For Jon, On His Birthday

We met in 1995, when you were 14. I decided—quietly and from a distance—you were the most effortlessly cool person I’d ever been around and all kinds of cute. I wasn’t the only one with this revelation; Jon Batchelor was a hot commodity at City Road UMC’s youth group gatherings. I was shy and awkward though so I just ... watched.

You were my brother’s friend. For years, I saw you at swim parties and movie nights and playing video games. It was the best part of those nights for me, seeing you. I told no one. Because you’ve always been braver than me, I’d learn later that you started asking “so, will Jennifer be there?” somewhere around 1999.

We didn’t see each other for awhile. I met another boy and planned to move to Michigan and you came to my farewell party. I found myself standing next to you at the food table and, as you leaned over me to grab some chips, you said, “I don’t think you should go.” I brushed you off because I didn’t think you meant it the way I wanted you to mean it.

I would’ve stayed if I’d known how you meant it, I think.

Six months later, I was back home. Alone. On a Saturday night in February, you called my parents’ landline and invited me to come over and watch a movie with you and a couple friends. It was the first time you ever called that number and asked for me. I sat next to you on the couch watching Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and you held my hand all night long and all I could think was, “Jon Batchelor is touching me.”

Two and a half months later, we all went dancing for a friend’s birthday. I danced with you for hours that night. You’re a really great dancer and I’m not, but it didn’t matter. You walked me to my car at 2 a.m., and kissed me goodnight. And all I could think was, “Jon Batchelor is kissing me.”

Falling in love with you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Staying in love with you is my most enjoyable work. Building a life with you feels like coming home, over and over.

We’ve celebrated your birthday in bars and at home with new babies. But whether we are dressed up in a nice restaurant or in our sweats, on a porch swing at the lake, sipping coffee because everything is canceled in the midst of the most unexpected year, it doesn’t matter.

Because 25 years worth of road led to this moment. And whether there are presents or not or parties or not, there is always this: me beside you.

Happy birthday, my love. You are my favorite and my best yes. 39 looks good on you.

---

This post was inspired in part by the 30 Days of Grateful Writing Challenge by Callie Feyen through Exhale Creativity. Learn more here.

On Ten Years

We've been together since I was 20, but don't go giving 20-year-old-me too much credit. I was more focused on the dreamy brown eyes, great abs, and charm. I had no idea what I was looking for in a life partner then and couldn't possibly have planned and anticipated the kind of person I would need by my side. All I knew was the boy I'd had a crush on since I was 13 was kinda into me, so I was going to carpe the heck out of all the diems until he changed his mind. 

Except he didn't change his mind. And 16 years and a decade of marriage later, I still don't have words for what I need except to say, Jon. He's what I need. 

Jon makes me a better person for my benefit, not his. He could choose to make me feel guilty for how much time I need by myself. He could choose to focus on the mess I make when I cook dinner or my inability to close drawers or how I leave the clothes I try on piled on the closet floor. He could nag me and cajole me and try to manipulate me into being better at that stuff because it would be easier for him if I was. He could try to mold me into a better person by focusing on what a better Jennifer would look like for him.

Instead, this: he encourages me to take care of myself. He calls friends to come and help out when the kids are sick while he's out of town. He makes sure that I have the time, money, and space to write and dream and grow. He thanks me for cooking dinner every single time, even if I burn it or it tastes terrible or all we’re having is mac and cheese. He asks my advice and listens to my fears. And he does all of this while closing my drawers, cleaning up the kitchen, and hanging my clothes back up (facing to the left, of course). He molds me into a better person by already seeing me as that person.

I didn't know he'd do all of that at 20 when I said yes to being his girlfriend. I didn't know he'd do it at 26 when I said yes to being his wife. 

But now I know. And as someone who's almost always faster with a no, the power of that yes isn't lost on me.

I can’t tell you how to choose the right person to marry. I don't have a checklist or a roadmap, and if I wasn't a praying person I'd chalk up being with Jon to dumb, blind luck. And then of course, there's also the caveat that even a marriage to the right person is the hardest work you'll ever put in.

But I think choosing rightly has something to do with how they see you and our human tendency to meet expectation. The wrong person focuses your attention on your failures and shortcomings. Their dissatisfaction is what drives your improvement, and they have you forever chasing the ideal version of yourself, because that's the one who's worthy of love.

The right person pushes you toward betterment too, but not in a way that makes you feel like you're not enough as you are. It's more like becoming so convinced of your own value and worth that you expand into the person you were always meant to be. It's feeling safe enough to settle in and drop a few defenses and lean into your own potential. When you do that, there's a risk of failure, sure, but the certainty in the love that grounds you strengthens your resolve. When you feel safe, you stretch. You soften. You view life not from a place of scarcity, but one of abundance. There is enough. You are enough.

I knew none of that at 20. Or 26. Even now I think I only know enough to be grateful for it. To be grateful for Jon and the way he sees me and the way he never stops trying to get me to see myself.

Yes, marriage is hard work. But I've found that when we're putting in the most effort, it doesn't feel like work. It feels like rest.

It feels like home.

On Pictures, Perspectives, and Telling Stories Anyway

My junior year of college, I took a photojournalism class. At the risk of seriously dating myself, I’ll tell you this was right when DSLRs came on the scene. Rather than having to learn how to develop photos in a darkroom, we were one of the first classes to do all of our photo editing in a computer lab using Photoshop. The first project we were assigned that semester was to assemble five photos that represented our life. Our professor explained the photos would be due in one week’s time and that, in the class following the turn in day, he would select one photo from each of our submissions to critique in class.

It was toward the end of the critique class and we’d seen some really great pictures. Some of my classmates have gone on to be professional photographers, and their talents were apparent early on. Then Professor Heller put my picture up on the screen. It was one I’d taken of Jon, who, at the time, was my boyfriend of just over a year.

jonny b

“What do you all think of this picture?” he asked of the class, as he’d done for each of the previous pictures.

“The lighting isn’t very good,” one person offered.

“Her subject is centered,” said someone else.

“The background is too busy,” said another.

“You’re correct on all counts,” said Professor Heller. He spent several minutes detailing the ways I could’ve taken a better picture, and I slumped lower and lower in my chair. It was brutal; by far the most intense critique of the class.

“Where is Jennifer Manning?” he finally asked, and if I could’ve bolted out the door of the classroom I would’ve. Tentatively I raised my hand. I was certain he was about to kick me out, dismissing me as hopeless, beyond teaching.

“Who is this?” he asked, gesturing to Jon’s face, filling the projector screen behind him.

“Um, my boyfriend, Jon,” I said. My voice went up at the end so that it sounded as though I was asking a question rather than answering one. I cringed further.

“I thought so,” he said, smiling. “This is a great picture.” I nearly fell over in shock as he turned to the class and told them to look at Jon’s expression.

“You can tell he loves her, just by his face. She’s the only person in the world who could’ve taken this picture. Sometimes, it’s not just composition or lighting or angles that make your pictures great. Sometimes it’s because you’re the only one who could take them.”

I got better at taking pictures than that first fuzzy, poorly composed shot of Jon. I learned about shutter speed and aperture; I started paying more attention to lighting (and light poles). But I’m still not a great photographer. I have to take dozens and dozens of shots to get just one good one, and even my best photo isn’t anything special. But I take the pictures anyway. I snap and I snap and finally, the sheer volume works in my favor and I catch a little bit of magic.

***

It’s the same with our stories. Some people are really great at telling them because they’re artists. They're at the very top of their craft; they weave words and phrases and imagery in a way that feels transcendent. They are better than I could ever hope to be, and instead of letting them be an inspiration, I feel discouraged instead. Why bother at all, when there’s someone who’s already doing it better?

But these wildly talented writers can't tell my stories. The ones in my head and scribbled on looseleaf paper and living in Google Docs belong only to me. My perspectives and my truths will only be a part of the world if I choose to share them. Maybe I'm not the greatest, but that doesn't mean my stories aren't worth telling. If nothing else, they matter to me—I want to capture how it feels in this moment, right now, so that years from now I can look back and remember the details that will grow fuzzy with time. So I write and I write, and eventually the sheer volume works in my favor and I catch a bit of magic.

I can’t let my fear of not getting it perfect stop me from writing it down in the first place. There will always be someone better.

I’ll write anyway.

***

In June, I'm teaching a storytelling class with my Coffee + Crumbs teammate Anna Jordan. We'll be spending four weeks talking about finding the stories in our lives and how to write them down. As of today, we still have eight spots left in our class, and we'd love to have you join us. You can learn more and sign up here. (It would also make an excellent Mother's Day gift for the writer in your life if you've procrastinated.) Storytelling is the bread-and-butter of C+C, and we're excited to dive into what it looks like when it's done well.

A Recipe for Marriage

jeff-sheldon-264920-unsplash

Ingredients:4 C love 2 C devotion 2 C passion 1 C attraction 1/2 C (heaping) forgiveness 1/3 C patience 1/3 C determination 2 T encouragement 2 T plus 1 T honesty/gentleness blend ½ tsp shared values Endless amounts of grace

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine love, devotion, and attraction in the depths of your soul with paddle mixer. Add passion in ¼ cup increments, stirring thoroughly to incorporate. Never stop stirring.

In a separate bowl, sift forgiveness, patience, and determination, then add to mixer to serve as a binding agent. Note: if you omit these ingredients, your marriage will fall apart when exposed to the heat of the oven.

Transfer contents to baking dish. Sprinkle evenly with encouragement, shared values, and 2 T honesty/gentleness blend, reserving 1 T for the really hard conversations.

Bake at 350 for a lifetime. Sprinkle periodically with grace to keep hard edges from forming.

Best served with friendship, family, and adventure.

To store, wrap carefully and thoroughly to protect it from jealousy, comparison, and complacency. When stored properly, your marriage will remain fresh indefinitely.

Happy nine years, love. You're still my best yes.