106. Watching you do pull-ups

107. The sweat that soaks through the back of your t-shirt when we work out - so freaking sexy

108. When you kiss me on the cheek or pat me as we pass each other in the kitchen

109. When you tell me about a joke or comment you made at work that fell flat and how you thought to yourself, "Kelly would have gotten it."

110. That when I was sobbing in the kitchen on a particularly desperate day, and you held me and said it was going to be okay, you somehow made those words seem believable to me

111. The adorable butt-wiggling dance you do

112. Dreaming with you, on cold winter weekends, of all the places we could escape to

113. That you can never remember if you like homestyle or curly fries at Arby's

114. That you pour my to-go coffee every morning because I am always running late

115. That when I came into the kitchen the other morning you proudly exclaimed, "Choose your lunch!" and had lined up the various side options on the counter, grouped by type: chips or caramel corn, apple or orange, Skittles or a Reese's Cup.

116. Your eyes

117. That while I was completely, utterly overwhelmed by the huge mountain of snow at the end of the driveway, you just calmly began chipping away at it ... and how that's a metaphor for pretty much everything

118. That you blare Metallica during the evenings I'm at the rescue squad

119. That you download podcasts of our favorite radio shows

120. That you are a master at finding and planning hikes when we travel

Our marriage is the thing I'm most proud of, and that has every bit as much to do with you as it does me. Happy eight years, dear.

breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the deck - all spent watching the bluebird couple build their nest

We drive in the dark to the trailhead. It's early morning, and we are not fully awake. There isn't much to say at this time of day, so we ride mostly in silence, sipping coffee from a travel mug.

At the trailhead, we park the car and strap on our backpacks - his filled with photography gear and mine with jackets, snacks, and orange juice. Thankfully, before we left the garage I had thought to check the flashlight we keep stowed in the glove compartment. It was dead, and without the replacement light I'm now clutching, we would not be able to see a single bit of the trail.

Even with the flashlight, obstacles on the trail ahead are just dim shapes. We stumble on rocks and roots here and there, although for the most part we navigate our way through the woods easily enough.

I've always found hiking in the woods at night to be a bit creepy and unsettling. But somehow, hiking in the hour before the sun is about to rise feels very different. There's a sanctity in the forest at this time. Perhaps its the promise of the impending light that changes the nature of the darkness. For me, morning has always brought with it a sense of calm and reassurance. Whether fevered with the flu as a child or tossing and turning with anxiety as an adult, many times the sun has brought me a sense of relief by signaling the night's end.

Now I switch off the flashlight. Just enough light is escaping the horizon, at the place where the sun will emerge, that we can begin to see the outline of things. Our strides become more sure, but then there's a sudden sound nearby and we stop. It was a rustle in a nearby tree, loud but not threatening. "A bird?" I ask.

"Most likely."

We continue on, feeling blind despite the increasing light. Soon, the predawn glow is enough that our black and white surroundings turn to color. It is happening so steadily that I begin to wonder if we'll make it to the fire tower in time to watch the sun as it rises.

We do, easily. We crest the hill and climb the stairs to the top of the tower, where we sit to wait. A cluster of dotted lights marks the spot of a small town far below in the valley. We can make out a cloud near the horizon, and we wonder how far or close it is. Will the sun rise in front or be obscured behind?

We wait a few more minutes, sipping orange juice and staring ahead at the horizon. I'm reminded that the sun knows how to make an entrance. It understands the value of suspense. Rob looks down to fiddle with the camera, and in that moment I see the first, slightest edge of brightness peer over the mountains. "There it is!" I exclaim.

It is no wonder past civilizations worshiped the sun as a god. It brings light and warmth and life, and to witness its majestic rise feels humbling and spiritual. I'm struck by the silence with which this happens. No trumpet fanfare or joyful chorus? And yet the silence makes it all the more sacred. I gaze into the valley and wonder how many people are staring up at the sky, witnessing the day's birth. Is there anything else so ordinary that is also so extraordinary?

I am always surprised by how quickly the sun slides into the sky. If the earth is turning that fast, shouldn't I feel it? We watch the sunshine fall on the mountains, a line of light that moves across the land. Where the mountains ripple, shadows form. From here, the scurrying and worrying that will fill the day below seem insignificant. From here, the only truths are the solidness of the mountains and the steadiness of the sun.

this time to watch the sun rise instead of set
with oj instead of wine
the colors expanding from the horizon
not deep orange and dusky blue
but gentle pink and pastels
the entire spectrum of the rainbow

For Christmas I knitted Rob a sock. I had every intention of knitting him a pair of socks, but sadly one is all that I got done. It wasn't even a real sock, with a heel and everything. It was just a tube sock, for wearing around the house with his slippers. Super easy. The problem was that I could only knit when Rob wasn't around. So I'd knit during my lunch break, and I'd hurry home after work to knit before he arrived. But these tiny snippets of time weren't enough to complete two socks. So I wrapped up the one and gave it to him with a promise to finish the other one right away. "It'll be a New Year's present!" I remember saying.

And it would have been, except I spent the week after Christmas peeling wallpaper off our living room walls. That always takes longer than expected. It also inflamed the nerve in my carpal tunnel, so I had to put myself on "wrist rest," which meant no knitting for several weeks. "I'm really sorry," I told Rob, "but it's going to have to be a Valentine's Day present."

And it would have been, except our friends' baby was due on Valentine's Day. And the knitting for him had to take priority. "It's a gift," I explained to Rob. "A gift can't be late." Poor Rob didn't even bother pointing out that his sock was supposed to have been a gift, too.

After I finished the knitting for the baby, I devoted myself to finishing Rob's other sock. I was making serious progress, too…until I ran out of yarn. Not a problem! I would just run to the yarn store and get more. But they no longer had any. "It's okay," Rob said, with resignation in his voice. "One sock can just be shorter than the other."

I disagreed. The man had waited this long for the sock and he was going to get a proper sock. So I found the yarn online and ordered some. It arrived last Saturday, and I immediately got to knitting.

That evening, I handed Rob a wrapped package. "Happy St. Patrick's Day!"

Feigning surprise, because he's a good sport.

And considering St. Patrick's Day was still several days off, I think we can say that the sock was, in a way, early.