Multiple sclerosis can do strange things to a girl’s brain. Like, for example, mess with her sense of balance.
 
I often feel dizzy. I frequently stumble and trip or sway and stagger (especially when I’m tired). I accidentally bump into people when I walk through a crowd. It’s kind of embarrassing actually. Sometimes I feel like a drunken sailor – minus the colorful language, of course.  
 
There’s nothing like a chronic illness to put a marriage to the test.
 
Shortly after my diagnosis, I found myself reflecting on a promise Curt and I made a couple of decades ago. At the time, I didn’t give it much thought.  
 
“And do you Sheri; promise to love Curtis in sickness and in health?”
 
Man, he looks good in a tux … Oh sure, sickness and health … This dress is itchy…

Sickness. I knew we’d face that someday, but not for a long time. You know, like after retirement and dozens of great-grandchildren.     
                                                                                                            
So who could’ve guessed that in February of 2016 my husband and I would sit in a neurologist’s office and learn that I have an unpredictable and potentially disabling chronic disease?    
 
Like I said, MS can do strange things to a girl’s brain – and I can’t always blame the scar tissue.
 
The more I heard about MS, the more my insecurities crept in. How was Curt feeling about all of this? More importantly, how was he feeling about me?
 
Curt is an energetic guy. He loves to play sports. He likes to travel and have fun. And then there’s me. I’m often tired. I can’t walk a great distance. It’s frustrating when your body doesn’t allow you to do what you want. But I knew one thing.  
 
My husband didn’t sign up for this.
 
One morning Curt was heading out the door when my emotions got the best of me.
 
“Let’s be honest,” I said, a bit over-dramatic. “We don’t know about my future. There are people with MS that can’t even walk. What if that happens to me? What if I end up in a wheelchair?”
 
Curt set his work bag down and looked me in the eye.
 
“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know about the future. Except whatever you go through, I’ll be going through it with you.”
 
Recently, a friend asked me, “So how has Curt been through all of this?” One word came to mind.
 
Unshaken.
 
Yes, he is concerned about my health. But he isn’t flustered or freaked out. He loves me just the same. He is simply unshaken.
 
When you think about it, “In sickness and in health” is a pretty broad statement. If I had to re-write our vows to specifically reflect our marriage today, it would sound more like:
                                                        
“I Curtis, take the Sheri to be my wife. I promise to run the girls to softball and volleyball when you’re feeling extra tired and take time off work to go with you to doctor’s appointments. I will drop you off at the door so you don’t have to walk, and I will still honor and keep you – even when you stumble through a crowd like a poor drunken sailor. 

I may feel off-balance, but my husband is rock-solid and steady. That's what “in sickness” means to me. No matter how shaky life gets, you've always got someone to lean on.  

​​If it were up to me, I would’ve chosen something sporty. Like a little red mustang with a convertible top. But no such luck. We got a big ‘ol beast that could barely fit in our garage.
 
It was a 1977 Cadillac Deville … my husband’s grandpa’s pride and joy. When Grandpa passed away, that beauty became ours.
 
Most of the time Grandpa’s Cadillac stayed safe and protected inside our garage. But every now and then, Curt felt the need to take it out for a cruise.  
 
“Let’s go, we’re taking the Cadillac!” Curt held his breath, turned the key and vigorously pumped the gas pedal. The old car sputtered and coughed until finally coming to life with a roar so loud it could wake the neighbors. One by one, our girls made their way through the fog of exhaust and crawled into the backseat.
 
“Can we get ice cream?” Our youngest asked.

“Ice cream?” Curt had expected the question, but sounded shocked anyway. “My grandpa would never let us eat ice cream in this car. In fact, we couldn’t eat or drink anything. We couldn’t even chew gum in Grandpa’s Cadillac.”
 
“Geez, it’s just a car,” I said, grabbing my arm rest with both hands and pulling hard. Those big, beefy doors required some muscle to get them to shut.
 
“It wasn’t just a car to Grandpa,” Curt said.
 
And then it began. I could almost see the wheels of Curt’s memories starting to turn. That’s how I knew it wasn’t “just a car” to Curt either.

Over the next few minutes, my girls and I would hear stories about Grandpa and the Cadillac. Like how Grandpa would let my seven-year-old husband sit next to him and steer the car all the way home. And how they both promised to never tell Grandma.

I’m not really a car buff. But I do love a good story. As I listened, I understood why this big old boat meant the world to my husband. It was a connection to his childhood – more specifically – a connection to his grandpa. This car was Curt's way of connecting special people from his past, with the people he loves in the present.
 
So Grandpa’s car stayed in our garage, taking up more than its share of space, never causing much trouble. Until one day when I was running late to meet Curt for lunch.
 
I hopped into the van and yanked on my door. As I put the van in reverse and began to back out, my door swung back open and smacked hard against the Cadillac.
 
A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. Oh … no. I jumped out of the van to inspect the damage. A significant dent glared back at me.
 
My vision blurred as tears welled up in my eyes. Curt loved that old car – and I just ruined it. How could I have done something so dumb? The more I thought about it, the heavier my chest felt.
 
Should I cancel lunch? I decided not. I couldn’t carry this guilt. I had to tell Curt.
 
I pulled into the parking lot at Curt’s work and sent him a text. “I’m here.” He responded with his usual. “K.”
 
Within a few minutes, Curt walked out the front door, whistling. Ugh. Hello dear, I thought. Your wife is here to ruin your day. 
 
As soon as he saw me he knew something was wrong. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said, sobbing. “When I opened the van door I accidentally hit the Cadillac. I put a big dent in the side of the door!”
 
By now I was covering my face and crying hysterically. Nearby, a couple of construction workers stopped filling potholes and looked over at us. No doubt they thought we were having some kind of domestic dispute. I was afraid we might.
 
Curt stood quietly, staring at me for a moment.
 
Then he did something totally unexpected and simply amazing. He put his arms around me, pulled me close and said, “Its okay. It’s just a car.”
 
I always knew my husband loved that car.
 
Fortunately for me, he loved me more. 

​First band concerts ... I’ve witnessed this phenomenon three times now. Several years ago Emily played the clarinet. Then Taylor played the flute. Most recently it was Maddie’s turn. Somehow, I always forget what a band full of sixth graders sounds like. It’s not always easy on the ears.
 
Maddie started playing the oboe last summer. She’s already come a long way. At first she could barely squeak out a noise. When she did make a sound, I could’ve sworn she had bagpipes in the basement. Now she’s playing songs that are not only recognizable, but enjoyable.  

I found a seat as the band warmed up. A hodgepodge of melodies and sour notes echoed throughout the gym. I’m always amazed at the number of band kids in sixth grade. Unfortunately, we all know how it goes. By seventh and eighth grade the numbers drop significantly. That’s when kids realize that learning an instrument is actually a lot of hard work.
 
I glanced through the program. Twinkle Stars. Jingle Bells. Frere Jacques. It seems like only yesterday Taylor was playing those same simple songs. Now she’s in the high school marching band and gets to play cool songs like Eye of the Tiger and Michael Jackson’s Thriller. Her only complaint is the unflattering wardrobe, although I like to call it “character-building clothes.”

I wish I could pull each sixth grader aside and warn them. “There will come a time when you’ll want to quit. Don’t do it. Stay committed. Keep practicing. It gets so much better than this.”
 
The auditorium grew quiet as the conductor stepped onto the platform. In no time she was conducting her little heart out. First she set the tempo. Then she gave signals to show how and when the band should play. But there was only one problem. Very few students bothered to look up at her. Every kid focused on their own music right in front of them.
 
They also weren’t listening to one another. The clarinets overpowered the flutes. The trumpets drowned out the trombones. I could see the conductor wanted certain sections to back off and play a little softer. But everyone just kept blasting out their own parts.     
 
It occurred to me that sixth grade band was much like the early years of my marriage.
 
A few years after Curt and I were married, we began to realize something. Marriage was actually hard work. The main problem? I focused on myself. He focused on himself. We really didn’t listen to one another, because we both had our own agendas. As you might guess, this became extremely frustrating. Honestly, I felt like quitting. 
 
And that’s when we did something we’d never done before.
 
We looked up.
 
God had never been a major part of our marriage. But in desperation, we invited him to lead us. We looked for His direction instead of our own, and we finally started doing what He told us to do.  
 
“Okay, back off now. You’re coming on a little strong. You need to be a little softer here.”
 
Everyone goes through difficult times in marriage. If you’re experiencing that right now, can I just encourage you?
 
There will come a time when you’ll want to quit. Don’t do it. It can get so much better than this.
 
I’m glad we didn’t quit. Our marriage isn’t perfect, but it is a great blessing. I believe the best is yet to come. Especially if we stay committed, listen to one another and most importantly, keep our eyes on our Conductor.

Hi everyone!

This week I'm sharing a post I wrote for the Quad City Moms Blog. It's called, How to Be a Better Wife: Five Great Reminders from my Three Little Girls.

So here's the deal. About ten years ago I made an eye-opening discovery ... someone had stolen my husband's heart! Well, it was actually three "someones." My three little girls. 

But guess what happened? I realized that when I started seeing my husband through my daughters' eyes, I became a much better wife.

I'd love for you to pop on over and read all about it. You can click right here: How to Be a Better Wife. 

See 'ya there! 

Sheri

Hi Everyone,

Today I wanted to share a story I wrote for Guideposts Magazine. "Project Jimmy" was published in the April 2013 issue of Guideposts, but you can also read it online here.

As a side note ... This was the story I submitted for their biannual writers contest (and ended up winning a trip to Port Orchard, Washington for their five-day Writers Workshop.) 

Hope you enjoy it!

Until next week ... 

Sheri 

Hi Everyone, 

Thanks for stopping by! Do you ever wonder what happened to the romance in your marriage? Do you miss those "fireworks" you experienced during your dating days? 

This week I'm sharing a blog post I wrote for the Quad City Moms Blog. It's about marriage ... more specifically, keeping the spark in your marriage when you're feeling burned out. 

I'd love it if you'd check it out. Have a great week!

Sheri

This past week we've had some tension at our house. Seriously. I've heard way too many dramatic sighs. More than a few exasperated groans. Now I hate to point fingers, but I know who’s to blame.

Our piano teacher. 

Nah, I’m just kidding. (Well, sort of.)  

Don’t get me wrong. She is a lovely lady and a wonderful teacher. But she has no idea the strife she has caused. I can still see the grief-stricken look on Taylor's face when she told me the news.

“She wants me and Emily to play a duet.”   

I thought it was a great idea. I could already picture it. My two girls sitting side-by-side playing their hearts out as beautiful music filled our home. But instead of music, here’s what I heard echoing throughout the house:

“You’re not even trying!”

“Me? You’re the one that keeps making mistakes!” 

“No – if you’d just play it right ….”

Back and forth they went. It was a ridiculous argument. Couldn't they see that blaming each other was getting them nowhere? To be honest, they both needed work. Neither of them played it perfectly.

Curt looked at me from across the room. “They sound like a married couple.”

I couldn't argue with that. 

Like all couples, Curt and I have had some disputes. And it's always so easy to point out what the other has done wrong.  

Neither of us are doing this marriage thing perfectly. But we're supposed to be a team. When we have a disagreement, we need to ask ourselves a difficult question. What part am I playing in this problem? 

Because blaming each other just gets us nowhere.

It’s been a little noisy around here this week, but my girls have given me a good reminder. Next time an argument erupts in my home, I’ll try to think twice before blaming my husband. 

Or even the piano teacher. 

When I was a teenager, I had some crazy ideas of what real love might look like. I blame Days of Our Lives. I spent way too much time watching that show.

In my mind, real love was so romantic. It showed up with a dozen long-stemmed roses. It was butterflies when he smiled and hand-written love letters. It was starry-eyed looks from across the room. 

As you might guess, I had some pretty high expectations for my poor future husband. Especially on Valentine’s Day. 

But twenty years (and three kids) later, I have a much better understanding of what real love is. Here's a few examples, just off the top of my head:

• Real love blocks off time on his schedule to take his wife out to lunch every week.
  
• Real love cleans up the mess when a sick child didn't make it to the bathroom.
  
• Real love comes home from a business trip a day early … just because he can.
• Real love listens patiently to story ideas, blog posts and rough drafts.
• Real love helps our kids with Algebra homework because he knows how much his wife hates math.
• Real love turns the channel during Victoria’s Secret commercials.
• Real love spends his bonus check on a desk for his wife, instead of something on his own wish list. 

This Valentine’s Day I’m not expecting roses. They're too over-priced right now anyway. I am also pretty confident I won’t get a sappy love letter describing how “I complete him,” or how he loves me from the depths of his soul.

But that’s okay. Real love is alive and well in my marriage. 

This year for Valentine’s Day we’ll probably go out for dinner. Then he’ll simply say, “I love you.”

And you know what?

I’ll believe him.

Hi everyone! 

Today I thought I'd share a story recently published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Dating Game. "Head Over Heels" describes one of my most memorable dates with Curt. Of all things, we went skiing. But there was just one problem ... I had no idea how to ski. 

Hope you enjoy it. Have a great week!  


I watched the revolving chairlift scoop up skiers for the long ride up the hill. A shiver ran through me, more out of fear than from the cold. How did I get myself into this? I’d never skied before. I just wanted my boyfriend to think I was bold and courageous – the kind of fun-loving girl who was always up for an adventure. Who was I kidding?

Curt and I stood in the loading area, waiting for the chairlift to circle behind us. It smacked the back of my legs and plopped me onto the chair. The cable above us creaked as it carried us over the glittering snow. As we neared the top, Curt prepared me for my approaching dismount. He lifted the safety bar.

“Okay, ready?” He leaned forward and straightened his skis. I scooted up. Then he stood to his feet and promptly glided down a small mound of snow. Oops! I missed it! A safety bar whacked my leg and the chairlift stopped. Curt glanced back at me still perched on the edge of my seat.

“You were supposed to get off.” He grinned, obviously more amused than the long line of skiers dangling behind me.     

Even with the cool temperatures, I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “Sorry, I wasn’t ready.” I scrambled off the chair and inched my way toward Curt. I struggled to maneuver the long, awkward skis. So much for impressing him, I thought. I looked like a toddler learning to walk.  

A steep hill stretched out before us. “Wow,” I said, catching my breath. “It’s a long way down. Shouldn’t I start with a bunny hill?”

Curt’s face turned sympathetic. “This is the bunny hill.”

I knew this adventure thing was a bad idea.

We started with the ever-popular snowplow technique. Curt demonstrated how to angle my skis inward as we edged our way down the hill. I spent more time lying in the snow than skiing.

First I fell backwards, the skis dragging me down the hill on my bottom. Then I fell sideways. Apparently I had leaned too far forward. Finally, just when I thought I was getting the hang of it, my skis crossed and I crashed again.

Curt raced to my side. “You okay?”

I wiped the snow off my face. “Oh sure, I’m good.” I wondered if it was possible to look cute while tumbling face first into a pile of snow.

Curt smiled – a bright, charming smile – and reached his gloved hand toward me. “You’re doing fine,” he said, helping me up. “It just takes practice and patience.” I gazed into his kind eyes. He certainly has patience, I thought. If I were him, I’d be back in the lodge sipping hot chocolate by now.

However, Curt stayed by my side. And he was right. Before long, I had mastered snowplowing and was ready to move on. On my next trip down, I turned my skis parallel ever-so-slightly.

“That’s it, you’re getting it.” Curt skied alongside, cheering me on. “Lean forward a little and bend your knees.”

“I’m doing it! I’m skiing!” I shifted my weight, enjoying the cool breeze and exhilarating joy of sweet success.  

But within an instant that thrilling rush of adrenaline switched to pure panic. Too fast, too fast! I thought, hurtling out of control. I dragged my poles through the snow, trying to slow down and regain control. Finally, I crashed into a jumbled mess of legs, skis and poles. As the snow settled, I laid flat on the ground in utter frustration.

That’s it, I thought. Enough is enough. My legs were twisted in opposite directions. My body ached. But my wounded pride hurt the most. Why would Curt want to ski with me anyway? He could handle any trail here; instead, he was stuck on the bunny hill with me.

Curt plopped down in the snow next to me. He handed me my wayward pole that had gone skidding halfway down the hill.

“I think you may have dropped this,” he said, expressionless. Suddenly, two young children zipped past us, smiling. I looked at Curt and shook my head.

A slight grin tugged at Curt’s pink cheeks. Suddenly he erupted in laughter – silly, yet delightful and contagious laughter. Curt’s joy pulled me in – no matter how hard I tried to resist it. Even in my most awkward moments, he could make me laugh.

Though I had aching legs and painful bruises, that date turned out to be one of my best. Not because I learned to ski; but because I realized that Curt was the kind of man I wanted in my life. The kind of man I could marry.

A couple years later, I did marry him. Even today, I still appreciate those same qualities Curt had during our dating days. He is patient and kind, he makes me smile, and when life gets me down, he encourages me to get back up and try again.

After twenty years of marriage, I still can’t ski well. Curt knows I’m not the most bold or courageous girl, but that’s okay. He makes sure my life is full of adventure, or at least full of laughter.

After eight years of marriage, I thought my husband knew me better. I was wrong. It all began when our pastor asked everyone in our small congregation to participate in the annual Christmas program. Not being one who enjoys the spotlight, I cringed. Maybe I could just read a quick poem, I thought. But my husband had his own idea. I remember the day he told me about it. I was sitting at the kitchen table decorating Christmas cookies with our three-year-old daughter, Emily. Curt walked in and messed up my perfectly good day.

“You want me to stand up in front of the entire church and sing?” I dropped my knife, splattering red frosting across the table.

“Not by yourself.” He snatched an overly-sprinkled cookie from our daughter’s pile. “I’ll sing with you.”

“Oh that’s comforting,” I said. “You know I don’t like all those people looking at me.”

Curt shrugged and took a bite of his cookie. “It’s a small church.”

“Not small enough,” I mumbled.

I don’t know how he did it, but a couple of days later, Curt managed to persuade me. We dug through our collection of Christmas music, looking for the perfect song. Finally we agreed on O Holy Night. I ran to the mall, bought the karaoke version and popped it into the cassette player. As the intro began, I felt a twinge of anxiety. I just need to get more familiar with the song, I thought.  

So I practiced every time I got in the car. When I ran to the store, I sang along with the lyrics. As I drove to the mall, I flipped the tape over and sang with the accompaniment. When we went out for dinner, Curt and I practiced harmonizing the chorus. Emily always sat buckled in her car seat, happily humming along.

But I was not happy. With each passing day, panic grew inside me. I imagined myself standing up front on program night. Everyone’s eyes would be fixed on me. What if I forget the words? What if I trip over a poinsettia on the way up the steps? How did I ever let Curt talk me into this? 

All too soon the night I’d been dreading arrived. Curt and I sat in the back of the church waiting our turn. On the platform, a woman recited her version of ‘Twas the Night before Christmas. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies dive-bombing my stomach.

Suddenly, something occurred to me. What should I do with Emily when we go up front? I couldn’t leave her sitting by herself. I scanned the church, looking for someone she could sit with. Maybe I could bring her with us. But Emily was pretty shy – what if she got scared in front of all those people? As I wrestled with my decision, the pastor interrupted my thoughts.

“Curt, Sheri, come on up--”

I scooped Emily onto my hip. Then we walked to the front and stood together on the platform.

The congregation sat still, watching and waiting. I nervously switched Emily to my other hip, holding her between Curt and me. I felt the warmth rising up in my cheeks. I glanced over at Curt and gave him a subtle, you’ll-pay-for-this smile.

Finally the music began. I cleared my throat. O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining … As Curt and I sang, I was surprised to hear Emily whispering the words along with us. How sweet, I thought. She’d heard the song so many times; she’d also learned the words.

After a couple of verses, Emily grew more confident and sang a bit louder. A few rows back, two gray-haired ladies nodded and smiled at our charming trio. They probably think we planned this, I thought, gazing proudly at Emily. My nervous butterflies began to disappear. Things were going so well – until we reached the chorus.

As the chorus opened, Emily began to sing with such enthusiasm, it startled me.  She opened her mouth wide and belted out each sour note with tremendous conviction. I gave her a firm squeeze, but she didn't take the hint. Curt and I stared at one another in shock. Across the pews, men snickered. Women covered their mouths to hide their giggles. Curt and I sang louder, hoping to block her out. But her passionate performance overpowered us both.