More Beautiful Than Diamonds

There was a popular song in the worship culture of my growing up years:

Lord, you are more precious than silver.

Lord, you are more costly than gold.

Lord, you are more beautiful than diamonds.

And nothing I desire compares to you.

I remember standing between my parents on Sunday mornings, singing this song with my family. It was a favorite of mine as a young girl, lyrics I could wrap my mind around. Gold. Silver. Diamonds. These words, I understand.

Then Robb asked me to marry him. And a diamond rested on my left hand.

I discovered that the church sanctuary seemed to be the most beautiful place in the world to look at my engagement ring. With the rows of lights across the ceiling, my treasured ring sparkled a million facets. I confess... I found it mildly distracting sometimes. Beautifully distracting, really.

One Sunday morning, as we sang that song once more, it struck new meaning in my heart. My ring caught the light and glistened back at me. I was captivated, in love with the man who gave it to me, enthralled with the beauty of the ring and the promise it held.

"Lord, you are more beautiful than diamonds."

And suddenly, I realized I had never really understood those lyrics at all. More beautiful than diamonds. Not simply more beautiful to look at, but entirely more beautiful to behold. Not simply more beautiful than the ring, but more sacred than the promise.

The chorus took on new meaning for me: Lord, you are more beautiful than this diamond, than this love, than the forever I've painted in my mind. Let me never forget.

Today, that diamond ring still rests on my finger, now sandwiched between two bands: one for our wedding, one for our anniversary of ten years. Even as I type, it winks at me in the light of this cafe. It represents my marriage, that commitment, that love, that life. Those things are no longer as I imagined; they are not the forever I painted. Sacred to me, that story is finished.

And I am reminded anew of those words.

Lord, you are more beautiful than diamonds. And nothing I desire compares to you.

Let me never forget.

Secret Question

Remember when this happened? When my coveted Smart Phone took a splash, and my gracious hero gave me his?

We bought a new one for him shortly after, and his phone has been tucked safely into my bedside table for over three months now... since I turned it off on December 23. I was waiting for the day when I might choose to upgrade, to make it my own. A small step, you might believe, but really, a leap of great magnitude.

His phone. His calendar. His stored pictures.

Sure, a Verizon rep can clear those out for me, but I didn't want a clean slate. I wanted what was his; I wanted it to be mine. I wanted to splice our calendars together, the last blending of our two worlds.

But I needed to prepare my heart.

Yesterday was the day. I brought it out of hibernation, and I took it with me to Verizon.

"Welcome to Verizon. How can we help you today?"

"Hi, there. Well, here's the deal. This phone belonged to my husband, and I would like to transfer my contacts and apps to this phone and make it mine."

There is no reason to tell why the phone is now mine. I am learning to avoid this topic with people who don't need to know; the words are too hard to say, and I'm giving my pearls to swine. It only makes it awkward as they try to figure out what to say to this young woman who just explained far more than they expected to hear.

The phone was his. Now it's mine. Let's leave it at that.

"Absolutely, ma'am. Can you tell me your account password?"

My account password. You'd sure think I could. That's an easy thing for a girl to know... unless her husband managed all of her accounts.

What was your password, Robb? What was it?

"Um, let's try this."

I type in my best guess. The one he used for many things.

Password Incorrect.

"Ma'am, if you're not sure, we can simply click 'Forgot Password,' and it will prompt you with a secret question to answer."

"Yes. Let's try that."

Click, click, click.

"What is your favorite flavor of ice cream?"

Not mine. His. It wants to know his favorite flavor of ice cream.

Suddenly, I felt like I was on a newlywed game, where they separate us and ask us a bunch of detailed questions about each other to measure just how well we really know each other, just how deep our true love is.

Ice cream... ice cream.

My mind flashed through a million dates with him, a million desserts.

Cookies and cream? That's what he chose at the grocery store. What he liked to have on hand in the freezer. Breyer's, most especially.

But the man sure loved chocolate peanut butter cup.

And sometimes he could go for a nice bowl of vanilla. With chocolate syrup and whipped cream.

Double Chocolatey Chip Frappuccino was his favorite at Starbucks. Double blended.

But he loved a good root beer float. And a fruit smoothie.

Mint Chocolate Chip? No, that's mine. But he might have chosen that for my phone's account.

He may have chosen any of the above, just to mix things up a bit. But maybe he was craving his tried and true when they asked him to choose a password.

Oh, come on. What is it?? Think, Tricia. Think. You know this man.

"Let's go with Cookies and Cream."

I enter the password.

The spinning wheel on the screen tells me it's thinking, comparing our answers.

And then these words pop up:

"You have successfully answered the secret question."

I knew it. I knew the answer. I knew his ice cream. I knew his favorites.

I knew them then. I know them now.

My eyes well with the tears that are never far away. I answered his question.

Ask me a thousand more.

I bet I know those too.

Microclime

I have recently learned the term 'microclime.'

A microclime is a small cloud of weather that is independent from the weather around it. It stands alone, amidst the weather, yet apart.

There is a place in the mountains near me, a climb to higher altitudes, where a hot spring flows into the water of glacial run-off. It produces a small pool of 88 degrees in the middle of a river that is 38 degrees. Beautifully warm water, ten feet away from temperatures so frigid that one could freeze to death.

Literally.

In the middle of a blizzard, snow cannot come near this cloud of warmth. This place is too warm, too protected. The elements come nowhere near.

There is a place in Europe where the sun reflects across the valley, a sacred place where winter never comes. The farmers plant another crop in the winter months, while the land is lush and the air is warm, while the rest of the world is frozen.

This valley is protected from anything that happens around it. The elements of danger can come nowhere near.

Protected. Sacred. Set apart.

***

God is our refuge and strength,

an ever-present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear,

though the earth give way

and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,

though its waters roar and foam

and the mountains quake with surging.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,

the holy place where the Most High dwells.

God is within her,

she will not fall;

God will help her at break of day.

Psalm 46:1-5

***

There is within me a microclime,

a city of God,

a river whose streams bring gladness.

The holy place where the Most High dwells.

God is within me. I will not fall.

He helps me at the break of day.

My heart is protected. Sacred. Set apart.

The elements may come nowhere near.

He helps me at the break of day.

Every day.

Enter: Soccer Mom.

We've got shin guards, water bottles, soccer bags, soccer balls, and reversible jerseys. We have healthy snacks and sunscreen. We are ready for soccer.

Today was the first big game, and we started the morning with a Breakfast of Champions: Krispy Kreme. 'Cause I'm cool like that. Bring on the frosting and sprinkles. It's a big day. :)

On a team of eight children, we have two who wear the number 23, and three who wear the number 6. Ah, well. Who needs their own number, anyway?

Tuck inherited his Daddy's competitive spirit. He was here to play hard.

Tyler did not inherit this desire to win. He was pretty well done, very early on - shortly after he put on his jersey. On the drive to the field, he said, "I cry so much at practice. Coach Sarah says words I don't like. Words like, 'Come on,' and 'Run.' "

Yes, those are tough words from a loving coach. "Come on, Tyler. You can do it!" I can see why that would be hard to hear. For heaven's sake.

I bribed him with the promise of a milkshake if he would please, please join his team and play hard.

Every time I cheered for him, he ran from the field to hug me.

But I really couldn't stop. Turns out, orange jerseys and sweaty little boys bring out the die hard cheerleader in me.

At the end of the game, there was talk of the other team winning, but we really couldn't be sure. It was hardly about a score. It was time for trail mix and CapriSun drink boxes. And awards, of course.

Tyler won the award for Best Offense, since kicked the ball *three times* and *almost* made a goal! (And as he did so, my mom and I looked at each other saying, "Did you see that?! He kicked it! Three times!") Sure enough: Silver Star for him.

Tucker won the award for Best Sportsmanship, since he encouraged his teammates to keep kicking the ball in the right direction. Tricky task for preschoolers. Green star for Tuck, the sportsman.

They were sweaty, grassy, and rosy cheeked.

We each got our first sunburns of spring.

My throat hurt from cheering, and yet I continued to scream my head off.

Their daddy would have loved this day.

Well done, star players.

Milkshakes all around.