The Mess Jess Made

I love to read. I still remember my parents and brother reading to me when I was little. Long after they taught me how and I could take care of such things myself, I would sometimes carry in my favorite bedtime story and ask my Dad to read to me. Sometimes he did; sometimes he didn’t. But in teaching me how to read, they gave me a skill I would appreciate more than any other. When I was in 4th grade, I became so absorbed by a book that I stayed up until 2 in the morning to finish it on a school night (and up until this moment, I don’t think they ever knew it—sorry, Mom & Dad!). That was the first, but not the last, time that would happen.

Lately, I’ve really been missing my library back home. It’s not a novel feeling for me, if you’ll excuse my play on the word. Just about any time I picture my favorite things about home, my bedroom comes to mind. Or more specifically, my bookshelves.

My dad and my brother built the first bookshelf as an early 18th birthday present during summer 2014. Two-ish? years later, my brother and I assembled the second. We messed up a little in its assembly, so my mom helped me fix it as best we could. When all was said and done, every member in my immediate family has had a hand in supporting my little library goals and building those shelves. Both bookshelves, along with my library, are still in my parents’ house in my hometown.

Currently, I have a little bookshelf in my ND apartment. I bought it for $35 on Facebook Marketplace at the end of my sophomore year of college. I’ve run out of space on it. And it’s missing a chunk out of the back+right corner that broke off during a prior move. It’s still cute, and no one knows about the missing corner as long as it’s conveniently up against a wall (shown below), but I’d like to upgrade.

So lately, I’ve been looking into buying some bookshelves. I’m moving again, this time 240 miles instead of 1,300, and the upcoming move has me thinking a lot about what I want to keep going forward. Unfortunately, I haven’t been satisfied with my findings thus far: I’d like a solid wood bookshelf, like the ones my family and I built, and I’d rather not spend a grand+ for it.

Last night, I was talking to Judah on the phone, and I started talking about all of this and how I miss my bookshelves. In spite of missing the shelves, I’m reluctant to move them from my parents’ place for 2 reasons: 1) Logistics. I’m in North Dakota. They’re in Texas. 2) It’s part of what makes home feel like home to me. It’s what makes my childhood bedroom, which has remained virtually unchanged since I left for college in 2015, still feel like mine. The heavy dose of nostalgia I get when I walk through the door is one I’m not willing to abandon just yet. So even when I eventually move my books from their home, I’ll probably leave the shelves. My Dad can use them for his library if he wants (What can I say? I’m convinced my love for reading is inherited).

Following this, I then expressed interest in flying my brother out when he gets back from his short tour in South Korea this summer, and seeing if he would help me build a couple bookshelves here.

And Judah, so simply, so casually, says, “I’ll help you build some, babe. We could do that.” And then goes on to say that we can make them even nicer (basic lumber was all I could afford when I was 20) and stain them or paint them—whatever I want.

And wow, all I can say is, I really love this man.

I used to daydream about falling & being in love, pretty much from the time I was a young girl and figured out that cooties weren’t real. Which, let’s be honest, did not take long. I was innately an inquisitive and annoyingly persistent child (traits that have not gone away, sorry again Mom and Dad!). I can’t remember a time in which I ever believed in Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy, or The Easter Bunny. A lot of that is probably due to having an older brother who could tell me early on, “Hey, Santa isn’t real,” but the fact remains: one of the only faith-based beliefs I have ever held in my heart is the idea of true love. I devoured any and all information I could glean on the subject, which was largely informed by–you guessed it–books.

Unfortunately, as I learned the hard way, fiction gets it wrong… a lot.

Movies and books will try to convince you that love is the big gesture after a fallout, catch-you-at-the-airport, kiss-you-in-the-pouring-rain, dramatic moments. What you don’t understand when you are young is that in fiction, these are plot points. They aren’t realistic; they are merely designed to move the story along and get to the next page or scene. They are not depictions of what real, healthy relationships should be like.

As I got older, I reached the point where I had had enough of the drama that eerily resembled what I had so frequently seen on screens and read in books, or at least the parts where it seems that the boy will not get the girl. I had enough of the no shows, the calls that went straight to voicemail, and the boys who didn’t respect me enough to even end things before moving on. I had enough of my own midnight tears, begging for the bare minimum, and their apologies that came months, and once even years, too late.

I didn’t know what love was… but I knew what it wasn’t.

And I promised myself that I wouldn’t ever go through that again. In short, I realized my self-worth. And I recognized that I was happier and more emotionally content by myself than I ever had been in any of the few relationships I had had. I made a vow to love myself, to respect and enforce my own boundaries, and to remember that I am worthy of the love I wanted.

I spent the next three years single and, most of the time, completely uninterested in changing that status. And then I met Judah.

What an unexpected gift God gave me last July.

And I can finally tell you that I know what love is, what it means to experience that.

Love is warmth, kindness, patience, and consistency.

Love is how thoughtful he is. It’s the way he always calls when he says he will. It’s the way he calls me when I’m not expecting it, just to tell me he’s thinking of me. It’s how, if he’s stopping for Starbucks on the way to me, he gets something for me too.

Love is the way I don’t feel self-conscious eating sushi in front of him. Love is how even when we disagree, I still feel like we’re working together as equal partners on the same team. Love is being able to talk openly about insecurities and not feeling vulnerable later or worrying that I’ve somehow said “too much.”

Love is the way he listens. Love is the way he speaks. Love is the way he laughs.

Love is getting my wisdom teeth out the day after he asked me to be his girlfriend and him caring for me not only during that, but throughout the week after when the infection raging in my jaw became apparent. Love is the way the left side of my face was swollen for weeks, and he still told me unflinchingly that I was beautiful. Love is the way I joked that I had catfished him, and he laughed and kissed me anyway.

Love is exchanging keys. Love is the way I once came home from work to find him doing my dishes. Love is the way I enjoy visiting his friends like they’re mine. Love is him surprising me by packing up the rest of my apartment for this upcoming move so that I didn’t have to drive the 3.5 hours back to Fargo the following weekend. Love is our first trip away together, meeting his sister and niece, our first Christmas, and the way that every day with him feels like Valentine’s Day.

Love is the way his two girls, Charlie and Mittens, have turned me into a cat person. Love is the way that the four of us feel like a family. Love is camping in the living room. Love is way he looks at me.

Love is doing long distance for the last 4 months and neither of us ever worrying that we wouldn’t work out. Love is driving hundreds of miles to see each other regularly. Love is the way I’ve never felt so comfortable with anyone. Love is how for the first time ever, I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Love is the way I can’t wait to show him my hometown: the creek I grew up in, the trees I climbed, my favorite restaurants, and the town library that I spent so many hours in.

Love is the way I can talk longingly for my bookshelves, and the way he tells me so casually, “I’ll help you build some, babe. We could do that.”

Love is the quiet but sure way he has etched himself into my story, into my heart, and into my life.

Love is all of the little things that add up to make him who he is.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Judah. I love you.

Jess