BLUE CLEAR SKY

Our First Baby...

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 14:59:00 +0000

I'll save myself a thousand words...

#11: Our first blog

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 17:59:00 +0000

this one, was started to share pieces of our written lives with all of you. One of the toughest decisions when starting a blog is... well, "How to name it?"

I'd already blogged for over two years, and videoblogged just as long (insert commercial space here) and.. blah, blah, blah... needless to say, I love blogs! But this new space, was to be Carlee and I's first blog together. I knew quite a few people wanted to read it mostly so they'd get to know more about this sudden stranger who even sudden-er became this gorgeous girl's fiancée. So Carlee and I agreed on a rule for my posts: strictly PG-13 with mild thematic elements, but absolutely no language or graphic anything. In other words, a sort-a censored blog. Anyway, by writing in English it was already censored... it's so much easier to express truth and emotions in one's mother language.

Anyway, so on to the difficult choice of picking a name for our blog... I mean, a web address, that one, the one in the browser, that must not change; different than the blog current title, which may change occasionally.

After some consideration, I proposed a musical reference to a country song by one of my top five favorite artists of all time: George Strait. The title of the song spoke to me about a wide open space above us that inspires life and feeds dreams of a heaven beyond the visible vastness; the specific adjectives reminded me of my bride's beautiful face... and her blue clear eyes. And the lyrics of the song... simply spoke a truth about us, coming together, then the choice was clear... we'd name our blog Blue Clear Sky.

Now, for all of you out there?

How did you pick the name of your blog?

#10: Our first weekend… on different countries.

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 08:19:00 +0000

Nobody home. Not one of us.. we are almost three, yet nobody home.

It must be a wandering spirit within me that always gets me excited about the prospect of going places… regardless of their condition or the circumstances, I love going places. So when I took this job, after lenghty consideration between Carlee and I, I was eagerly expecting weeks like these… away from home, to travel, to work, to feed my self-esteem, and to miss what I have in order to appreciate it even more.

Sometimes I wonder if I am really bad at relationships. Sometimes I could affirm it. My history would help me confirm it. Sometimes, I think my bad choices allow me to see that the glass is twice as big as the water it holds, and the water is half of what it should be… but nothing is empty, no something is ever full.

I love Amy Grant’s music, I really do. In my conflicted and sinking faith, her lyrics, her story, her interviews, her stage banter and the feeling I have after listening to her music, have given me a beacon of hope that divinity is, or might be, after all, not reachable, but reaching out… to me.

For a few weeks in February I wanted things at work to happen in a way that my monthly schedule would look something like this: 1. several trips during February (maybe one lucky assignment would keep me from having to have a birthday party [I used to hate my birthday] and avoid explaining my decades long arguments about the self-worshipping anti-biblical modern tradition of b-days), 2. home on the weekend BEFORE my b-day (to attend my third Queensrÿche concert on Feb.16 in Dallas), 3. a heavy training schedule at corporate offices during March that would prevent me from being outside Dallas for 4. the weekend of March26-27 when I would have two chances to see my third (and fourth)Amy Grant concert, only this time with the Symphony of Dallas at the Meyerson.

I moved to the US (it's impossible for me to name the country properly: America) in May 2002. When discussing the exact date with my then prospective employer, I ended up moving my arrival date to two weeks earlier so I could catch my first concert ever with, of course, the Ames. Ever since I been living in the US, I’ve felt a desire to continue travelling along any road that would lie before me, for those years when my return trip was not back to the city where I was born, no trip ever felt like a trip back home.

And that has added to the loneliness, when instead of building relationships with the bricks that humans nearby brought to share, I built walls and threw rocks around me, because I simply could not let anyone know how homeless I’ve been.

So besides a wandering spirit, it’s been a void within me that prompts me to seek the road that would lead me to that place, where I would feel at home, at ease with myself and where I’d become owner of my surroundings in the same way those surroundigns would own me. Sixteen years ago I believed that place would be one that’d tenderly described with religious language. Now cynicism has taken over the joy. Over the last decade that place would be perfectly defined with a geographical name. But the chase hurt more than the catch would ever fulfill. For five and a half years I yearned and ached to find a home in an individual person. Just to allow pain to find a home in me. Over the last seven months a little cozy building has earned the title of a home which, at least in the material sense, is my first ever…yet now, working some 1300 miles west of that cozy little place (and farther from my homeland than I've ever been) with my wife travelling 500 miles south, across the border (in a country whose only uttered name immediately brings senseless latin rivalry to my mind), I feel more at home than I have ever been: browsing the blogged lives of a bunch who call themselves Church, listening to a Bruce Springsteen song, having read an Amy Grant related e-mail from my beautiful sister-in-law, not letting my job define myself, meeting distant friends whose lives I’ve read, working harder than ever at defining my life by who I am not what I do, terrified about the world I’m bringing my baby into, but smiling when my own dreams pass right over my head, and I see the palms of my hands with no piercings from nails, and look at my finger dressed with a ring of commitment, knowing that home is where the heart is… and my heart is here: shyly beating inside of me… and I know who loves it well.

#9: Our first nights apart...

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 23:43:00 +0000

... ended last night.

After a few months of anticipating it (with excitement I must confess) I had to take my first trip out of town for work. After taking up my new job a few months ago, I longed for the time I'd say good-bye to my wife for a couple of days as we'd be apart while I kept learning more and more through what I expect is my last non-self-employment ever.

It's not that I wouldn't miss her, a case I had to make pretty clear to her; it was more a sense of "anticipating" what could I learn, what would I learn, how will I grow through this time apart. Of course, those three do not refer only to our relationship, but to some sort of professional growth and learning as well. And personally too, as there is nothing that I treasure more looking back in my life that the opportunities to learn that travel has afforded me (either travelling inside our outside of my country).

So off to Jacksonville I went. Barely my fourth time ever in Florida and anticipating to work hard for a few days, I was in for some exciting days. After having done my job as trainer for people who buy franchisees of our system, this was the first time I'd be actually walking the walk and helping to actually start operations. It was an interesting time for our company as well, being this is the first store east of Dallas as part of our most aggressive expansion effort so far.

But after three days there, I could tell this would be a sort of "first" trip for me. While the beaches of Jacksonville were just ten minutes down the road that passed in front of our store parking lot, I had no chance to visit them. All of the city I ever saw was two main freeways, a restaurant, and the shopping area where we were located. So I started picturing this as the first time I'd ever be to a new town and not have a chance to meet its locals or see its locations.

As we opened our doors for business, I decided to learn from our customers as much as I could, so here I was, striking a conversation with Puerto Ricans, Bolivians, Colombians (including my new friend, the franchise owner, whom I had previously met and trained in Dallas), Americans, Hondurans, some Mexicans (less than 10% of all customers and less than 1/4 of Spanish speakers, so much different than Dallas) and even Europeans. Wow, do I love talking to people from different places! And I learned quite a few things about our business and gathered some ideas for our marketing and straegic efforts.. but so far, no learning for my personal growth... nothing really touching I could share with my wife, besides meeting a guy from Croatia who was a big fan of the same soccer player I admired so much, Davor Suker, striker for my favorite team in the world: Real Madrid. Not that Carlee would care about soccer, but having been to Croatia, this was, so far the best I could do.

It was however on the afternoon of my third day that I met this interesting couple with their child. Having lived in Chicago for dozen years, they considered themselves "big pizza fans", keen on trying every new pizza place they can set their sights on. So here they came, and anxiously I tried picking up a conversation with them about the things they look for in a pizza while their special order cooked. I noticed something about their accent but couldn't gather the courage to ask them their nationality (if anyone looked from out of the US, it was me, not this blue-eyed white-skin smiling couple).

So after a few minutes about pizza stuff I cannot remember, their order was ready and before they were leaving I knew it was my last chance to inquire and add another country to the list of places where I've talked to people from. I handed the pizza, and quite cautiously I asked "So are you from Chicago originally?" -"No, ex-Yugoslavia" the man replied. -"Oh, Croatia?" I smiled "a couple of hours ago we talked about soccer with a gentleman from Croatia!" I proudly said. He smiled, "no, Bosnia" -"Ah! Meho Kodro from Barcelona" another soccer hero who'd make me look good and knowledgeable I thought. He smiled even more, "Yes, but we left so long ago... but you know a lot about our countries" he said as to empathize without making me feel ignorant about anything besides soccer. So trying to regain my composure I asked "Are you from Bosnia too, ma'am?" and she gently nodded, while her husband's eyes lit up and I could sense some paternal love in those pupils: "No, she's from Serbia". Suddenly, my body froze, and my face tried to hide between my stupid mumbled "Oh!" followed by a brief second of silence. Soccer could not help me anymore.

"Yes I know!" he exclaimed with the friendliness of a guy who can't believe his luck. "We are not supposed to be together, but I guess love conquers all"... he said, as he walked out the door. I had to stop him... and ask him for a picture... to remember the face of who had just taught me a beautiful lesson that reminded me so much of Carlee and I... indeed, love conquers all... I guess.

#8: Our first test...

noreply@blogger.com (Carlee) — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 20:09:00 +0000

When taking a test, I usually know before hand what results I can expect. If I study and know the information well, I will probably be pleased. And if I don't, well you know.

This time it was different. I took the test and waited.... I began to notice something forming in the space where I was supposed to be watching for the result. Was it a line? Hmmm... I turned around and closed my eyes. This was no time to allow my mind and eyes to play tricks on me. I waited for the timer to go off - the full three minutes. There was no room in my heart for error, especially if the line were to appear, changing my life forever. The timer beeped, I turned around and it was there. This beautiful light pink line. My breath caught in my throat and my eyes filled with tears. I heard the door, someone was coming in and I couldn't say a thing. I would wait patiently until I had the chance to talk to my sweet husband. My heart beat even faster at the thought of telling him. Everything in me was anticipating his response in the moment that I would tell him that he is a father and that our precious baby was growing inside of me. So I carefully folded the test in a paper towel and put it in my purse. I took it out about every 15 minutes or so (when no one was looking) and new tears would come. I had to wait more than six hours before I had the opportunity to tell my love. He stopped whatever it was that he was doing and came to me. Those tears had found their way to his eyes as well. And on his face was a smile that I will never forget. It looked similar to the one he wore on our wedding day, but it was different, maybe heavier (if that is possible). He held me and we talked to our Father.

That was the day and our little story. That was just before Thanksgiving. I am a little over eight weeks pregnant now. It almost feels like it should be more since we found out so early (approximately nine days after conception). I feel nauseous every day for most of the day now but have only spent one day vomiting. Each day brings something new and we are learning and hopefully growing. God is so good. This year I have been given so many gifts.

#7: Our first Sunday morning breakfast

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 17:10:00 +0000

We decided to not go to church today. That is a good thing.

I like going to church because I want to, not because I have to... so it's refreshing to agree on not going. We had already decided to go to a Spanish language service (at church B) in the early afternoon anyway, so skipping church early morning (at church A) wasn't skipping any spiritual nourishment, just choosing a different denomination, at least for today.

I sometimes miss my language too much. Just like the Bible verse that states that with the same tongue we worship God with, we curse other humans, that's how sometimes I feel about the language thing. It's so easy for me to use "cuss" words in English bc no matter what, they don't feel as strong to me.... and praising, well... it feels more like a verbal repetition of phrases I've heard than a cry from the heart. Maybe that's why it feels easier to say "I love you Lord" in English, than in Spanish, bc saying "Te amo" carries a meaning that feels disconnected from the true places of my heart whereas "I love you" is like a cool phrase that comes to mind fast and easy.... and does not make me feel like lying to Him when I struggle with the reality that maybe I do not love Him... but that's another story.

The things one person misses bring pain, but just as much as the things that are brand new when one is in an environment different from what one's been used to. "Culture shock" is a term frequently used. I'd say the term should be changed to "culture SHOCK (emphasis underestimated)".

Since we decided to not go to church (A) early (we are still going to a Spanish speaking service) it was perfect time to have a home cooked breakfast. Yesterday I had time to eat some waffles my bride made, and like all good things we are tasting in marriage, the next morning we want more of it, so when she asked me what would I like for breakfast the answer jumped out of my mouth: "more waffles". As she cooked them, we talked that we'd have to stop by church A anyway since I'd agreed to meet a non-English speaking guy to pick him up and take him to the Spanish speaking service (at church B) with us. Coincidentally, today there's a potluck thanksgiving lunch so I told my bride we'd probably stop for a few minutes at church A anyway.

Just there, the shock begins. Potluck and thanksgiving are terms completely foreign to me. And somehow, rather than excitement there's fear about the upcoming thanksgiving for I'm sure I cannot yet grasp what it means. Just now I asked her about Squanto and she couldn't remember exactly what the story is. See? I have the understanding of Thanksgiving in my mind, yet in my 32 yr. old life, no special memories of what that celebration is.

But the plot thickens. Uneasy to drop by the potluck with nothing to bring, she decided to make casserole (another foreign invention to me). All the while, my waffles were ready and the music played softly in the background. How could I be enjoying waffles (something my mom NEVER cooked) and Cindy Lauper/Ryan Adams in the stereo yet feel puzzled about casserole for a Thanksgiving potluck?!?

A weird high point was definitely when her eggs were ready and she asked me to pray while a reworked version of Cindy Lauper's She Bop was playing. She Bop? That early 80s paean to "bodily self-exploration" while we prayed to thank God for our food? My bride didn't notice the song, she just enjoyed the moment with me... and so did I. Maybe that's why instead of focusing on the people that are starving daily in countries like my beloved Guatemala (where people need not to wait for a specific day to give thanks bc they do not know if fragile health and scarce food will take them through another full year) and feel undeserving about the food in my plate, I simply hugged her and prayed that the God I don't yet love, will transform my heart and take my iniquities away.

As we finished our brief prayer, I could no longer hear the music in the background. Neither I longed to go to any church at all today. I simply stared at our kitchen and couldn't believe how merciful and generous He's been to me. I couldn't believe how overwhelming it is to feel His presence at home, with my bride... and see how through all our differences God is teaching me.... again.

Now, if I could only stop writing about it and get ready to pick up that non-English speaking Mexican man who came to church for the first time last week, after quitting heavy drugs three weeks earlier and didn't understand a word of the service yet somehow felt the need for more, and is right now waiting for me to drive him to a Spanish speaking church.... that'd be a good thing.

#6: Our first wedding picture.

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 18:24:00 +0000

Ok, so this is just the beginning....
as a matter of fact, we were not even married when this picture was taken... or were we? I don't know.... and probably I don't care. What matters to me is that we were there... we are still here, and forever will be. And while it seems like forever for the rest of the 530 pictures and video from that day to arrive, we are posting one of the only five pics from that day I've seen.

Post #5: Our first post from home...

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 11:11:00 +0000

...or maybe, more specifically, from house.

As of this post, the name of the blog changes. Is anyone keeping track? Maybe not, but I am... so I want to leave these words to remind me of this night.

It's 4:03 AM on my computer's clock. On the radio, a CD by Caetano Veloso plays. I got it almost 3 yrs. ago yet this is the first time I'm listening to it all the way through. That's become the norm rather than the exception: to buy a CD only to listen to it sparsely and sometimes, never all the way through. Like earlier today (yes, around 1 AM) Carlee and I watched a couple of videos from a Guatemalan singer (the ONLY reknown Guatemalan singer) from a CD/DVD I bought 10 months ago and had not yet seen even once. For those Spanish speakers who read, it was Arjona's Adentro Special Edition. We saw a couple of videos on the DVD: Pinguinos and then Mojado (yes, the Spanish word for "wetback") which had not only the video but also a behind-the scenes segment. Anyway, somehow, bc of the subject matter, the plight of unfortunate to-be-immigrants stuck at the border, Carlee really liked the video and the documentary. I however, was more interested in showing her some of Latin America's best artists... part of the culture-sharing process that our lives are. Starting with 45 minutes of Ricky Martin videos, and ending with a song by this Guatemalan singer:

"Once every month you become an artist
Leaving an impressionist painting
Underneath the sheets

Once every month with your watercolors
You paint shreds of plums
That go right to the mattress

Once every month a laundry soap
Steals the fleeting art
Of your belly and its creation
And its natural when you´re a lady
That you paint roses on the bed
Once every month…

Chorus:
Once every month
The stork kills itself
And there you are, so depressed
Trying to find an explanation"
Anyway, the whole lyric in Spanish and its translation can be found on this other blog if anyone cares to read it.

But let's pretend for a moment that you do... you do try to read those lyrics, you try to understand the song.... still, do you get the same idea, feeling, images, or emotions that a native Spanish speaker gets? Probably not. Probably, reading the song would feel awkward and listening to it, intriguing at most, boring at worst. Simply because so much gets lost in translation.

And that's just what's happening in my world now. A world where another human shares the minutes, the seconds, the heartbeats. Yet still, we are simply getting to know each other with every passing day... and that is a beautiful thing.

****

Right before we watched Ricky Martin videos and listened to Ricardo Arjona's music, we spent a good half hour watching Garth Brooks's concert clips and videos. Interestingly enough, one of his videos, The Change, features the terrorist bombing in Oklahoma; another, Standing Outside The Fire, features a teen with Down Syndrome trying to race at a school competition. We both had seen those clips years ago, before we had ever met and while we said little when watching them, it was obvious to me we were touched deeper by a different video, as nothing can relate as close to me as a child with special needs considering I've been brother to one for more than a quarter of a century; yet for Carlee, the pain and suffering of other humans moves her to tears, whether her fellow citizens losing their lives in their homeland, or latin immigrants south of the border dying to come here. We both shed tears on both videos, yet the motives not alike as our perspectives differ.

We've disagreed so many times on issues like these: life, loss, politics, health, nationality, immigration and even the visual content on what's on our TV (read post #6). And that is part of our daily life: disagreement, as we agree to share a vision, and follow the same road. We are two people, in love with each other, living on love, living to know each other deeper, giving our best to connect each other's culture and opening our arms to embrace each other's heartaches. And to think we've only met seven months ago.

That's why we started this blog. To have a record of our journey, to share with those who read... known or unknown, to reflect on the road we are traveling, and to understand through misunderstandings.

We share them every day, like me misunderstanding that "us" starting a blog meant something more like "me" writing about us, rather than both of us writing. Or when she misunderstood me when I said I'd rather not have any internet at home because I'm addicted to all sorts of information and someday she'd find me up late in the computer after 300 hundred click-throughs learning about how museums incorrectly display dinosaurs or discovering Voyager's Golden Record. Now, if I could only find the reason why even though I moved into our house almost 4 months ago, and we've both lived here for three weeks now, the internet got connected only yesterday, and like I said, it's well past 4 AM, and here I am... writing toward the big void of cyberspace, trying to describe our joyful and complex new life, that came out of a blue clear sky.

Post #4: Our first excuse

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Sat, 13 Oct 2007 21:58:00 +0000

Words, are so easy to use... yet............... ?

Yeah. If words are so easy to say, then why haven't we posted in weeks? I wonder the same too.

I've been blogging for a little more than two years now. My blog (which is in Spanish, btw) has been and still is, a faithful companion of my last couple of years' journey. Through it, I found a window to express my ideas, thoughts, longings, sadness, joy, anger, frustration, pain, hurt, tears, smiles, happiness, memories, emotions, feelings, pictures, phrases, and ultimately, my soul. That blog which I have kept abandoned for a few months now (with the exception of a note or two about my best friend's dad passing a month ago, and some grieving I express verbally) became more than a friend, a confident. And the good thing is, through that blog, I met real friends. Yes, a few guys who started reading my blog from far away places like LA, Atlanta, Colombia, and even Paris, France either came to Texas or I visited them, and we became "real" friends in person. Well, except the guy from France since that April day he would lay-over in Houston before flying back was the day after I met Carlee and I canceled all my plans to make sure I could ask the famous "so, can I see you again... today?" question.

Anyway, what I want to say is: blogs have proven VERY meaningful to me. A lot of how I look at life has been posted on my videoblog (or vlog for short) where I can be seen, heard, examined, and somehow, known. In specific times of loneliness and desperation friends I met (and many I hadn't yet met in person) felt they knew me through my words and were there for me when I needed them the most. A lot of that has been recorded on video and I even have a special b-day video they made for me (I used to hate b-days, until I got the best b-day present I never imagined). I couldn't believe how people I've never met decided to record a message for me and send their videos from Israel, Tokyo, France, Colombia, Mexico, LA, Atlanta, Houston to make me a reminder of how valuable I was, when I felt the most worthless. And also, I can't believe how close I feel to friends I've met once or twice, or spoken long distance to, because we have read each other's hearts and minds for days, weeks, months, years.

That is what a blog (or vlog) is to me. A window into the soul, a glimpse into the deepest parts of a human. An open door to the nakedness of my ugliest and hidden-most thoughts, emotions and truths. That's why I cannot get myself to write about the simple things of a day, or a week, unless I can use those moments to ponder at bigger question about my own existence, or even God's.

When Carlee and I decided to create this blog, it was hoping we could both share a record of our journey together, and at the same time, allow many of you, her friends and family, to get to know us as a couple, and me, as this "new" guy who unsuspectingly got into her life and won her heart. She loves to journal, and she gave me the confidence to keep doing the same with my videos and words: journaling. And I do want to share, and we will share.... but for now, time's too little to sit down and write, or even edit (sorry Les) videos.

Y'all know the reason, but I wanted to say: thanks to everyone who has read, and thanks to you, who still decide to come back and see what's new in my life, in hers, in ours.

And that is my excuse.... now, I wonder about Carlee's?

Post #3: our first concert / Wedding Dress

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 17:07:00 +0000

was, as every concert worth attending should be, a moment to remember.

The first Sunday I was invited to church, they had scheduled an outdoor lunch. I had already met her best friend's husband ('best male friend' sounds awkward, dont'cha think?) at a Barnes and Noble so, by then, we knew there was a musical connection (thanks to a shared devotion to all things [Irish dad's real names, Dutch cover-photographers, Guatemalan jackets on Rattle and Hum, Swedish covers with ABBA] U2). So, my future-bride-then-girlfriend's-best-friend's-husband mentioned an upcoming concert at a church in Plano by this 21st century poet originally from an unknown (to me, at least) 90s band. Needless to say, I jumped with a "yes!"; after all, if he's a U2 fan (and a closet the Queen, aka Amy Grant fan, by his own admission) his musical taste must be good (although his repeated dislike of Slayer makes me doubt it a little).

Three days later we attended the concert. Inside a beautiful small sized church, I got my first glimpse into Derek Webb's music. Lyrics such as:

"Don't teach me about politics and government, just tell me who to vote for;

don't teach me about truth and beauty, just label my music;

don't teach me about how to live like a free man, just give me a new law"

were like a hook thrown into my wide open mouth. Then,

"There's two lies that I've heard:

the day you eat of the fruit of that tree you will not surely die,

and that Jesus was a white middle class Republican"

simply grabbed me by the gut and forced to listen, not enjoy and torture myself with the agony of knowing somebody was wording some sense out of my angry places of doubt. Nothing, however, would prepare me for what lied ahead; if the aforementioned songs seduced my mind, what followed sealed the deal... penetrating my soul like a spear into the heart:

[I] look for blessings in disguise,

to make me handsome, rich and wise, is that really what you want?

I am a whore I do confess,

I put you on just like a wedding dress and I, run down the aisle;

I'm a prodigal with no way home,

I put you on just like a ring of gold and I run down the aisle to you".

I cried when I listened to those lyrics; I still cry everytime I hear the whole song; I will cry so hard, I have not been able to listen to any other song on that album, I just repeat it a handful times until my voice is no longer singing but begging forgiveness to my God. That song, prompted me to share my deepest fears and pour confessions of an angry/ sad/ confused heart with my beautiful date for that evening. We had just begun dating and I liked her so much, that I needed her to know the real whore inside of me. Her response? "You are not [that], you are a good man". Ever since, we've been committed to verbally sharing whatever troubles our hearts both individually and as a couple and I've grown to trust her friendship more than I've ever trusted my fears. I guess Derek Webb's Wedding Dress definitely played a slightly literal part in the fact that Carlee is, in fact, now shopping for a wedding dress.
Before I forget (as if!), our drive to church was spent listening three times in a row to a 80s song by an obscure band from the 70s. The lyrics were a perfect match. The first time I told her "I love you" was while listening to that little ditty: Amanda by Boston.

Here, a pic right after

Derek Webb's concert.

Post #2: our first picture

noreply@blogger.com (WM) — Thu, 19 Jul 2007 04:08:00 +0000

But wait! Where's post #1 ! ??? No, we're not glad you asked.

So let's move on to post #2, and maybe, one day, in the future, we'll come back to that mysterious post #1 (hint: it was not a picture, neither a written post). For now we want to share with all of you our first picture. Taken one morning at church while, unbeknownst to us, our first kiss waited a few hours ahead. But we'll leave that for post #3.. or later.

Picture by FiercePeace, at SBC, July 8, 2007.