Here, then, are the top ten reasons I love my guy:

10. He farts openly. This is very important. I grew up in a home where bodily noises were a normal part of daily life, but once I got to kindergarten I learned quickly and humiliatingly that such noises were taboo in front of other people. As I got older, I wondered often if I would ever feel as comfortable and unembarrassed with a guy (especially a guy I was dating) as I did with my family of origin. Well, I do. In fact, we are so comfortable and unembarrassed about bodily noises around here that Jane calls us the Tooter MacGruder family.

9. He loves to cook and bake. This, too, is very important because I love to eat. And I really love to eat food that someone else has prepared.

8. He’s a geek. With cool glasses. I’m not sure what it is about smart men in hip glasses that is so darn sexy, but there it is.

7. He laughs easily and often, and his laugh is contagious.

6. A corollary to #7: he thinks I’m funny. Seriously. I make him laugh on a daily basis. You have no idea how healing this is for a girl who grew up believing herself to be a little dark storm cloud.

5. He is interested in other people. I love the way he’s always bringing me stories about some guy he met who’s passionate about motorcycles or computer code or surfing or whatever. I get lots of great material and a glimpse into others’ lives because of my husband’s curiosity.

4. He is thoughtful, in all senses of the word. He anticipates others’ needs and tries to meet them. And he thinks deeply about ideas, issues, and especially his faith.

3. He believes in me. He believes in my writing and encourages me to use my voice. And he has never once made me feel bad about being a financial drain on our family. My writing “career” has cost us a fair amount of money over the years, but he believes in me and my writing enough to be willing to make that sacrifice. He even calls it an investment.

2. He is a great dad. I love watching him interact with our kids. He is patient and kind. He expects a lot from Jack and Jane, but he also gives them the tools they need to do what he expects of them.

And the number one reason I love my husband:

1. He loves me. I still think it’s little short of miraculous when the people you love love you back. And when they’ve seen you at your worst and still love you – well, that is a miracle.

Underneath that was a pink construction paper heart and the words, “Congratulations Kimberlee and Doug!”

Doug laughed. He thought it was hilarious, the kind of thing you’d see after the end of an article in Reader’s Digest. I laughed, too, but only with my mouth. In my heart, I was terrified. I was sure I’d been found out. Someone knew.

They knew I wasn’t marriage material (whatever that is), that I was a liar and a hypocrite, that I was only pretending to be someone normal and functional and okay, someone who could be a loving partner in a marriage.

But I plastered a smile on my face and posed with my laughing soon-to-be husband for a photo next to the readerboard. I was pretty good at pretending I was okay even when I was not, and I wasn’t about to let on that it scared me that someone knew that about me.

Ten years later, I look back on that girl, and I want to give her a big hug. I want to tell her, “You aren’t as screwed up as you think you are” and “Relax. It was an innocent faux pas. No one was sending you a secret threat message.”

But it wouldn’t have mattered. That girl was determined to see herself through the critical eyes of the men at the Belvedere Tennis Club and through the even more critical eyes of their catty, mean-spirited wives. As Doug said to me during that first year we were married, “You won’t believe the nice things people actually say about you, but you believe all sorts of mean things nobody ever said.”

But somebody did say those mean things. Me. And the little chorus of critical voices I carried around in my head and projected onto almost everyone I met.

However innocent a faux pas those words on the readerboard were, they were also prophetic. Love really does cover a multitude of sins. It’s taken ten long years, but the dailiness of living with my husband, of living in the circle of his love for me, of slowly coming to see myself through his loving eyes instead of my own critical ones—this has transformed me.

Oh, the tennis club men and their nasty wives are still around, but I don’t listen to them quite as much these days. I tend to laugh when I mess up instead of freaking out that someone is going to find out and I’ll be a pariah. I’m more likely to own up to mistakes instead of hiding them or verbally flagellating myself for them. And I’m way more likely to tell the truth about who I am than hide behind a fake smile or a misrepresentation or even an outright lie.

It’s a process, of course, and I still have a long way to go on this journey into love and trust. But I am so grateful to my husband for loving me faithfully, even when I am unlovable, for walking with me these past ten years, for holding my hand and covering me with his love when I am scared and insecure, when I’ve made mistakes and even when I’ve lied about it.

Love covers a multitude of sins.

Love makes us beautiful and worthy and wonderful in the eyes of those who love us.

And love, more than anything else, sees truly.

424. A family walk to Sunset Park – sans jackets!

431. Jack picked a bouquet of camellias, hellebore, and rosemary and brought it to me.

442. Rereading The Shape of Mercy. Mick Silva at WaterBrook Press gave me my copy, and he managed to get Susan Meissner to sign it. The inscription reads: “Kimberlee – Live to love – Susan Meissner.” And yes, she spelled my name right and everything.

459. Sunshine.

460. Sunshine.

461. Sunshine.

473. An opportunity to write a guest post for Christine Sine’s Lenten series on her blog.

474. Writing brings me back to myself, back to the person I want to be, back to the faith I so easily abandon as I live my day-to-day life. Stories – the ones I read that resonate with me, but especially the ones I write – remind me who I am, who I want to be, what I believe, what I want to believe. I am so grateful for words.

481. The beautiful and encouraging article my friend Cathee sent me about artists whose genius only appears after sustained time and effort.

484. Read The Penderwicks on Gardam Street yesterday. It’s as delightful as the first book. A treat to read. And Jane Austen in-jokes for those of us in the know!

490. Cherry trees in bloom

499. Tea with toast.

500. Toast with Nutella.

509. Tim Dearborn’s sermon on Sunday was exactly what I needed to hear.

515. Jack composed his first rhyme last night. This morning he asked if I would write it down for him so he could copy it. Of course I could. And did. Here it is:

Ships
by Jack Ireton

Ships come. Ships go.
Some are big. Some are small.
Some meet others
that are tall.

My writer mama’s heart beats fast and proud.

517. Chocolate.

531. Dave (my editor at IVP) liked the guest post I wrote.

546. I think I know how to fix my novel. I haven’t been working on it on paper, but I’ve been working on it in my head, and this morning, it finally coalesced.

I’m sorry to say, my site has been hacked. You may find that you are redirected to one of several sites while reading mine. We are working to fix this (by which I mean, my computer geek/genius husband is working to fix this). In the meantime, you can thwart the hacker by disenabling JavaScript on your browser (go to tools/options or preferences).

Thanks for your patience!

Kimberlee

It was also the same play they presented in 2006.

Now, Taproot hadn’t planned to re-run a previous year’s holiday show. They’d planned to present the world premier of John Longenbaugh’s Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Christmas Carol. But then there was the fire.

For those of you who don’t know, in late October a fire destroyed the building next door to Taproot’s mainstage theatre (the building, incidentally, that housed the Green Bean Coffeehouse, where I wrote my book and hosted my book launch party) and caused severe damage to parts of Taproot’s theatre. So, while the show must go on, it had to be a different show in a different venue.

Hence the re-run. Hence North Seattle Community College.

Hence this post. Doug and I have had season tickets to Taproot for four or five years now (this annual purchase ensures we’ll have at least five dates in the coming year!), which means we’ve probably seen close to 30 plays there. Some of them I have adored (Enchanted April comes to mind). Some of them have made me laugh–hard (The Farndale Avenue A Christmas Carol, The Importance of Being Earnest, The Foreigner). Some of them have made me cry (Tuesdays with Morrie). Some of them have made me think (The God Committee; Doubt). Every last one of them has been great: great acting, great sets and costumes, great sound and lighting design.

Because Taproot has brought such delight to my life, I’m hosting this little blogathon to help them out in their hour of need. The letter I just got from Taproot’s Artistic Director says they need $240,000 to balance this year’s budget and cover the anticipated gap between what insurance will cover and what they’ll need to be up and running again for the 2010 season.

Now, I can’t give $240,000. I can’t even give $240. But I thought I’d have a little fun with what I can give–and let you help me. For every comment I receive on this post (one comment per person, please!) between now and Christmas, I’ll donate $1 (up to $50) to Taproot. Since I’ve never received more than ten comments on any single post, I’m going to need your help.

First, leave a comment (“I love live theater!” would work if you can’t think of anything else. Or, I’d love to hear about your favorite play-going experience, at Taproot or elsewhere.)

Second, send the link to this post to your family, friends, neighbors, colleagues, anyone you think might be interested in helping a worthy cause (without spending a dime of their own money!).

Third, if you’d like to make a donation to Taproot, I know they’d appreciate it. According to Google Analytics, there are 40 of you out there reading my blog on a regular basis (thank you!!). If each of you gave just two or three dollars, together we could give Taproot a nice triple-digit donation! You can make a donation via PayPal on the Taproot website or there’s always the good old check-in-the-mail option.

Alrighty, then. Bring on the comments!

December 22 update: Thanks to the generosity of Herb and Esther Arden, Adam Bailey, Scott Cummins, and Tiffany Werner, each comment will raise $5 for Taproot’s reconstruction efforts after the fire!

December 28 update: With 45 comments at $5 per comment, we raised $225 for Taproot! Many, many thanks to those generous souls (above) who matched my donation and to each of you who left a comment.

Most of you go to Bethany, and I will give you your books next time I see you. For the rest of you, here’s what I need:

Sarah Webber: nothing. My bibliophilic friend, your book is already in the mail.

Susan Forshey: ditto. While your copy is not yet in the mail, I hope to have it there by the end of the day.

Kim Hagler: I’ll drop your copy off in the UEFC office. You can pick it up next time you’re there.

Jennifer Perrow: please send me an email (k at kimberleeconwayireton dot net) with your mailing address, so I can mail it to you. Or let me know when and where to meet you for coffee, and I’ll bring it with me!

Margaret Feinberg was just visiting; she already has a copy of Rest, so she’s paying her copy forward to… Anyone? If you want it, just let me know!

(By the way, friends, Margaret is the author of The Organic God and one of the “40 Under 40″ most influential players in Christian publishing. And she visited my blog! She was at Bethany on Sunday, visiting her aunt, who is our church organist, and heard me preach. Then she was kind enough to come introduce herself. It’s delightful to meet well-known writers who are down to earth and approachable. I’m not sure why I expect them to be otherwise, but I do, so I was especially gratified by Margaret’s thoughtfulness on Sunday.)

Thanks so much to all of you who stopped by: it was so fun to see your comments pile up! Now go enjoy some Rest.

It was true. By my own novice writer’s standard, I had arrived: something I wrote was going to be published with my name on the cover! It was a lifelong dream come true. I was ecstatic.

And then, in October last year, my book was published. It’s a beautiful book (I kiss the feet of the designers) and I’m proud of it. But here’s the thing: if Doug is right that publication is the writer’s version of the NBA, then publishing one book with one small press is the equivalent of bench warming. And the problem with bench warming is that no one sees you play. The big name big shots are out there making the baskets and winning the game, and you’re sitting on the sidelines, hoping your coach will put you in. And of course, he doesn’t. Because you’re a benchwarmer. And that’s what benchwarmers do: they warm the bench.

I am not sure what I was expecting to happen upon publication. It’s not like I consciously thought I would be a different person—a published writer person—or that my life would look dramatically different. But I must have been expecting something, because whatever it was, it hasn’t happened.

In fact, nothing in my life has changed except that I can now find myself on Amazon. Big whoop. (Okay, it is a big whoop, but you can only do that so many times before it gets seriously stale.)

I still have frizzy hair, nasal congestion, seemingly endless laundry, children who are sometimes disrespectful (don’t they know who I am? I’m a published writer!), and the responsibility of getting dinner on the table every night. I mean, did I really expect that those things would change simply because I now had a book to my name?

I can’t have been that naive, surely. But I do think I expected that being a published writer would lend a sense of glamour to my days, make me feel more significant and important and worthwhile than I did in my pre-publication days. But it hasn’t. Even if you have a book with your name on the cover sitting on your desk, frizzy hair is still not glamorous, and nasal congestion is less so.

No wonder I felt deflated.

So now I’m back to the grindstone, revising my novel, writing a proposal for another non-fiction book, trying to sell articles to magazine editors who don’t want to buy them. Sometimes, post-publication, I wonder why I insist on doing this. I’m not making any money, my hair is still frizzy, and thus far only 1800 people in the whole of the U.S., the U.K., and Canada have bought my book. Clearly, this is not a glamorous profession.

But I can’t help it. The words come, the characters cry out to be made real, and I have to heed their voices, write them down.

I may be a bench-warmer to the end of my days. Most writers are. (And who am I to think I’ll somehow be different?) But even if I have to sit on the bench for the rest of my life and watch other writers get all the attention and the accolades, I’ll still try. I’ll still practice, writing that sentence, that paragraph, that scene over and over again until I get it right. And one day, please God, it will be my turn to play to a crowd.

In the meantime, I’m going to see what I can do about my hair.

Starting on Wednesday–as in, Ash Wednesday (February 25)–I’ll be posting weekly reflections on based on the Revised Common Lectionary readings. Except for this week, (when I’m posting a special mid-week reflection), I’ll be posting every Sunday throughout Lent and Easter.

Then, after Pentecost and Trinity Sundays, the direction of the blog will change to reflect my new work-in-progress. Stay tuned to find out more about it.

Until Wednesday, my friends…