One phrase every guy needs to memorize before he gets married.

I was hanging out with a friend of mine yesterday. She's tall and beautiful, and she's wearing this gorgeous diamond ring on her left finger. She throws around dates, vendors, designer names, and colors with ease, and jokes about the hoity-toity and high-falutin' wedding planner. And she mentions that she and her honey had their first fight. It's a beautiful time.

I found this wise man hidden in a bush when we cleared out our yard. 

I remember before Patrick and I got married, my middle sister asked—in particular—whether or not we'd actually been in a legitimate fight. The answer was no. We'd been to premarital counseling, we'd talked a ton about conflict, but when it came to a real knock-down-drag-out... it just hadn't happened. That concerned my sister. But it didn't concern me. I didn't think we were perfect—I knew that at some point we would inevitably disagree. But what I didn't know was that there is a magic phrase that would help about 80 percent of our fights end before they even began.

Imagine this.

It's five-thirty on a Tuesday and you're chopping onions. Eyes stinging, nose filling with the white earthy stink, your neck is stiff and your mind is on the fact that by seven o'clock you have to be out the door and on the other side of town. There are three e-mails you haven't sent, and one you're sure you've forgotten entirely. Your boss told you today that your evaluation is tomorrow, and because of the hectic schedule, you're not going to have time to solidify any plans for tomorrow. It's in this state that your husband/boyfriend/fiancé/friend walks in the door.

"Hey [insert cute nickname here]! How was your day?" he says with innocence. He's unaware of the trap he's walked right into.

"Well," you say. "I'm cooking dinner all by myself. We have to be across town in an hour, and my boss is worse than a dog in a cat parade. My evaluation is tomorrow and I'm not going to have any time to prepare." You throw down the knife and send daggers out of your eyes, too.

"Well, here, let me fix dinner," he says.

He's wrong. That's not the right phrase. He's immediately entered a fight.

Okay. So he tries something different.

"How about you just stay in tonight," he tries.

Now you're livid.

All he needs is one phrase. It's a really magic combination of five words that can help any woman at her wits end and save any man from the impending dog-house.

Do you want to know what it is?

"Gosh [instert name here]. That is awful." 

That's it. Five words.

Gosh babe, that is awful. 

Try it. Practice it. Mean it. Because most of the time we're not really looking for your help or your solution. We're just looking for some sympathy. Some compassion. Someone to share our no good very bad day with.

You might want to have a few versions of this phrase ready for whenever the time is right. Because if you say "awful" every time, she'll get that you're onto her and the phrase will lose it's magic.

Alternate phrases?

"Gosh, that's the worst."

"Man, I'm so sorry."

These will work, too. It might just save you. [Disclaimer. It may not always save you because us women reserve the right to react to phrases in whatever way we deem necessary and proper at the time.]

Demolition by the hour.

The play by play. 9 a.m. - refrigerator gets stuck in doorway.

10 a.m. - I leave for a dentist appointment. Things still look less messy than I expected.

12:00 p.m. - I arrive back from the dentist, and Patrick emerges after army-crawling through the crawl space to turn off the water.

1:30 p.m. - things are finally getting really messy.

2:30 p.m. - we'd planned on leaving the cabinets where they were... but apparently they were so out of whack that this happened

5:15 p.m. - just got home from lacrosse practice, and thank goodness ... cabinets are back on walls! It's almost time for the sink to go in!

DAY TWO:

10:31 AM - Patrick and his dad are jack-hammering their way through layers upon layers of flooring. About 1/3 of the way done!

12:12 p.m. - Lunch break! The floor is about 2/3 of the way demolished... And Patrick and his dad are getting the hang of it. It's starting to look like a blank slate!

1:30 p.m. - tile is GONE!!!! And I'm outside sanding cabinet doors...

DAY THREE: Sunday is a day of rest people.

DAY FOUR:

9:30 a.m. - Counter top folks are here templating for our new marble slab! And a sneak peek of our sink!!

Kitchen Renovation: It's Really Happening.

Here we go guys. Tomorrow morning it's goodbye floor, see ya later appliances (thanks to the magic of Craigslist), and sayonara sink. In other words. This thing is really happening. And I'm terrified.

Here are a final few "before" shots.

I'm not sure what Cooper thinks of the whole impending mess...

But I think it's safe to say he's as anxious as I am!

Tomorrow, I'm planning on doing a live streaming blog of the demo process. (Not sure how it's going to work yet, but the plan is to publish a blog post, and then update it throughout the day with pictures and little anecdotes. Should be hilarious. Or hellish. Or both.) I hope you'll stop in digitally... or in real life.

I have a feeling we'll need some coffee.

Who wears short shorts?

It's no secret that I'm a huge fan of running. Sweat? Good. Sunny weather? Good. Running gear that makes me look like a pro? Gooooood. So when I was approached by the folks at Outdoor Sports Marketing to try out SmartWool's new women's running line... I said "heck yes." (Disclaimer: I've always felt kind of funny about sponsored  blog posts—the idea of getting free stuff in return for content sort of creeps me out—but this time it didn't really phase me, because I've always been a huge fan of SmartWool. I trust their brand and quality, and would have sung their praises anyway. Still, all opinions here are my own. SmartWool sent me a pair of running shorts and socks... and said give them a try and tell your readers what you think. That's what I'm going to do.)

As it turns out, SmartWool doesn't just do socks. This year, they launched a line of women's running shorts. So, when I went to Charleston a few weeks ago, I got to pack up my newest piece of running gear—and I hit the Battery (pictured above).

The long and short of it is, I love these shorts. Here's why.

The shorts aren't too short. I have a long history of wearing short shorts. But I've started coaching a middle school girls' lacrosse team. And as much as I'd love to bare some leg for the 12 year old girls (Kidding. I don't want to do that.), it's time to grow up a little bit and let my shorts come down a bit. Let's just say, there is such a thing as an "adult" length that doesn't make me feel like a granny. These SmartWool runners were spot on. Classy, SmartWool. Very classy.

They feel good where it counts. I love the bloomers on the inside. That's where SmartWool uses merino, the lightweight, sweat-wicking material that makes the lining so smooth. No itching, no chaffing... and if you want to run in the shorts two days in a row—you're not going to feel gross about it. (Maybe you feel gross about me for saying that  I run in the same shorts twice before washing them, but whatever, I do what I want.)

The only thing I would change is to make the shorts a little less "billowy." It was nice that they don't rub against your legs at all, but there were times where I felt like they could fit just a little more snugly.

I guess it helps that I actually really like what this company stands for. 90 percent of SmartWool apparel is knit in the United States. They have strong relationships with their sheep farmers in New Zealand, where they helped stop the practice of mulesing (which I first learned about when I wrote this story). Also, SmartWool created an advocacy fund to help encourage young kids to explore the outdoors. Since 2005, they've donated over a million dollars to organizations like these. Pretty awesome.

Apparently Cooper likes all this running too. 

So what do you think? Do you wear short shorts? Do you have any running shorts you swear by?

ALSO - if you're interested in being a "fan field tester," check out SmartWool's website and apply!

My story.

In an effort at being a little more bold, I want to tell you a story. It starts with a smiley, goofy, youngest daughter. You know, the one who tries to make peace and tries to be cooler than she is and tries to be older than she is? That was me.

I remember what my faith was like in 1993. I memorized verses and believed that it was by grace I’d been saved. Somehow, a little six-year old girl, with a high pitched voice and scraggly hair felt she needed a savior, so I was baptized in a chlorine-filled pool at Hillcrest Baptist church, tip toes on the rubber boot of a pastor. I was so short, no one in the congregation could see my little head dunked under water. Underneath the watery-death, my sinuses filled and stung.  I didn’t want to hold my nose because I felt that would be cheating.

But what did that little girl know of good or evil? What did I know of amazing grace?

I grew up. I learned to do flips on command. I wore Limited Too clothes when that was cool, then changed to American Eagle when that was cooler. I cried in school when I couldn’t understand prime numbers. I wanted so badly to get things right. But I knew something wasn’t right.

I have this very vivid memory of lying to my mom. A pointless, aimless lie. We were living in Virginia and I was nine. I dropped a glass of lemonade on the kitchen floor—it splattered, shattered everywhere, and I hastily cleaned up the pieces, but left the lemonade behind on the floor. I guess I was being lazy. When my mom got home, she asked what I’d spilled.  “Water,” I lied. It was lemonade, and I’m sure she felt the dried sticky sugar under her loafers. And I knew she knew. I was a liar.

At school I smiled and wrote notes and sang songs and got good grades. I was a cheerleader. I went to youth group. I tried my best to be good and look better. Around that same time, I learned to steal from my sisters. Make-up mostly, but clothes and purses later. I’d put them back just in the right spot, just in the nick of time. But I was a good friend, and I went to church. But I knew I was a thief.

Something was wrong.  And in a dark moment, I realized it wasn’t just me. 

Everything is wrong.

It was night and the clock read 2:02. I was 12 and at a friends’ house. I should have been asleep but his hot breath was loud in my ear. And it turned out nothing is right. And it turned out I wasn’t the only victim. And it turned out no one believed us until it was too late.

How could I believe in a God that saves when he allows a man to abuse?

There are days I don't really remember: the trial, the sentencing... But then a youth pastor sat in a room with me and the other girls. Was this really happening? Surely it couldn’t be. Surely all of this was a dream or some kind of script someone was writing for some new movie. He had the impossible job of busting through the rosy glasses of four pre-teen girls. He confirmed our suspicions about the world: all this evil, all this darkness.

And he said something I’ve never forgotten.

He said that in life, we are impacted by two things: our own sin and the sin of other people. Some of it hurts more, but it all does the same thing: it separates us from a perfect, holy God.

He said that we were made to be with God, and all the pain we were feeling was this deep expectation and desire to be near God—the only thing we need, and the only thing we can't have in our current condition.

And that’s when I knew this world needs saving.

And the Truth I believed as a child rang True once more. We’ve all sinned. I deserve a death sentence. And so do you. And so does the man that hurt me. But God created us for relationship with Him and He couldn’t stand to watch us walk like sheep to the slaughter. So He sent a replacement. A perfect Man to suffer and die to make a way to God.

A Man that was God in flesh. A Man that didn’t consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage. A Man who made everything, then made Himself nothing.

He never lied, but lies were told about Him in open court.

He never stole, but His life was exchanged for 30 pieces of silver.

He never abused, but He was stripped naked and beaten and mocked.

This Man. Jesus. The one who healed the sick, opened the eyes of the blind, payed attention to the poor, stopped what he was doing for beggars, knew names before faces. The One who pointed a finger at the men who pretended you could get yourself right with God on your own, and called them snakes.

He said, “I Am The Way, The Truth and The Life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.”

He didn't say he is "a" way. He said He is The Way. The. Only. Way.

If you believe in Him, He fills you with a new Spirit, a new life—His. I am no longer a slave to what my nature tells me to do: the lying, the stealing, the selfish jealousy and bitterness. He gives me power for life and godliness. Everything I need to be a conquerer, and to live with joy not despair, in a world where most of the time, despair is all that makes sense.

I can consider that my present suffering is not worth comparing to the glory that will be revealed in me through Jesus. And I can’t help but speak of Him. I can’t help but find hope in Him. Because without Him there is no hope for me.

This is a story about a God who loved me so much that He didn’t leave me here alone. And He didn’t just give me Jesus. He gave me Jesus in a pastor’s rubber boot, my parents, my sisters, my friends, and in Patrick.

I remember when I told my story to Patrick. The one about the night and the dark, and the man whose wife and children were blindsided by the evil in their own home. The one about how I still feel skeptical, and when I’m alone with an older man, how I still feel nervous.

And I remember what He said.

Quietly, softly, Jesus whispered through the love of a husband, “I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m different.”

It’s the gospel. It’s the good news.

And really—it’s the only story worth telling.