Cheers, to insanity.

I've been dreaming of croissants slathered with butter and jam.  Walking, wearing a trenchcoat, to the Louvre.  Eating steak frites on the sidewalk.  In this dream, I am fluent in French.  I am not behind in my mortgage.  I am not insane to have booked a trip that I cannot afford.  I am just another American Francophile, who has seamlessly navigated the trials and pitfalls of traveling in Paris with the ease of a native.

In reality, I can say three phrases in French, none of which go together.  Ellie has recently decided to use the arm of my beloved trenchcoat as a canvas and I've not a penny to shed for a dry cleaning bill.   I really am behind on my mortgage.  I really am, insane, as we're booked to leave in April for Paris.

When Rich and I first got married, I thought I was a little insane, too.  So did lots of our friends and family.  I was still in college.  He worked in the stockroom at the mall.  The church we attended let us live in the apartment in their basement for free, which was great, because we still couldn't afford anything more than peanut butter and jelly and the occasional grilled cheese.  So, when those checks rolled in from the wedding, we did what has since become typical for us to do.  Instead of renting our own apartment, or paying our bills, or you know, eating, we took the first and last money roll we've ever seen and booked the first flight to Rio de Janero.  And it was on that trip that I learned how big our God was, how He hears us no matter what language we speak.  That He has touched all corners of the world with his great and mighty hand and I was ashamed to have considered myself the center of the universe.  In Brazil, we learned what it meant to care for each other when we got sick, sad or angry.  We learned (as much as humans can grasp) the depth of the beauty created just for us.  We learned what it meant to love each other, in sickness and health, in wealth and in poverty.  It was worth it's weight in gold.

Years later, we finally scraped together enough money, and with the help of our parents, procured an actual, adult apartment.  With silverware and shower curtains.  Rich had landed a government job, but I was still unemployed.  It was his idea that we should take advantage of the time we had and head off to the U.K. for a few weeks, as I've always wanted.  Against all financial reason, again, we booked flights for a longer journey and traversed through England, Ireland and Scotland.  And I saw where literary greats gained their inspiration.  I walked through Trinity's library and was overwhelmed by the enormity of brilliant minds who had walked the same hall.  I was awed by vast, green meadows, warmed by familiar pub songs and pints, and enveloped with a sense of history, some of which was my own ancestry, that has never left me.  Brazil taught us how to love each other, the U.K. reveled how to bring out the best in one another.

For as much as I want to be the micromanager of our family's finances, we would never have gone anywhere if it were up to me.  On paper, we're just too poor.  It's not practical.  It's insane.  

If I had to count all the lessons I've learned from my husband, this post would be much, much longer.  And boring at parts.  But one thing he has certainly taught me is that life is insane, but our God is the same.  Sometimes, we have to be irrational in order to see His goodness, his mercy, his love, his beauty reveled.  If we're too afraid to embrace a little insanity, we might miss a lesson or two on how much He loves us- and how much, we can, as a married couple, love one another.

Cheers, to insanity. Who's coming with me?