Perfectly Imperfect Present

On Tuesday night, after Reed had gone to bed, TJ was on his laptop working on our finances as I cleaned up the pile of books Reed had spread across the family room.  Reed was getting sick, TJ was still getting over a cold, and we were both tired, when he said, "ASU is a no go."  Just like that.  Just that quickly. 

TJ applied for a doctorate program at ASU on December 1st and with their estimated notification timeline of "four weeks" we have been anxiously waiting to hear whether we'd be accepted.  He's kept his email open for months, watching for the email that would tell us yes or no: are we moving?  Is he leaving his job?  Are we totally switching career paths?  As we've thought and debated and prayed about our future, we've truly believed that this doctorate program is the right place for us: it's only 2.5 years, it is relatively close to home and our families, and it's by far been the most captivating topic TJ has seen for what he'd like to both study and teach.  We've felt really good about the program and the path it would lead us down to help TJ become a professor.  So we were both surprised and disappointed to find out he wasn't accepted.

Yesterday felt a bit bleak to me.  In addition to the letdown about ASU, we're all feeling a bit sick, the weather is miserable, this pregnancy is just plain hard, and TJ had a busy day at work followed by a long night at school.  I was rocking sick Reed in the glider when there was a knock at the door, then a ring at the doorbell.  I virtually never answer the door when I'm home alone, so stayed in the chair, reading about trucks and cranes and trains when I noticed the car didn't leave the driveway.  I checked my phone and saw a message from Sunshine Floral, that they were at my house with a bouquet for me if I was home.

It's a perfect bouquet: purple tulips and yellow lilies, and other bright and happy flowers I don't know the names of.  I set them in the middle of the island and greedily opened the card, anxious to see what message sweet TJ had sent.  It was a simple note, just one line: "How could life get any better?" 

Tears came to my eyes then - as they do now - thinking about how perfect things are right now, imperfect though they may be.  We have a rich, meaningful marriage and we both know that our spouse cherishes us: what a rare blessing.  Every day we smile as we watch this darling little boy - our son - laugh and learn and play with us.  Inside my belly I feel a new little family member kicking and punching and digging in to my ribs, and we're less than fifty days from meeting him or her.  We have fantastic families and rich friendships and good health.  Our cupboards are full, we have cars in the garage, a warm home during these storms, good books to read, and money to spare. 

I know there are hard days ahead.  Pregnancy is still wearing on me and the long nights are getting a little rough.  My hands are bleeding from washing them after all this nose wiping and poor Reed is sneezing his brains out. 

But I'm really not sure life could get any better.  It is rich and full and it's ours, and things don't get much better than that.