Long Days and Short Years

just trying to pay attention so I don't miss my life

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Love in an Age of Cat Litter

Our first three encounters were as follows: an anti-Valentine’s Day party, a Habitat for Humanity roof, and a church vestibule–closely followed by an apple tree in the Pizza Hut parking lot.  It was 2004.

I had gone to the party in February looking for him, a friend having baited me, “You’ve got to meet this guy.”  I wasn’t impressed, neither was he (he doesn’t even remember meeting me), and we went on with our Valentine’s Day disdain.  This might have been the end of the story, except…

That summer, Habitat was building three houses in a nearby neighborhood, and I was volunteering.  I wasn’t thrilled about heights, but it was time to put on the shingles.  Nail gun please.  He walked by on the sidewalk below.  “Who is that?” he asked, head foggy from a summer cold.  I waved and tried not to fall to my death.  “I need to meet her,” he resolved, and he would–but not until October.

October 15th, 2004.  An organization named Sojourners had organized a bus tour about faith, poverty and politics in the lead-up to that year’s presidential election.  There was an evening church service and I didn’t want to go.  “I’m too tired,” I whined to my friend, “I’ve had a long day.”

She wasn’t deterred.  “C’mon, I don’t want to go by myself.  We can leave early.  C’mon… please?”

It’s a good thing that I said yes.

I saw him as soon as we entered the church.  He was sitting in the vestibule, waiting for someone.  He smiled (I caught my breath) and we walked up to him.  When his friend came, we all went in together.  I don’t remember much about that service, but I do remember what his hands looked like holding the bulletin.

Afterwards I offered to drive everyone home, and he suggested a stop in the Pizza Hut parking lot.  “There’s this really great apple tree” he said.  He climbed it, ripping his coat in the process, and handed us apples that were indeed amazing.  Now my friend (bless her) was the one who was “tired” and insisted that we drop her off first.   I drove him up the hill to the house he had been renovating for three years, and his black cat came out to meet us.  There was a long pause.  “Would you like to come in and meet my roommates?”



That was then, and this is now.

And now, the cat litter stinks.

Admittedly, it is my fault that the litterbox is in our bedroom.  Our most recent housemates came with a lovely dog who charmed everyone except for the cats.  Our third-floor bedroom was the one place in the house off-limits to the dog, and so this is where the cats took up residence.  In the summer, we left the window open and they used the tree for access, the world for their litterbox.  But winter was coming.

I began to imagine piles and stains in every corner of our room.  My mom had this problem with her cats, and I worried that it was some kind of family curse.  What to do?

I brought the litterbox upstairs.  The felines were grateful, but my husband (he would be the apple-picking guy from the first paragraph) was concerned.  What if we forgot to change the litter?  This was our bedroom after all.  Wasn’t there another way?

Oh no, honey.  This is the only solution.  It will be fine.  I will change it regularly.

(You can see what I’m doing instead.  Cat litter or blog post… cat litter or blog post?  Where is that laptop?)

After eight years of marriage, there is a lot of cat litter in our lives.  School loans to pay, uncapped markers all over the floor, and piles of faintly mildewed laundry that will need to be washed again.  We finally finished the porch, and now the two-by-fours that support the structure of our house are rotting off.  The dishwasher broke again (that was the best warranty we ever bought), and the lawn needs to be mowed before we lose one of our children in it.  Somebody needs to call the internet company and figure out why the auto-billpay stopped.  Somebody needs to put the girls to bed and figure out how to get them to stay there.    

Once upon a time, Cinderella married her prince, and then they were very, very tired for a decade.


It is true that I love my husband more now than I did eight years ago.  There are things-beautiful things-that I couldn’t have known about him during the giddy season of our relationship.

I couldn’t have known how he would support me during the lowest points of postpartum depression when I alternated between vacant stares and out-of-control sobbing for months.

I couldn’t have known what he would be like with our daughters–silly and patient, enthusiastic and firm– or how he would teach them to soak dried beans, make blueberry pancakes from scratch, and identify every edible plant in the urban landscape.

I couldn’t have known that he could design and build a tool shed, wood shed, porch and chicken coop on the weekends; or how proud I would be of his weekday work with neighborhood groups and vacant property.

I may have suspected all this eight years ago, but now I know it.  As I know him better, I love him more.


This love, while wider and deeper, is no longer the felt experience of our daily lives, at least not in the way it was in 2004.  There is a lot of cat litter to contend with, and cat litter (bills, chores, screaming children, etc.) isn’t a great medium for romance.  We spend a lot less time staring into one another’s eyes, and a lot more time scheduling the family car.  And while I know that it would be impossible, perhaps even undesirable, to feel giddy for a decade; I mourn the loss of our fascination with one another.  I regret that I often take him for granted.

I forget that this all might not have been.

More than anything, this is what we have lost in eight years, and this is what I want to reclaim.  In 2004, I knew that our relationship was a miracle, that the amazing convergence of two people willing to say, “yes, as long as I live” to one another is not something that everyone gets to experience.  I might have skipped the anti-Valentine’s Day party, refused to go out on the Habitat roof, told my friend, “no, I’m sorry, I just can’t make it tonight.”  Would we have met anyway?  I don’t know, but if we had, it still would have taken a succession of blessed encounters to bring us together.

My husband is not a given, he is a gift; and I want to tattoo it on my hand:  This all might not have been.  But the past tense serves the present because the miracle has not yet ceased, indeed today together is also a gift.  Even if today is hard, even if we feel like we’re just surviving, even if we forget to say “wow” and “thank you.”  It is all a gift, not a given.  Every Single Day.

And so, to my husband, on this anniversary, I say:  I just changed the litterbox.  For you, babe.  For you.


A Poem for a Pause


A word with room inside

to pause

and sit-your-weary-brain-down

for just a moment

or two.



A word with the ability

to watch rain fill the sky,

feel your body settle into a chair,

or be carried along by some music,

so Full

you forget yourself.



A word that amplifies true things

spoken softly

like you are loved


and a blessing to many.

Things that are certainly true.



A moment to remember what it is

you’ve been given,

which would be

everything you need.