The Monkey Barrel

Archive for February, 2007

Tonight we were having dinner with some new friends we’ve made at our church. The conversation turned to how we met our spouses. I always love those oppurtunities to rag on Fred a bit about how I had to convince him for three months that dating me could be a good thing. And Fred laughs sheepishly but never disagrees. However tonight as we were driving home and chatting about the day and that particular conversation he brought to my attention that sometimes when we have this talk that I make it sound like I had to talk him into marrying me, so let me take this oppurtunity to share with some of you what I mean when I’m joshin around with my beloved.
I feel about my marriage much the way I feel about my salvation. I lived in such a dark, and dirty place when the Lord grabbed hold of me and pulled me up and He brought me Fred at that very same moment of my life. Fred knew every awful thing about me and managed to find love for me all the same. There is not a day that goes by that I am not reminded in some capacity of how unworthy of Gods love I am but I want to spend every moment not making Him sorry that He saved me. That is exactly how I feel about Fred. Every day I wake up still married to him I am reminded of how undeserving I am to have such a miracle as he for my husband and I want to spend every moment possible not making him sorry that he chose me to share his life with.
So for all of you who know us and are getting to know us, our marriage is very precious and I do not take it lightly. Our love for each other every day is a sign to me of how much more God is in love with us. I hope that all of you are as blessed as we….

Evenings velvety curtain set the stage
Stars sparkling in the folds
Four weary, worn out folks
Patiently waiting for the show
The music begins slow
Swelling and lifting your soul
On the tide of excitement
Pounding over you in lights
One wee little man
Beggin for sleep in my arms
In the midst of all the noise
I kiss his head, hold him closer
Over my shoulder
My happily ever after
And first born standing tall
Rapt gaze in a kaleidascope of color
This moment, one of those
I’ll remember forever
The Epcot ball on Valentine’s day
In love with my family
-Emily Arters

John had an assignment at school to put together a book that he illustrated and wrote the words for about his family. These are the hilarious exerpts in there original spelling with comments in quotations by me.

My mom is a little bit thin. She is funny. (that kid stands to inherit my entire fortune!)
My dad tickles me. He has a new job.
I like to ride my red cron runner. I lik lego star wars 2 on game boy.
( go uncle Matt!)
Papa does not have good eye site. Papa sleeps late. ( A very intuitive little cuss ain’t he?)
Luke is a little baby. Luke likes macrony.
My Grama sleeps with Papa. She has candy in her drawer. (Perhaps papa sleeps with Gramma because she has candy in her drawers…..)

Snow, it seems to figure largely in my thoughts lately as they are always promising it’s impending flight into our little corner of the world. But this morning, I smelled it. Just the faintest twingle on the cusp of the wind niggled into my nostril and I was adrift in all the fantastical storms we had in my girlhood. Such excitement to wake up, rush down to the kitchen and find dad piling up the logs on the fire where we’d dry out after our romp. We shrieked in delight that there was no school for about five minutes before getting down to the business of gettin out in that snow. We’d rummage through the drawer looking for ziploc bags to slide over our 22 layers of socks before shoving them into our rubber boots. We’d stuff ourselves into as many layers as we could cram onto our tiny frames wrap Grans knit scarves around our throats and toddle off into powdery heaven. Snowmen were rare, given the tiny amounts that drifted into our lives but every few years Frosty put in a dutiful appearance. In every snowstorm there was the tromp to Grans frought with snowball fights and slushy rivers. We’d pile into the garage and strip off all our wetses and throw them over radiators to dry, whip inside and wrap in handknit afghans, huddle over steaming mugs of hot chocolate or hot tea until our blue lips returned to their cherry bing. Once the layers were dried we struggled into them once more for the trek home. I can remember dad carrying me one year and the snow just slamming and piercing into his face as he walked backwards to protect mine. And that woolly mamoth hood he wore on his old army surplice jacket would tickle my nose mercilessly. Mom always made snowcream in the second snow and so we’d shrug off our hopelessly soaked articles once at home and leave a sopping pile in the pantry, scurry up to change into dry warm things and trundle back down to eat snowcream in front of the fire. Hard to believe all those memories riding in that faintest smell of snow…