The Dress

Little girls have vibrant imaginations. They especially come alive in fields of green, under the shade of puzzle-pieced clouds, the bright sun darkening the freckles on her nose. As the small fingers grab the cool grass, breaking the blades from their roots in an effort to be placed in a pile beside her, she dreams. She dreams big dreams. The kind that are alive. Filled with hope, faith, and the occasional “I wonder how much grass I should pluck before creating the next pile?” Her thoughts are scattered, but her dreams, they’re not. Her dreams are loyal. Constant. Forever.

You see, everyone has dreams, but not everyone believes in them.

As a girl, I believed in fairy tales. Not the kind that include flying fairies and pumpkin-shaped horses, no. Even at a young age, I was more realistic than that. These weren’t my fairy tales. I didn’t live in La-La-Land. Or Narnia. Instead, I lived in Spokane, and dreamed about my Fairy Tale.

And as the days go by, I can sense my Fairy Tale coming true.

I don’t know why, but there’s certainly something familiar among little girls and wedding dreams. Big important dreams. The kind that take decades to reach fruition. First step: The Dress. And I can’t say I was any different. Surely I’ve spent hours dreaming about it. And how I would feel when I found it. Well, let’s just say I’ve been pleasantly surprised.

I enjoyed the sweet voice of Colbie Caillat as I made my way up to Spokane on a rainy Saturday in my best friend’s car. 10 days after he proposed. And still thriving in the moment of my greatest memory. The drive from my new home to my old home is a ride painted with rolling wheat hills, quaint towns, and one rest stop. And I love it. It’s peaceful and stunning. The shape the hills assume force me to consider all of life’s intricacies. God is so creative, and after a week of insanity, the drive set me up for a weekend I’ll never forget. One that I’m forever grateful for.

I met my mom at 9 am, one hour later than I promised to arrive. As of late, I’ve come to the striking realization that my punctuality is a grave flaw of mine. And I’m ashamed of it. Good news: I’ll have the rest of my life to work on it. Continuing: My mom is one of my closest and most loyal friends. There is no other person that I would have rather spent that particular day with. Maybe it comes with the assumptions of the Fairy Tale. I don’t think so. Her and I have shared moments in life that are unexplainable to an outside reality. Feelings that I’ve never shared with another woman. And I’m glad for that. There’s a special bond formed when a child falls so hard that only a mother’s love can scrape them from the cold, lifeless concrete, and nurse them back to life. If there’s one person who’s seen me through the darkest of times, it’s been Mom. My beautiful, incredible, selfless friend. The one who always articulates the words that I could never create on my own. She’s a person who sees hope in darkness. Love in hatred. Joy in sorrow. Life in death. And every time, I’d choose her to stand next to me as I begin my journey into the life of a wife, mother, and friend.

We left the house at 10. So many errands, so little time. First stop: Apple Store. It would be just my luck that I own the only year-old Macbook whose internal hard drive made the most adorable decision to crash on me. The irony drips as I further explain that the sole reason I first purchased my Mac was intentionally to avoid this specific problem. I’m convinced that technology hates me. With a passion. This was never an imagined part of my Fairy Tale, but it would weasel its way in just to spite me. Gosh. But as I sat at the Fix-it Center (Or whatever it’s called at Apple), teary eyed and ever-so desperate, my mom stood beside me lightly tickling my back the way that only moms know how. It’s such a calming feeling. Soothing. Just what I needed. They took my Mac, one week out of warranty, to the back of the room, did their Macbook magic, and presented me with my newly installed hard drive. For free. Thank the Lord! In the meantime, my mom and I walked through the stores of downtown, chatting about love and life, and all the exciting things that marriage brings. She taught me how to register for my wedding, even though I’m firmly set against it. She even got the lady at Williams Sonoma to lecture me on what the purpose of a registry is in the first place. Gosh, that’s so Mom. But I guess I’ll be registering somewhere now. She’s just so persuasive! Next, we scurried off to Nordstrom’s. And as I sit here writing, I’m reminded of those 20 minutes. They make me smile. You see, Adam and I have spent some of our relationship in the movies. The Count of Monte Cristo to be exact. Remembering back almost a  year ago: I was sitting on the futon, sandwiched between Adam and his mom, taking in a July summer night, watching this amazing love story unfold before me. While we watched, I crafted Adam a necklace. Made of hemp cord. As I formed his jewelry, he took a piece of the string, and as Mercedes ties a small string around her finger, promising Edmund that she’ll never remove it, Adam tied a piece on mine.

My very first string

For 9 months, I’ve worn this string on my left ring finger. There have been 4 different replacements, as each have worn, but I’ve never gone without one. Until he proposed. Now, it’s found a home on my right ring finger. It has certainly seen better days, and what was once white is now a dingy gray. So, I talked to Adam about possibly buying a real, sparkly ring as a camouflage to my Monte Cristo finger. He agreed. So, as I was waiting at the MAC counter in Nordstrom, surrounded by transformed beauties and painted faces, my mom left me for the jewelry department. Now what? I wondered. After handing over my plastic cash in exchange for a compact of powder, I set out to find what Mother was up to. I couldn’t have mentioned my camouflage-ring ambition to her more than once, and there she was, picking one out for me. And it’s perfectly perfect. Exactly the camouflage I was looking for. Now, when I glance at my hands, I think of the two people who’ve had the most influence on my life: Mom and Adam. And it’s soothing to know that they’re with me wherever I go.

The day continued with a quick drive from Downtown to the Salon on 6^th, where Mommy and I were scheduled to have our heads massaged and hair pampered. My Fairy Tale moment was only four hours ahead, and the butterflies were approaching. We spent our precious minutes together in smiles and grins. Both engaged. Both in love. Both looking forward.

My mom has played a monumental role in the woman I am today. In 23 ½ years, I’ve learned how to love, how to give, how to receive and live. How to sing, how to fall, how to stand up and then crawl. How to shop, how to hug, how to grieve and eat bugs. How to speak, how to praise, how to dance all of my days. How to play, how to swim, how to flip in the gym. How to read, how to cook, how to beautify my look. How to cry, how to care, how to know He’ll be there. A mother of five, a friend of more, she’s taught me in life, the things to explore. Gosh, I love her.

Our journey through Saturday, the 16^th, met us in the lobby of Marcella’s Bridal. The location where part of The Fairy Tale would come alive. Become real. Become mine. I certainly had expectations. Ali warned that I’d cry. Elilie warned that I’d be overwhelmed. And Say Yes to the Dress warned that I’d create a family feud. For some reason, none of these held their weight. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t overwhelmed. And my family still hasn’t made the game show. Not weird. I tried on five dresses. Count ‘em. 1-2-3-4-MINE! It was a surreal moment. One that I’ll never forget. And one that I’ll ponder forever. There’s a simple explanation. For this occasion, I thought it best that all three of my sisters, my mother, and my grandmother were there for moral support. Just in case I decided to have a Kendall moment. Additionally present was a 6-month old, a friend, and a consultant. Eight in total. Sixteen eyes. All looking at me. Pressure. The dynamics of this group were, well, I guess the best word would be hormonal. Emotional. Controlling. Argumentative. Irrational. Assertive. Aggressive. Sneaky. Yes Sneaky. That would be Mother. Oh, ever so sly. She sat in front of me, nestled neatly in an overstuffed green couch, a camera hidden at her side, snapping pictures while I tried on gowns. If the consultant had seen this, it’s not far fetched to think that she might have kicked us out of her shop. Luckily, I wasted no time in finding the dress that I’ll marry my sweetheart in. I had walked to and from the dressing room four times before my fifth, and with each dress, someone, at least one, had something negative to say about it. Mentioning an “unflattering shape” for one, an “odd abruptness of dress” in another, a “lack of booty” in the third, and a “weird transition of bodice” in the fourth. In any other shopping circumstance, I might have begun to become a bit perturbed, but I was having too much fun with the girls for worry to bother me. I was, however, losing most hope of finding “the one” that day. Then, out of the back, the consultant brought what she called a “one-of-a-kind dress.” A dress that nobody else owned. Or wore. What I saw would be exactly what I got. They couldn’t order a different version or color because it didn’t exist. I was skeptical, but thought that a unique dress would be fitting for a unique girl. I shimmied into the gown, impressed immediately with its comfortable fit. The length was perfect for my 5’8 ½” frame. The pattern beautiful on my glowing skin. I liked immediately what I saw, and beamed at the potential of what I would look like standing in front of Adam wearing it. With a few stitches, it would fit perfectly. I remember walking out to my girls, realizing only gasps and “awwws.” There was an unfamiliar agreement in the midst of my several double-takes of the oversized mirror. I looked perfectly perfect. And they all agreed. In unison. Eighteen eyes and nine minds came to the same conclusion. I was wearing my dress. The Dress. My Fairy Tale Wedding gown. The one I’ll stand before God and Adam in, as I promise my life to the man who stole my heart.

I didn’t realize this part of my dream would be so…simple. I had envisioned tears, ceaseless shopping, and champagne. Yet, none of these were my reality. And I’m thankful for that. Because I’ve finally begun to realize that although I believe wholeheartedly in my childhood dreams and Fairy Tales, my Reality is so much better than anything I could conjure up in a grassy field under the magical shapes of the ever-changing clouds. My Real Life Fairy Tale is in the making, and with each passing day, it only gets better.

The makings of this Fairy Tale have been written delicately by The One who gave me this life. I can't wait to see what else He has to ink into my days. PTL :)