If you're just picking up what I'm laying down and haven't read yesterday's post on Kearsie: The Woman Behind The Plastic Edward Dolls and Lack of Snuggies, I'd urge you to catch up. It's quick. I'm not particularly loquacious.
So me and Mr. Kearsie finish with college, move to my Hubs' hometown and shove our meager belongings into the apartment above his parent's newly built house. Why yes, that IS the same apartment I'm living in now! Bonus points for noticing! But let's not get ahead of ourselves. All in due time. Or a few paragraphs.
We were whiling away our days in Northern Alabama, my Hubs working a crazy 12 hour 3rd shift job and me staying up late at nights watching Martha Stewart at 3 a.m. And the whole time we were loudly exclaiming to anyone with ears and maybe a few potted plants MAN I'M SO GLAD WE DON'T HAVE TO GO TO SEMINARY, WE'RE DONE WITH SCHOOL FOORRREEEVVVEERRRR. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAA.
And then six months later promptly packed up our few possessions and moved to Seminary. Because God is hil.ar.ious. And pays me back for things I rashly say, like I'LL NEVER WEAR CAPRIS BECAUSE THEY'RE UGLY. Also, to clarify: God probably doesn't care if I wear capris. And I'm wearing capris as I type.
And then we procreated. Dude. We're married. We're allowed. And we created a wee alien pod in my belly. And thus began My Life As A Mother And When I Began To Lose My Mind And Body Shape That I Totally Took For Granted. I say "alien pod" because surely that's why my body began to hate any and all food and drink and why my feet grew and I got a rash and had leakages like nosebleeds and icky gross things that no book prepares you for. Because all babies are alienish.
After I held my alien child, who looked a ton like me only so pretty I couldn't tear my eyes off her, my Hubs casually mentioned, "Hey, I think we should move to a random town where we don't know a soul, live in poverty and ocassionally bounce checks because our funding will be spotty and plant a church which will mostly likely fail because most church plants do and we'll be utterly alone and we'll never be able to buy cool things like fancy soaps or a Dyson vacuum, whaddya think?"
Ok, so that's not like, word for word, but that was in a nutshell what my new-mommy-getting-to know-my-alien-offspring-mind neuroses translated.
And I summoned up all my godly vibes that surely had been expanding along with my thighs and new stretch marks, sifted through all the proper answers I could give, selected one and said "Uh...HELL NO."
Now, let me stop right here and say that sometimes patterns develop. I've said "Uh...HELL NO" to a lot of things. And most of those things have since transpired, like moving in August to the hottest state ever to a tee tiny college town with only two traffic lights and no Walmart exactly eleventy billion miles from home. Learn from me, kind reader. I am a Cautionary Tale. And I like Unnecessary Capitalization.
Here I was, holding my wee babe, a whole nuther mouth to feed, a bottom to diaper. And I was Afraid.
I give massive bonusy points to my sweet Hubs, not only because he grew a beard for me, rubs my feet and brings me Diet Coke when I am whiny, he dropped the subject of church planting. Probably what he was doing was waiting for God to smack me upside the head. Which is what eventually happened.
We moved from seminary housing to a tiny old parsonage next door to the church that hired my Hubs as pastor. It was a crappy house, built in the 20's, moldy, had sloped floors and looked like a blind man had put together the kitchen. And it was home for three years while he pastored 15 old people. During those three years we procreated yet again and had ourselves a little blond baby. Still alien, because she made me puke 90 times a day.
And it was during these three years that guess what? I became all hot and heavy about planting churches. I know, go figure.
And so that's what we set out to do.
Shall I go for Episode Three? Yes, I think I shall. Come back if you can and I'll share the next chunk. Also, learn from me and never end a sentence with the word CHUNK. It's just not pretty.
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