There was a night in late November. It was a Sunday, I think, and I was in Colorado at Jacob's (and soon to by my) house. Damp and smelling of snow, the air held the blue hues of dusk and I, the girl whose favorite color is the green of nature, was unexpectedly struck with the beauty of the barren landscape. At my insistence, we took a walk in the stillness, spotting three silent owls perched in the spindly, bare branches. One by one, they flew away as we got closer, their wings whooshing through the shadows. Watching them made me sad, but the good, yearning kind. Then we turned back for home and there was a fire awaiting us in the wood stove and I thought, this is what awaits me for the rest of my life.

I'm in Oklahoma for the Christmas season this year and four times I've started drafting a post here to no avail. Experiencing December without the cacophony and clammer of finals reminds me of the heart-palpitating anticipation of a boy coming to visit me two years ago on a cold, gray Saturday. Although it took until that winter's melting for me to fall properly in love, the first seeds were planted that December in a rush of flushed cheeks and a furtive grasp of hands. When I see him now, my palms no longer grow clammy, nor do nerves cause my tongue to act separately from my brain, but my heart rate still goes up in the few moments before we're reunited and I think how lucky we are to have found each other.

Soon all the awful pattern of goodbyes will be behind us and we'll be--as Jacob phrased it when he proposed--permanent roommates and lovers. If I let myself think about it, I'm terrified of starting my life over in a new city, but then I realize that people move all the time and they survive, or at least mostly. I feel terribly boring as wedding planning takes up the majority of my days, but I am overcome by the outpouring of love that began the moment we announced our engagement and, five months later, has yet to slow. As I told a friend few days ago, the days right now are both nothing and everything. I am trying to be as pragmatic and sensible as possible when it comes to putting this wedding together. I've discovered that, no matter how lovely, I'm not much one for flowery pinterest boards or mason jars filled with tea lights or wedding rituals that exist only for the sake of tradition. 

People ask me if I'm excited for the wedding, and I am, but mostly I'm setting my sights on preparing for the marriage that will last the rest of our lives. Regardless of whether you are 18 or 42, there is immense gravity in promising yourself to another person until death does you part, a commitment that runs far deeper than choosing which centerpieces to have at the reception. Agreeing to marry Jacob was not an excuse to plan a pretty party, or the result of being blindly driven by hormones, or, as some would bluntly see it, the first step in throwing my life away. I'm not so naive to think that marriage will be easy, or that there won't be sacrifices--because already there have been trials and forfeits on both sides--but the thought of life without him seems impossible. By marrying him, I'm doing anything but throwing my life away. What is there to be lost when two lives join together to become one? And it is that for which my heart swells--the knowledge that as couple knit together with Christ, we are far better than either of us could be on our own. The wedding day itself will come, it will be beautiful, and then it will pass and the two of us will be left together in the quiet business of life, the place where the real excitement lies.

Fall is late this year, or maybe it is early, depending on which home I am in. In Colorado, the trees shone burnished gold and tarnished crimson in mid-September, the mountain tops dusted with the arresting beauty of the first snow, my toes perpetually cold when padding towards the promise of coffee in the kitchen, the stale smell of the heater kicking in, a faint memory of the Milky Way last night. When I drove the twelve hours back to Oklahoma, the mid-October air was thick enough to catch in heavy, sweating handfuls and the trees were still heavy-laden with green as the road stretched endlessly on and I thought, maybe no time has passed, maybe it's still summer, maybe this was all a dream. 

The first Saturday in October was so perfect I felt like crying. Like magic, we ascended above the tree line on a narrow, rocky jeep trail that would make my mom close her eyes and clutch her seatbelt if she were there, and then we dipped back down into liquid gold aspen groves, everything tinged with the saturation of color. The autumn of my dreams. Then the descent into Telluride, better known as the land of fairytales, eating a sandwich together on a bench under the kind of afternoon sun that penetrates all the way into your core. There was the drive home on undulating mountain roads, the pavement silvery and shimmering, and then egg rolls on the couch because, of course, our kitchen table is still being crafted. All fragments, all wondrous. 

This is all part of the gradual process of moving out: a month here, a month there, enough time to ease into a new life and savor the old one, or at least in theory. In our premarital advising sessions I was forced to realize that I am more anxious than I'd like to admit. Everywhere, reminders to slow down, savor, remember, cherish. Contentedness is a fickle thing and I write to make myself more aware. How else do I hold close the sense of belonging, the familiarity of rutted streets, my bare feet on the cold bathroom tile trying to hold still being while fitted for my wedding dress, the old ritual of being on the phone every night come 10pm? And then, in the other place, the satisfaction of successful meal planning, a coffee-laced Saturday morning hanging up framed maps in our--our!--home, groups silent deer with regal antlers staring at me in the yard, a stolen kiss in the middle of dicing bell peppers. A year ago, all distant dreams.

A paradox, a limbo, an in-between. Always blindly searching for a conclusion at the end of the day when perhaps there is none to be had. 

As summer in the northern hemisphere reached a crescendo, I boarded a plane in Nairobi late one night and crossed half the globe on my way back home to Oklahoma. My work as a photographer in eastern Africa had come to an end for the time being, and I was ready to be back stateside and celebrate summer. Once I recovered from jetlag, I kept up my track record of not staying in a place more than a week, and six days later was already back in Colorado with my lover. It was a relief to be back with him, after two months and eight thousand miles apart.

A few days later, Jacob took me on a hike to Ice Lake near Silverton. He told me it'd be a grueling trek, but worth it. "The wildflowers are supposed to be nuts!" he told me, and then said he hoped I still loved him by the end of it. It was a good thing I did, because once we reached the summit of the hike, he got down on one knee, held out a sparkly diamond ring, and asked me to marry him. All I remember after that are smiles and kisses, and the surprise bottle of champagne that he'd hidden in his backpack. 

Two days later, we drove across the entire state of New Mexico on the way to south Texas for Jacob's family reunion. Jacob's parents and sister stayed up until midnight to welcome us, and we all hugged each other tight. In the darkness of that night, everything seemed so surreal and impossibly wonderful. My left hand remained bare until we had time to get the ring resized, and I had to keep reminding myself that I hadn't imagined the events of two days ago. 

At the river, we spent the entire week outside and I gained the most ridiculous tan lines as I was schooled in proper Texas summer etiquette (including, but not limited to, no makeup, constant eating, and tubing down the river). I felt so grateful to be marrying a man and subsequently gaining a family with such sweet and beautiful traditions. Jacob's parents threw us a surprise engagement party one night and it caught us off guard in the best way. We'd forgotten that things like this happen to people after they get engaged. 

Back in Colorado, the gentle slope of the mesas and the wide open pastures already feel like home, and I have that curious sense that perhaps home is something we can create, just like love. A choice. It’s sobering, being betrothed to a man and feeling so sure and at peace about your decision, but also having the normal, human thoughts of, am I sure? is this “it?" it almost seems too easy. A few weeks ago, my dad put down the deposit on our wedding venue, making everything all the more real. Until we marry this winter, I remain in a kind of transitional limbo, but this man I am marrying, he is so good and kind and I know I will not regret choosing to love him every day. 

So I guess that's how it happens. Four years ago I met a boy, he moved away as I developed a crush, I lived my life in between, and now--surprise surprise--that boy that I thought was so out of my league is going to be my husband. Here are some film shots* from the month when it all happened.

* all images shot on a pentax k1000

The aquamarine waters of Ice Lake

Jacob pointing to the rock where he proposed

The view hiking up to Ice Lake

Gas station scenes in New Mexico

Evening light at the Frio River

Four year old Morgan passed out after a long day of tubing

My lover cookin' something unseen

Gretta pouring champagne into hand-embellished plastic cups

JP demonstrating his rock skipping skills

Cousin love

She has the right idea

Jacob, master breakfast maker

Gretta soaking up the evening light on the banks of the Frio

Intense Catan battles

The owner of the campground, Greg, who's lived his whole life in the Texas hill country 

Jacob and Morgan in the river

There are times in life—perhaps when you’re bumping down a dusty eastern Ugandan road, or peering into a schoolroom made out of mud and sticks—when you feel quite far from home. But in order for these feelings to carry any weight, there must be a definition of “home.” If home is categorized as everything that is familiar—not necessarily only what one has grown up with—then perhaps, despite your initial inklings, Uganda really isn’t so far from home. You get to a point where you have bumped down more than a few dusty East African roads, and peered into more than a few mud-and-stick schoolrooms, and though they are so different from what you knew as a child, they are no longer completely foreign. When home is everything familiar, then suddenly the world world is at your feet, because there is familiarity to be found everywhere.

To a westerner arriving in a place such as Uganda, initial culture shock can be blinding, causing one to see only the foreign and strange. But if you are able to stay in a culture long enough for the shock to ebb, you can begin to adopt a different perspective. Where culture shock (or, let's face it, ignorance) may lead one to think that “poor” defines a person in a third-world country, taking the time to invest in building relationships will show you that these people do not exist simply to be pitied by westerners. No, they are, just like you may be, a teacher, a pastor, a small-business owner, an agriculturalist, and first and foremost, a child of God. And here, there is incredible familiarity, a sense of home even though it may initially seem foreign.  

In Uganda, we attended a church that meets, for the time being, in a primary school classroom (class Primary Two Blue, according to the chalkboard lettering). Sitting at a wooden school desk on a sweltering Sunday morning, thousands of miles from where I grew up, the pastor began to chant the same liturgy that I grew up with in a small Oklahoma church. The pastor chanted The Lord be with you and we responded and also with you, and cultural differences ebbed as I found myself subconsciously slipping into the familiar lilt of the liturgy. I thought, here I am at home.

Children peering into a building that serves as a church as American missionaries talk with local church leaders.

Eating a mango on a hot afternoon

Rev. Shauen Trump showing his boys the local flora and fauna.

Missionary kid life

Ugandan pastor Rev. Raymond Kaija showing Rev. Jonathan Clausing a cassava field. 

A worker on the construction site of the new Lutheran seminary near Jinja.

Holy Communion in a primary school classroom.

Rev. Raymond Kaija photographs the construction site of the seminary.

Sunset in Busia