ring ramblings

Our Story:     

      I feel like I’m supposed to tell you a romantic tale of distress and bleakness, and how Jon rode in and saved my heart with his rippling muscles and enchanting blue eyes. I feel like I’m supposed to tell you how he turned it all around, how he made everything better. Unfortunately, that’s not the story I have for you. This story is one that shows much more glory than the romantic love between a crooked-nosed Iowan and a freckle-faced Nebraskan.

     You see, when I first met Jon in October of 2011, he was everything but an answer to my prayers. My heart was confused and was at a point of crawling through piles and piles of mess and filth. My memory (thankfully) fails me when it comes to the details, but fragments of memories include desperately praying (which turned into rage-filled screams) in the car, taking an hour to get out of bed to face the hopelessness of the day, and being too exhausted to wipe the tears that streamed from my eyes into my ears and hair as I lay flat on my back every night, staring at a blank ceiling. My heart still cringes at those days. 

     And it was amidst those days that I met him. Jonathan Dziurawiec. A monkey could have concluded that I wasn’t ready. Little did I know that Jon was far from ready either. His heart had been shattered and he was struggling with the pieces, struggling with the rubble and figuring out what to rebuild. His heart was wavering, searching, seeking. And in our separate walks (which probably looked more like drunken crawls), we bumped into each other, but were too distracted by the burdens we bore. And thus Jon exited my life stage left, as I continued my journey through the mess and murkiness that the beginnings of 2012 entailed, and as he struggled with rebuilding. I was so disillusioned from my pain that I hardly noticed he’d gone. “He’s not it,” I wrote blankly in my journal, and only remembered him when I would reread journal entries and laugh that I ever even considered him. 

     In May of 2012, God, in His overwhelming love and mercy, shattered my own heart that was built up in false senses of security and striving. He bombed the city of which I was so proud; reducing towers of selfishness to piles of dirt, blowing up walls of pride into shards of embarrassment. I found myself amidst my demolished city, wondering what to do with my own pieces. Walking around, seeking, searching, cutting my feet on rubble and broken glass. I do not remember ever experiencing darker days than those: my brother finding me sitting on the floor of my closet with fountains of loss pouring out of my eyes as he just sat there and prayed. My heart solemnly remembers the sleepless nights full of attacks from the Enemy, of words spoken by well-meaning friends that pierced my soul. Of a sleepover with my friend in which I laid there all night, hating her for being able to sleep, for being able to rest, wanting to not have to strive for at least one moment. I desperately wanted rest.

     And then Jon entered again. That summer. Both of us still searching and seeking. Both of us being prodded and poked, our bruised, badly bandaged, bleeding selves ran into each other and considered it. Part of me wanted him to take me into his arms and carry me out of my ruin. I thought he was the answer. This was my redemption. But he didn’t. He left me there, left me to learn on my own. His bloodied, tattered arms could not have carried me. I needed to find my own path. And the summer of 2012 ended with three rather wonderful experiences with Jon, all of them turning up void. We both kept seeking on our own. We were still badly broken. “He’s not it,” I wrote sadly in my journal when he wouldn’t text me, despite slow dances and flirtatious encounters. And somehow, between August and October, God stopped our running, bleeding feet and sat us down. He directed our gazes at Him and we, on our own, found the true, fulfilling, sweet joy that it is to gaze at our Savior. To serve Him, love Him, and seek Him. We no longer sought to rebuild our cities, we no longer cared about the shattered pieces of our hearts that we longed to be healed. We were completely enchanted by the divine, simple, calming state of gazing upon Jesus. And in my heart’s pure satisfaction with Him as my gaze, I gave up hope for Jon. “He’s not it!” I wrote again, proud that I didn’t care, excited to seek Jesus on my own, thrilled at how much deeper I had grown in Him. I was ecstatic at the thought of serving Him. He had saved me. He had made me new. Insecurities and fears I never thought would leave had fled. My heart was happy. Genuinely, sincerely happy. And no person, no circumstance made me say “God is good.” I said it because I had tasted it with my own mouth. Because knowing Him was the best for me, and I needed nothing else. And thus, the dust from my demolished city began to settle. 

     And as the air cleared, where I expected there to be a faraway adventure to experience, or a new career to embark upon, or some exciting new step waiting for me, there stood Jon. I remember our first date in November of 2012—just days before my birthday—when Jon impressively drove to Omaha and back in one day to spend time with me. And I remember sitting in Pepperjax, staring across the table at this talkative, quirky, irresistibly handsome man whose heart drew me in. The dust had settled; we did not run into each other aimlessly—I could see him clearly. His eyes not searching amidst the rubble, not seeking for a person, but peacefully gazing. Gazing where I was gazing. At Whom I was gazing. I realized I was no longer bleeding; my heart was healed. And so was his. We had already experienced our victory; we already had a Savior. We already knew what it was to be unconditionally loved. We were already satisfied. There was no desperation or neediness. I was happy. He was happy. And God, in His inconceivable grace, allowed us to rejoice in our separate stories together. And that’s what we are doing. That’s what we’ve been doing. That’s what we will continue to do. Rejoice. Share what He has done. Who He is. We are so excited to start as one story, for His honor and fame.

The Story:

     I met Jon in the Grace cafeteria. The first time our hands touched was while we were both petting a zebu at the petting zoo. Our primary method of communication for awhile was Twitter. I started liking him in the state of Idaho, specifically when he broke his toe. We were on the same team as we played Badminton, and it was awkward. He forgot about the first date we were supposed to go on. Our actual first date accidentally entailed a tour of the Mormon history museum, as we were trying to find the gingerbread house festival. Our first kiss was in his apartment parking lot. 

     And so it shouldn't surprise you that Jon proposed to me at 5:30 in the morning, in my grandparents' basement (where he was living), before his last 6 am shift at Fareway. I thought I'd be an awesome girlfriend and surprise him with coffee & cinnamon rolls for his last day. He was so moved that he didn't care where we were or what time it was. He shocked me by getting down on one knee and asking me one of the easiest yet biggest questions I've ever answered.

His Story:

`My left hand currently looks ridiculous.

     Of course, less than a week after Jon put that gorgeous ring on my finger, a bug bite allergy had to go and make my hand literally look AS UGLY AS POSSIBLE. And if that's not enough, there is a wart on my middle finger in the picture above. (I even had to take my ring off yesterday because the ring didn't fit. which of course was pure torture.)

     Thankfully, the swelling is going down, though my hand still looks unworthy of the beauty of that ring. And I'm reminded of the righteousness with which God bestows upon us. On our undeserving, sinful selves, full of bugbite allergies and warts, He puts a ring on our finger and calls us His, calls us to prepare for the wedding in which we will be united with Him. A ceremony exponentially more jubilant and beautiful than any earthly wedding. I am humbled to represent that.

     I am ever more aware now just how simultaneously joyous and heart-breaking life can be. I have friends who are grieving the sudden loss of a 17 year-old girl. Though I've never met her, her heart-wrenching story has sobered my heart amidst this current happiness. I am reminded of the fact that life, with both its screams of laughter and wails of despair, are written in the same book of His story; both bear the marks of His orchestration and ability to work all out for good. This world, though bearing moments of joy from Him, is ravaged by sin and death and sickness and despair, and is in desperate need of healing from its Maker. My heart weeps with those who are weeping.

     Our relationship is a brush stroke of His grace, and we are happy to play our part. And when the honeymoon phase calms and the romantic gushy feelings subside, when we have our earth-shattering moment of grief, we will rest in the hope that's remained constant. We will continue to live out The Story in His power and for His glory. Because He showed us who He was before we found each other, and we will live each moment together in gratitude for our torn cities, our healed hearts, and our fixed gazes. Oh, Lord, continue to write. Continue to heal, and restore, and we pray you would use us to bring Your healing to others. Thank You, Jesus. Come quickly and restore our world, Lord.