In Greene Pastures.

So we’ve been calling this sweet peculiar corner of the south our home for about eight months now. I don’t remember blinking, drifting off to sleep and suddenly grinning deep into september breezes and picking the last few ripe tomatoes off brittle tangled summer stems. I didn’t notice morning sunshine getting lazy as the night slowly extended, and can’t recall the first occasion I began expecting hugs from Doug. There was no great white moment for the dust to settle all around us, no flashy scrolling marquee in the sky with all the rules and the answers and the reasons why. But we have found ourselves really meaning all the “thank yous” that lace the prayers before our supper, and really learning to love deeply, and really leaning on the shelter of our grand new old found friends. And it’s fantastic, and ridiculous, and real.

Sometime in April we decided to buy the house at the end of the road, just a few drive-ways down from our rental and across the street. We talked to a very nice little banker at first, but there was only so much he could do for a man with almost no credit and his wife with almost no income. The man told us that if only Mitchell were being paid salary, rather than hourly, he could secure a better interest for us. We smiled and shrugged and told him to have a very nice afternoon. Eventually Mitchell mentioned to Alan, his boss, that we might have a chance at a decent loan if only he were on salary with Classic Lawns. Alan said he’d talk it over with his wife and they left it at that, both of them expecting her frugality to dampen their enthusiasm.

The following morning was colored by a not so hopeful voice-mail, Alan didn’t completely dismiss the idea but he said there might be “an alternative.” The message was vague at best, static and solemn like the ashes of a campfire in the morning, and yet my husband bubbled over with the hope it had incited. Somehow he knew exactly what Alan would go on to suggest later that afternoon; he knew that Alan wanted us to buy that house and he wanted to loan us that money himself. It was perfect. By taking the loan out directly from Alan, we would be paying a lower interest than any bank could offer us while he would be making a higher return than any bank could offer him. And so we smiled a little at each other, and shook on it (and hired a lawyer), and suddenly became the church for each other. And it was really something lovely.

And today we have a home.

It poured the day we moved in. Buckets. Non-stop soaking juicy rain until about half-way through the next morning. It was one of the most beautiful days of my life. By nine o’clock they had arrived. They. I don’t know what we would have done without them. We were accompanied by over a dozen eager hearts, steady hands, and soggy feet to bustle back and forth between our houses. With five white trucks, at least two trailers, the brothers’ strength, and the sisters’ stamina, we were completely moved in and unpacked by 1:30 that afternoon. It was amazing.

We are so thankful.

Since then we’ve been both ambushed and delighted by the journey of our home. We have engaged a losing battle with our slowly expiring appliances and are still without wood doors between the bedrooms, but the television finally made it up into corner and as of last friday I have a dishwasher. With this house we purchased a full bundle of questions and projects and possibilities; from the backyard to the door frames there’s always something to be done. But with this house we’ve also purchased the space and comfort for sweet fellowship around the table, and laughter over dinner, and good wine. We have purchased a nesting place for good jokes, movie nights, and extra rooms where out-of-town loved ones can snuggle up and feel at home. This house is the beginning of a new story, brimming with all of the precious moments and disasters that life will pull on like an old sweater in a few years. And it’s good.

We love it here.

It’s raining in Memphis. Thundering. Slashing wet dancing all over our deck.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt inclined to tell a story, but tonight i feel inspired by a good black ale and a bowl of pecans. The candles on my coffee table flicker to the beat of the storm against the window and my puppies are sleeping, playing in their sleep, and passing gas. 

It is more home here than I ever imagined it could be.

We continue to make friends, good friends, almost everyday. It feels like we’ve been around forever, and the whole family seems to agree. We just make sense here somehow. We just fit.

One of our very most favorite things about this place is the children. They are absolutely amazing. To be honest, I only really wanted to blog at all tonight as an excuse to share some particularly precious moments we’ve shared with the little ones. 

Eli and Aiden Ault. Ages 3 and 4.

These boys took to us right away. Within the first half hour of our first time together, Eli was already running full speed across his grandma’s living room, bellowing “MITCHELL!” at the top of his lungs. It was meant to be. A few days later Jesse (Eli’s daddy) told us that Eli had saved a seat for Mitchell at the breakfast table that morning in case he happen to stop by. No one else was allowed to sit there, only his new “buddy.”

Eli’s brother, Aiden, has been much more interested in wooing me than romping with Mitchell. A couple weeks ago he held my hand under the table (just to make Mitchell jealous) and Aiden never misses the opportunity to sneak a snuggle or a kiss.

Some recent young Ault-isms:

Jennifer (the boys’ mom) and I were putting the boys to bed when this strange exchange took place.

Eli: Elizabeth?

Me: Yeah, Eli?

Eli: Do you wear pajamas when you sleep?

Me: Um…. sure. Yeah, sometimes.

Eli: Um… does your father (Mitchell) wear pajamas? Or does he sleep with no underwear and no shirt and um… no shoes and no pants… and um… no sweatshirt and no socks… and um… only his naked on?

Me: Actually, that’s exactly how he sleeps.

Eli: Yeah, my dad does too. 

The other day Mitchell and I were planning to have lunch with Jesse and Jennifer and we called to confirm before we headed over. Aiden answered the phone.

Aiden: Hello, who is this?

Me: It’s Elizabeth.

Aiden: Oh hi! My parents said you can come over right now! 

Me: Great! Do you think I have time to take a shower?

Aiden: Sure. But when you’re done make sure you dry off and then put your clothes on and put on your jacket. Well, you might not need a jacket, it’s not that cold outside.

Aiden always has a plan. He has to make sure everyone is taken care of. This kid is probably the sweetest boy I’ve ever met.

I got to take the boys to the zoo a couple weeks ago and on the way over we passed the Children’s Museum where you can walk through a life-sized model of a plane. I told them that maybe one day we could all fly on a plane together and go to California, where I’m from. Quickly Aiden asked, in all seriousness, “Are there black people there that eat bananas?” We still don’t know where that came from, but it was amazing.

I’ve also totally fallen in love with this little princess, Elly Marta (1 and 1/2). She loves our puppies even though she is a little afraid of them. She always giggles and tells me, “Puppies bite!” as she puts her little fingers in their mouths. We also think she has a secret crush on “Much” (Mitchell), the other night they all came over and all she wanted to do was dance with him. It was darling.

And of course there’s the fantastic Grey boys, Benjamin (6) and Joel David (4). Joel David is probably the cutest kid in the entire universe. The last time we drove by he was sitting up on the fire hydrant in front of the Grey’s house with his too-big cowboy boots and glasses a little to one side as he called out to us with a smile wide across his little face. That’s basically the only way I can picture him now in my head.

We had Taylor and Adrienne over for dinner not too long ago and Benjamin and I were reading a Disney book after dinner. It was the Lion King story but Benjamin wanted to tell me that there was much more in the real movie than the abridged little picture book let on. “Because in the real movie,” he told me, “the bad guy lion grabs the good lion with his claws and he holds him on the edge and then he throws him down! And all the cantaloupes were coming down the hill, and they were running…” and it was amazing.

So all that to say, we continue to enjoy the journey here and feel more and more like family all the time.

This afternoon I made sushi at home for the first time. It was much easier  to make than I thought it would be and it was oh so tasty in the end! 

I had to go in for work early, so I prepared a ton of extra rolls so Mitchell could have them for his dinner. I thought it would be fun to surprise him with my lovely sushi feast so I crammed the fishy morsels in a pyrex and garnished them with love. I took the left over salmon and laid it over rice in another container, in case his hunger seethed on after his first course, and shoved them both into our fridge. I was so excited I just couldn’t stand it, I texted him as I began my shift to be sure he would discover his delightful treasure when he got home. Later on I pestered him to see if he had found my secret love gift, if he was grinning on the floor, rubbing his full belly, licking his lips in digestive bliss. He was polite. Short. He thanked me for thinking of him. And I was utterly annoyed.

Why wasn’t he ecstatic? Why hadn’t he called right away to smother me with gratitude and tell me all the reasons why I’m the best wife in the universe, how there could never be a women so amazing, so anointed in the art of decadent cuisine? I had spent all afternoon giggling over avocados and licking rice of my fingertips, enraptured in the day-dream of my love closing his eyes and cooing as he savored every fishy bite. And all he had to say was that the rice was a bit too cold?

On my drive home from work I called to badger him again. There must be some mistake. He couldn’t possibly be so obtuse. He tried to be nice about it. With the all the grace that he could muster, he did his best to let me down gently as he confessed he wasn’t very impressed. After all, he had to pull apart the salmon from the rice and eat them separate, and it was bland to say the least. And then it hit me: he hadn’t even found the rolls I made him for him so zealously this morning. He had only found the overflow, the silly little slivers of salmon draped over balls of rice. And all the while, with every mediocre bite of fish and humdrum rice, the platter of his dreams was waiting for him, smiling at him, from the second shelf next to the cheese.

P.S. When I was slicing up one of the last rolls I nicked the edge of my thumb with the knife, it bled for a bit but it wasn’t anything that a little super-glue couldn’t fix-up in a jiffy.

Our dog has taken to biting.

Not teeth-bared, ears back, puncture wound kind of biting. More like playful, puppy, give you bruises on your fore-arms and startle children kind of biting. It’s really not so bad all the time, but when we’ve been out and about for a couple of hours eating hot wings or running errands or singing hymns to the tune of “If I were a rich man,” it becomes a problem. Upon returning to the house, revving the engine, and squealing “diesel dog” about a thousand times from the front porch to the back door, our waggly little menace can’t help but explode into the living room and welcome us with open jaws. Here the biting commences. 

We’ve begged him to play nicely, have mercy on our arms and legs, and asked him to be gentle. We’ve tackled him and held him down and bated him with toys. But he just won’t stop, he won’t stop biting us. 

So one afternoon, sometime last week, I caught Mitchell trying to spoon our little buddy on the rug in the front-room. He curled up real close and rubbed his fluffy little belly and whispered loving sweetness into his sleepy doggy ears. And diesel dog lifted his head to gaze deep into his papa’s eyes, and there was a hush in the room like when an old friend recites good poetry, and then he bit him. It was then that Mitchell blurted the rebuke that would soon change our lives forever. Flustered and offended (and perhaps inspired by John 14:15)  he cried out, “Diesel! If you loved me, you’d love me!”

It was brilliant. So now we say it all the time. I think it might have been what God meant the whole time anyway.

That said, another ridiculous greene-ism has worked it’s way into our daily diction. (Right alongside nuggle, badguy, loue, and “I love your guts”) And life is good.

(And yes, the church here does sing a praise song to that tune, I kid you not. It’s hilarious.)

I just dropped Mitchell off on Watson street for his first day of work with Alan Bender. No sooner had I pulled that beastly rig into our driveway, poured myself a bowl of grape-nuts, and wiped the sleepy morning crystals from my eyes, when it happened: I missed home. It didn’t hit me like a train or wave of panic; it was no heart pounding, thoughts racing kind of thing. It came on like the head-ache you get from trying to read too long in the dark, or the nausea that swells up inside when you accidently give away a surprise. All it took was one look out the window at the long gray lonely day ahead before nostalgia muscled it’s way into the morning fog. And then the words of an old friend echo like they always do inside my head, he whispers sweet with the simplicity of Jesus, it’s ok to miss. 

And I do. I miss home. I miss familiar. Not so much the landscape, as lovely as it is, or the sunshine in the mornings that has made me who I am. It’s not the fear that friends will fail me or be swallowed by this distance. And it’s not even a longing to be back where things make sense. 

I just miss being able to pick up the phone and meet Abby for lunch somewhere, to bite into a burrito I can count on, or sip tea under pine-trees with Kimberly’s smile. I miss “who’s home?” bellows bouncing up and down the hallway and mid-afternoon naps on leather couches and a fire. I miss religion and politics with Doris over breakfast while Sparrow practices her Arabesque and never ever ever puts her magnets in the dishwasher. I miss dinner at six. I miss the drive up the mountain and the smell of the air, Ryan’s daily ironing, and Mr. Pickles. I miss Jacuzzi nights with Ander, wine, and delicious conversation running late into the night. I miss knowing my way around a place and having favorite restaurants. I miss never locking the doors. I miss.

And it’s ok.

This advice is based on actual events. 

Do: make sure to supply your puppy with a balanced diet, suited to the specific needs of the breed. Stay away from name brand dog food products that are packed with harmful fillers like corn as main ingredients. Natural dog food may be more expensive and harder to locate, but it really can make a world of difference in your dog’s health, coat, mood, and total quality of life (just like people). 

Don’t: allow your dog to roam freely around a warehouse riddled with vermin poison only to find him making a snack of a decaying rat carcass. Furthermore, do not wait until your wife is falling asleep to inform her that your puppy could potentially be dying slowly this evening from internal bleeding that is virtually impossible to detect until the symptoms manifest in which case he is already good as dead (you researched all this in a panic hours before but have been too afraid to admit that you allowed this devastation to occur).

Also: It may not be a great idea to feed your dog a dead bird while your wife is at work. That’s just gross.

Do: take your pet with you when you leave the house as often as you are able. It will enhance the bonding process if you allow your pet to go with you on simple errands where it is appropriate to bring a dog along. If you plan on making a short stop to a location where animals may be prohibited, and your dog is trustworthy, simply leave him in your vehicle with one or more windows cracked for that brief period.

Don’t: forget that you have left your trusting puppy in the car while running a “brief” errand and decide to extend your stay for nearly an hour. Upon returning to your vehicle, do not panic and rush home without allowing the dog to relieve himself before you begin your drive. Furthermore, do not mistake your dog’s anxiety and odd behavior for some kind of personal offense. Soon you will discover that he is not upset with you, in fact he has already quite forgotten your negligent act; his only concern is over an hours worth of excrement that will soon splatter the asphalt next to your parked car. Your brave little soldier, now deeply relieved, should return to his charming self and wag his tail as you hang your head in shame.

Do: make an effort to socialize your animal. Once your dog has completed all his puppy vaccinations, feel free to introduce him regularly to new people, places, sights, and smells. Your pet should be comfortable around strange people and animals as long as you are in control. A good avenue to safely socialize your pet and gain his trust is in a small group like an obedience class or a gated dog park.

Don’t: innocently introduce your puppy to a baseball sized amphibian (commonly referred to as the Cane Toad in the Southeast United States) that will immediately excrete poison from it’s skin that causes your pet to begin foaming at the mouth. God forbid you ever find yourself so moronic as to facilitate a similar event, tend to the afflicted animal immediately by washing out it’s mouth with water and pray that it will not begin to seizure like the other dogs you read about on the internet. Above all, do not laugh at your pet as he flees from the “harmless” little frog shaking his head and sneezing wildly all over the lawn as his lips begin to froth (this is before you check the internet).

And Lastly:

Don’t: purchase a pet through any online breeder that you cannot meet personally to examine your prospective pup. The pictures they provide may be enticing, but the true condition of your pet may not be acceptable. The puppy may arrive, precious as he may be, riddled with tiny ticks amid his soft thick fur or could develop, due to some form of malnutrition or mistreatment, a temporary compromise in his immune system resulting in skin mites and random vomiting. Although these types of ailments may not effect the adult health of your pet or his wonderful personality, they will surely be a nuisance throughout your first few months and a costly one at that.

Do: purchase a pet through any online breeder that you cannot meet personally to examine your prospective pup. We firmly believe, after struggling through ticks, mites, birds, rats, explosive diarrhea, and big-ass poison frogs… our little Diesel dog is indestructible and all the better for it (and dearly loved just the way he is).

It was raining when we left. 5am and pouring. The first drops fell the night before, just moments after Mitchell had packed up the last tool in the last crate after patching the last tire on the right rear axle of our home-made trailer. An angry sky, weighed down with winter storm, had been threatening us for days but we were confident the rain would wait for us to finish building, packing, and wrapping up loose ends. It did, God laughed, and Mitchell stood palms open in the drive-way as the drizzle turned to downpour.

It rained all the way through the morning, through LA traffic, and stops at Starbucks. It rained through sweet good-byes in Oceanside, storytelling and diaper changes with the Hadidians, and birthday chili served in the finest China in Del Mar. We left the next morning after coffee with an old friend of Mitchell’s and enjoyed the last of California’s clear blue skies all the way to Yuma on the Arizona border. At that point the rain returned, we said good-bye to the hitchhiker we swooped up a few miles back, and I sat in the truck for the good part of an hour while Mitchell argued with the clerk in AutoZone about a new fuel filter. 

We spent two nights in Phoenix after that and forged on into the snowy heights of flagstaff and the beginning of the flattest thousand miles I’d ever seen. The drives drug on for hours longer than they should have each day, but between puppy potty breaks, filter changes, and refueling, we didn’t have a chance at record time. It was a pleasant journey after all, filled with fruitful conversation, pee-your pants style laughter together, and some epic i-pod playlists; we weren’t in any sort of hurry. 

On our way east from Albuquerque, after a hearty southern breakfast with our dear Alan and Gail, we hit our first and only major detour. One of the trailer tires was shredded. Fortunately, we had picked up a spare tire and rim on our way out of San Diego. Unfortunately, the careless jerks at the tire place had sold us the wrong size rim. So after a couple hours of kneeling in the dark and trying to cram a 5000 pound single axle rim onto a 7000 pound duel axle frame, we gave up and slipped into a Motel 6 in Amarillo, Texas. HBO and Pizza Hut helped keep our spirits high that night and after the purchase of a new rim the next morning, plus the help of a good old cowboy in the parking lot (to whom mitchell managed to sell the old rim for $20 – some things never change), we were back on the road and ready for the 14 hour stretch ahead. 

Finally, after the last and longest 750 miles of our journey, we crossed the Memphis bridge over the roaring Mississippi, navigated through the ghetto on Park Avenue, and found ourselves at home. The Winterburns were thrilled at our arrival, even at 11:30 on a Saturday night. The next morning they chauffeured us to a glorious church service where we were smothered with smiles, hellos, and open hospitable arms. One couple insisted that we come over for dinner the next evening and made sure it would be so. And with the Winterburns’ help, within 24 hours, we had found a place to stay, signed a year lease, and slung towers of boxes into our new brick home. 

From there we set out (in the rain once again) for Atlanta where we spent Christmas with the family, picked up a trailer full of hand-me-down and craigslist furniture, visited Paul’s family in Pensacola over the weekend, and stayed just long enough to ware out our welcome and send Mitchell red-faced down the highway at two in the morning heading as fast as he could to anywhere but his parents basement. We slept in the cab of the truck in a supermarket parking lot and recovered to Graham Cooke sermons on CD as we drove the last 400 miles home. 

We only had to make one phone call once we arrived. Doug Ault, who we had only briefly met the Sunday before, was more than happy to come help us unload and then treat us to a tasty lunch in the warmth of his living room beside a roaring fire. Doug and Erma have been especially kind to us since we landed here. They live just around the corner and when they aren’t doing us favors or lending us tools, they’re sure to be stuffing warm food into our mouths and making sure we feel loved and at home. We are so very grateful.

All the families here have been amazing to us. We’ve been over for dinner with four different families so far, and have had to turn down several other invitations in the mean time. We really are starting to feel very at home. Our house is unpacked and unbelievable cozy, we have found ourselves with more than enough furniture to go around, somehow everything matches, and our walls are finally filled with bright colors and smiling faces. Our fridge is full, our books are beautiful in their cases, and our back yard is still bulging with a thousand ripe pecans (not forgetting the 5-gallon bucket of them sitting on our kitchen floor). We have both found exciting new jobs, our marriage is thriving, and every need seems to have been met. We are blessed. God is great. And the adventure has only just begun.

So he’ll move furniture around mostly all the time and post up with his biography and blanket in a hand-me-down recliner that belongs in the back corner between the bathroom and the door. He does this because there is only one light source in the living room. The ceiling fan. And although the ambiance of that one dim light is really quite charming to the couple nestled sweetly on the sofa, or the company all cozy telling stories, drinking tea, to the reader it is begrudgingly inadequate in the wee hours of the night. And sometimes that’s where the chair might stay for hours, days at a time. Right there in the middle of the room, our sweet burgundy center piece, swallowed in the halo of our dusty ceiling fan. And we love it.