Thirty-ish years ago, she finished her course, passed the exams, walked across stage, received a pin and a lamp, and started working as an LPN. That’s Licensed Practical Nurse, for those of you who wanted to know.  It meant she cared for people, made them feel better, and just all-around made a difference in a hurting world.  But then she made a decision. A super valuable, irreplaceable, highly sacrificial decision. She decided to stay at home with her three munchkins.  (Well, first it was just me — but even that is (obviously) a full time job. [see below])

She stocked up on bandaids (with Jacob she NEEDED them), she bought kleenex in bulk (Algebra and I didn’t get along), she pretended not to use earplugs (between the three of us, we attempted to play piano, flute, harp, trombone, and guitar), she became official chauffeur (music lessons, 4H, park days, sports). She cared for us, made us feel better, and just all-around made a difference in a our lives.

Well.

Fast forward a few years and her kiddos were moving out, moving on; not needing her less (by any means!), but needing her differently.

She [drumroll] went back to school.

First, she had to fulfill the requirements to have her LPN renewed (thirty years changes a lot in the medical world). Then, she had to qualify for the nursing program. Then, she had to work work work work work work work to learn EVERYTHING there is to know about the human body.  And – finally – SHE FINISHED!

Words do not describe how proud we are of her. I’m not sure I should admit it, but I definitely cried during her Pinning Ceremony. Definitely.

And see that very bearded man standing on the end? That’s my Dad. He deserves almost as much credit as Mom does.  Yup. He does.  (Example: when your wife is studying for her nursing program, she’s not exactly full of extra minutes in her day, and sometimes homecooked meals just don’t happen.)

Now for the part that Mom doesn’t know (yet): her three (very proud) children were (almost) late to her pinning ceremony because we were trying to create her mother’s day gift!  This becomes one of those situations where we truly, sincerely hope to hear her says: “its the thought that counts.”  We rudely sneaked out of the house after lunch, we disappeared without saying a word, we hung out in hoboville, we raced home, we didn’t have time to change into more appropriate graduation attire (see Dad’s tie? Grandma’s dress? compare: our shorts), and we – yes – were almost late.

But.

All for a good cause.

Thanks to the hard work of our dedicated parents, we’ve turned out to be three wildly good looking, exceptionally cool, incredibly talented individuals….

…who rather like each other…

..and sometimes act like dorks…

…and do crazy things…

…he bikes…she paints…I take photos…

…he designs robots….she plays the harp….I try to keep up…

…she hogs the spotlight…

…he takes it back….

…I take their portraits….

So, yes. This is us.

Thank you, Mom.

Steven and Ashleigh walked toward his new car — the little sports car sitting in the middle of the parking lot. She walked next to him. Giggling at something he’d said. He looked down at her and smiled. Really smiled. His girl was by his side and all in the world was well. Still hand-in-hand, he walked to her side of the car, opened the door, and waited for her to settle in before closing it behind her.

In that one little gesture, Steven proved that chivalry really isn’t dead.  And Ashleigh really is a lucky girl.

And she knows it. Her joyful smile says it all.

Nothing but joy. Uninhibited. Unrestrained. Uncontrolled.
Joy spilling over into laughter. Giggles. Secret smiles. Smug glee. Playful love. Witty banter.

Three years ago, it was completely different. He was just the boy in a tan driver hat whose picture inspired her to join Match.com and find out they were – indeed – a perfect match. A quick meeting in Starbucks (she can tell you exactly what he was wearing, he can tell you exactly what she ordered) led to dinner and then a movie and then another dinner and then a long two years of a relationship across state lines.

Somewhere along the way, he put his arm around her waist, guiding her with his extended arm.  He set the pace, she followed. She stumbled, he held her up. He forgot the step, she reminded him.

He holds her hand walking through the park. She follows his lead standing in the coffee shop. Their synchronized journey began with a casual dance … and has evolved to a life of unity.

They sway.

They dance.

They waltz.

They tango.

So there they stand. There they dance. Two people. In love. In their own secluded wood. Her hand resting in his, his hand supporting her waist. Moving to the music they created, gliding through the meadow. A dip. A turn. A kiss.Life changes. Scenes change. The sun sets. The  story changes. A dip. A turn. A kiss.

It’s not just a dance.
It’s their life.

Jay is a trainer. Jay tries to motivate his trainees to do these moves. These moves aren’t easy. Jay does them easily. The end.

But, see, the thing about Jay? He helps people. Wholeheartedly. Unreservedly.

When I first hung out with Jay, I could hardly lift my arm over my head. A car accident last October had left my arm weak. Useless. Aching. Frustrating.  I avoided using my arm. Even emptying the dishwasher became a one-handed operation. My camera-stabilizing arm was…well…unstable.  (I distinctly remember being crouched in position at the beginning a wedding ceremony and watching my camera shake — my hand exhausted and unable to keep the camera to my eye continuously. SOMETHING had to change.)

A round of neurology appointments, an MRI, and a nerve study later and the news came back with bittersweet flare: your nerves are fine.  Yay. So glad. Truly. Kinda. Damaged nerves are bad. Bad bad bad. But talk about even MORE frustrating: no hope for relief except “with time for the muscles to heal”. Not helpful. Not reasonable.  Why was my arm still not fully functional?

My primary care doctor suggested one more outlet: functional therapy. Skeptical, I met with him. Felt him immediately find the injured points in my muscle with hardly any guidance.  Felt the relief after just a few brief sessions. And then started attending his group sessions.

Two months later, I’m a believer.   Through group sessions, active release therapy, and some at-home tecniques, my arm ached less and strengthened more.

The crowning moment of glory? I thrust a 12kg kettle bell straight overhead. With one arm. And no problem.
I almost did a happy dance in front of everybody.  Six months of pain and weakness became a distant memory.  A bad nightmare. A fleeting backstory.

So why would I tell you all this?

Because Jay — the one who can support himself in an elongated plank [see top] — is the one who put his vast level of skill and resources into happy use on my unhappy arm.

He’s a hero with a stash of kettlebells.

Conclusion?  Go see Jay. Seriously. Do it.

I’ve seen the weight loss of Jay’s friends. I’ve seen my own strength improve. I’ve seen muscle definition and endurance increase.
He’s the one-stop-shop.

Yes.

The hero with a training studio.

Reasons Why Ray and Laura are Ah-Ma-Zing:

1) They take the inconveniences life brings and make them fun. Like when they played in the rain.

2) They stop to cherish each moment. Like when they played football in the field.

3) They don’t mind proclaiming their love from the rafters. Like when they sang to each other in the hayloft. (And literally made their photographer cry.)

4) They take time to laugh. At everything.

5) They take joy in every.single.thing. Like bare feet in wet grass.

6) They laugh when happy moments turn sour. Like when stepping barefoot in a very wet cow pie.

7) They take time to dance. After sunset. By the light of the pickup truck.

Four years ago, he was just the persistent dude on MySpace (yes. MySpace. remember? before Facebook?) who claimed to know her through a mutual friend (to this day he can’t remember who it was, though) and kept messaging her, asking for a date.

She put him off.
Turned him down.
Ignored him.

He didn’t give up, though. This girl was worth pursuing and he was determined to prove himself worthy of the pursuit. He gritted his teeth. Sat at his computer. Typed another message. Kept up his patient ways. And finally (o, finally), she agreed to meet him for a date.

In the four years since that very first date, she has laughed every.single.day. because every.single.day she’s seen her crazy, goofy, persistent, determined man. And every.single.day he’s made her laugh.

And now – four years later – he’s her best friend, her fiance, and (when the fifth anniversary of their first date comes around), he’ll be her husband.

And she’s reaching for his hand.
Walking through life.

With him.

Hers was a city life. Full of dance lessons and beauty pageants and high heels and pink dresses, she spent a childhood full of ballet shoes and hair spray and nailpolish and lipstick.

He spent his days in his field. With his cows. In the barn. At the fair. His cowboy boots and blue jeans defined his wardrobe and the only hair spray he used was on the calves to perfectly style their fur before a show.

She entered pageants, he entered fairs.
She wore heels, he wore boots.
She lived city, he lived country.

Yet somewhere along the way — eight years ago today, to be precise — their paths crossed and they went on their first date. And then another. And another. And soon? She loved him. And he knew she was perfect. And she wanted to marry him. And he (finally) asked.

And now? The city girl wears cowboy boots when toting buckets of feed to the cows. Heavy buckets. To lots of cows.
The country boy keeps a pair of blue jeans for special occasions. Like when she’s wearing heels. And a killer purple dress.

And they? They’re getting married.
The city girl to the country boy.

P.S. Their parents were married in the same month of the same year.

She ran toward him, arms flung wide. Giggling, she didn’t even try to dodge the rain drops. Half her heart stood up the path, waiting for her. Patiently. Gently. Happily. He waited for her. Soaking in the rain as gleefully as she basked in his love, she reached his side. Throwing her arms around his neck, she jumped up and down — “we’re getting maaarriiied!!”  It was a squeal, a statement, an exaltation, a promise, a triumph — all rolled into three words and ten syllables. (Count it carefully — all the syllables were fully present.)

Fingers entwined and raindrops falling around them, nothing could dampen their joy. On the contrary. The joy was made full by the fun of the rain. The adventure of it. The perfection of simply playing. Of truly being. Of fully living.

After six years of high school bus rides, band practices, picnics in the woods, creek exploration, long distance relationships, college exams, commuting, Ray and Laura know how to relish each moment and enjoy every single opportunity for fun. Even if it means dancing. In the rain. While singing to each other. In the middle of the woods. Barefoot. On their six year anniversary. With a wedding four months away.

P.S. Ray & Laura’s engagement session to be continued in part 2.

Not so many years ago, it was just the two of them. One plus one equaled two. Two people hanging out and having fun. But then arithmetic changed a bit. Soon one plus one equaled four. A few more years passed, a few things changed in their world, and eventually one plus one equaled seven. By the by, maybe one plus one will equal eight…or nine….or more!  (Don’t kill me, girls. )

Even though the arithmetic has changed, one thing hasn’t: the love.  He loves her, she loves him (see above). They love them all (see below). They ALL love him (how can you not with dimples on such a little guy!). And he loves them all (note the flowers he gave Grandma).

These seven know how to laugh (samples below), they definitely know how to be stylin’ (dude. dddddefinitely.), and – most of all – they truly know how to love.

When four-year-old Esther found out a little brother or sister was on its way, she made up her mind: his name is Thomas.

Over the next few months, the baby was unnamed, unknown. But always in Esther’s mind he remained Thomas. She would talk about Thomas. She would look forward to meeting Thomas. She would feel sad when Thomas made Mommy so tired.  Thomas…Thomas…Thomas.  It didn’t matter that he could be a she, to Esther he (or she!) was definitely a Thomas.

Somewhere along the way, the name stuck. When he was born at 4:26am one Friday morning, his parents looked at their son and knew: his name is Thomas.

Welcomed into the world by an older brother and two older sisters, Thomas is loved and cherished and treasured and cuddled.  The siblings look at him in awe, marveling at how long they had to wait to meet their new brother; amazed at his tininess, his cuteness, his loudness, his cuddliness, his smelliness.

Oh, and P.S.: in a few short weeks, Thomas and his siblings will officially be my nieces and nephews.  I’ve never been an Aunt before. Think I’ll do a good job of filling the role?