Yesterday, I was lying in my yard with my hand around the black rubber handle of a socket wrench as I tried to fix Vulcan, the riding mower. 
This is not how I expected I’d be spending my wedding week.
Actually, to be more precise, this is not how our culture has taught me to expect my wedding week. Instead, I’m supposed to be flouncing (which is something I never really do from day to day) to spa appointments and luncheons or laying back on a chaise lounge with cucumber slices on my eyes. Clearly, this is what David Tutera’s brides do.
And while it might be nice to be flouncing for a few days, that’s not really me. Me is more riding the mower in the fall cool day wearing a hoodie whose seams have long ago given up. Me is washing the windows and then staring out them for long moments in awe of the bounty that I live among. Me is trying to decide if it’s crazy to make a loaf of fresh wheat bread for everyone who will be around this place this weekend.
Yesterday, I had a moment when I resented having to try and tighten a mower blade (which I broke, incidentally), and another moment when the ache to have my mom here nearly knocked me off my feet. This is not how it’s supposed to be, I thought.
But today, with a night of rest between me and the grass seed pressed into my cheek and a mower ready to rumble (Philip is a genius), I recognize this week for what it is – perfect. Hard and busy and also full of moments like this one, where a wren cackles from the front porch and a pup sleeps on a pillow next to me. Moments when I know, that this life, of wrenches and grief and the dogwoods just painted burgandy is absolutely right.
Hard, perfect, and powerful – my ideal wedding week.