos on social media, no long-distance phone calls. And, we were just friends, of course. Co-workers. Hadn’t he just flirted shamelssly with what’s-her-name at the Christmas party, and bought his girlfriend a leather jacket? He didn’t call her as soon as he got back into town, though. “Can we meet at Pizzamania?” He was full of thoughts. Those shorts and his sneakers and his dad’s old button-down. His grandfather Marty was on his mind. He was struck by how much his faith was a part of his life. He admired it, but God had no place in his life. “Would you ever marry a man who didn’t believe in God?”

Well, he believed by the time he proposed. A little baby faith, but I sure wasn’t a faith giant. My faith was more about my religion in those days. I had “a few” things to learn—have to be kind to young dumb Caroline, after all. Can’t hold too many things against her, now that she’s old and decrepit. I mean, it took her long time to learn to pray and recognize the voice of the Holy Spirit and discover that spiritual accountability she had to her husband and that money wasn’t security but security was spiritual intimacy with God.

How did we get here? Was it something about John Stamos? Was it Sunday mornings at home, because we have church on Saturday evening? Was it remembering those days in sunny Southern California that led us to a crooked little house in Massachusetts? Was it thoughts of cups of coffee with my husband and maybe a fritter from down the street? Ah…that makes me remember Winchell’s.

Have nice day, everyone.
❤

P.S. Didn’t edit this. Refused. “Let the mistakes prove it’s real, ” she said with a wry smile.