By Molly Flinkman
@molly_flinkman

It was a cool night in September—the kind where the chill of the wind feels thrilling. A new season was on the cusp. Jake, my boyfriend then, knocked on my dorm room door after dinner. “I have an idea of something we can do tonight,” he said. “Want to come?” I left a textbook and highlighter in my wake and followed.

We walked across our small campus, hand-in-hand—Jake’s oversized flannel brushing against my wrist with each step. The sidewalks were relatively deserted; it was quiet here, far from the central hub of students. He finally stopped right in front of our chapel building, let go of my hand, and gestured forward. “We’re going to climb up on the roof,” he said.

I cocked my head at the tall steeple in front of me and squinted an eye. “How?” I asked.

He led me around to the side of the building where a little half-wall stood, recessed back behind some bushes. Jake made me feel buoyant and outside of myself whenever I was with him, so it never even occurred to me that this location was off limits. I let him hoist me up on the short wall, and then I climbed up on top of the roof myself. He joined me, and we found a spot to sit. 

Even though we had only been dating for a few months, we had been friends for much longer, so I knew Jake well enough to know that this kind of adventure was par for the course with him. He had a reputation for pushing the envelope and his life mantra as far as I could tell was, “Ask forgiveness, not permission.” When we spied all the security guards smoking cigarettes below us and right next to a “No Smoking” sign, he laughed and said, “It’s good to see those guys letting loose.” He’d been busted by them for snowboarding off a roof on campus the previous winter.

Every time I was with Jake early in our relationship, I felt a pull of panic in my stomach. The opposite of adventurous and keen to stay in my rule-abiding lane, I figured our relationship would end in one of two ways. Either he would realize he was settling for my less-than-thrilling personality and move on to someone more exciting, or he would pull me out of my comfort zone into an unpredictable and dizzying life. Both options scared me, but here we were—still together and still moving forward.

We talked for hours up on the roof that night, but I had this nagging question in mind, so finally I tucked my knees up into my chest, pulled the neck of my sweatshirt over my chin, and asked it: “What do you picture your future looking like?” What I was really wondering was, “Is there a place for me in your future?” or “Will your future plans rip me out of the very simple life I have planned for myself?” but, obviously, I was playing it cool.

Jake talked about wanting to be a doctor and the desire he had to take medicine overseas to underserved areas. He talked about traveling and not wanting to do the same thing every day. These were long-held dreams—some of them timestamped all the way back in middle school.

“What about when you have kids?” I pressed, still wondering if there was room for me among all these plans. “What do you think your life will look like then?”

“I guess I never really thought about that part,” he said, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into his chest. Relief filled me. The plans had space. 

***

I recently read Little Women for the first time and was mesmerized by the ordinariness of the whole thing. In 47 chapters, nothing particularly extreme or thrilling happens. Sure, there is an unrequited love and an untimely death, but overall it’s just a very normal story about four sisters coming of age.

Jo is always everybody’s favorite little woman isn’t she? She has drive and confidence and a knack for getting in and out of trouble. She’s an independent woman who shows us that we too can break the status quo and chase after even the biggest of dreams.

As a writer, I should resonate most deeply with Jo, but I don’t. Instead, it’s Meg I like best.

Near the beginning of the book, the sisters and Laurie lay out their big dreams—castles in the air, as they call them—for their futures. Laurie wants to be a renowned musician, Jo longs for heroics and to live a rich life as a famous author, and Amy wants to be the best artist in the world. And Meg? Meg wants to be the mistress of a luxurious house in which all her servants love her dearly. It’s Jo who knows her well enough to add that her dream wouldn’t be complete without a husband and children. Everyone else in the group (save Beth, bless her) dreams of fortune and fame. Only Meg’s dream includes domesticity.

I’m such a different dreamer than Jake. I have not prioritized any career aspirations and am amazed by people who can think outside the box and create things from scratch based on an idea they conjure up in the school car line. Jake, the same boy from the roof and also now my husband, asks me sometimes where I would go if I could travel anywhere in the world, and I never have an answer.

Instead, I spend most of my brain power thinking of ways to yell at my kids less or master a better laundry routine. I set personal goals for myself but try not to accomplish them at the expense of my family. Like Meg, my dreams aren’t grandiose or far away. They are, for the most part, here—in our home.

***

I press play on It’s a Wonderful Life as soon as Jake walks in the door with our carry-out Chinese food. Our four kids are asleep upstairs, and this is our favorite way to spend Christmas Eve. The bells clang in the opening sequence—joined by the sound of metal spoons on styrofoam.

I twirl some lo mein around my fork as George and Mary throw rocks at an abandoned mansion, making wishes as the windows break. George’s wishes are big. He has plans to travel the world and then, after college, he wants to build things. Air fields, skyscrapers, bridges—the dreams fill the expanse of his mind. Mary throws a rock next, and when her window breaks, George asks her what she wants. Instead of answering, she gives him a coy smile and walks away singing. She just wants him. I get this. Deeply.

“That’s the age-old relationship issue isn’t it?” Jake says, setting his food on the ottoman in front of us. “The guy has big dreams, and all the girl wants is for him to stay home.” He isn’t complaining or being critical; he’s just making an observation—an observation that happens to be very true of both relationships in the room.

Just this year Jake checked the dream of being a doctor off his list. He drives an hour to get to work each day—a long commute but a far cry from the cross-cultural plans he once had for himself. And then every day he drives that same hour home to the same house where the same family awaits his return.

I start to worry, and the worry reminds me of that panic I felt on the chapel roof 13 years earlier. Except this time I’m not worried Jake is going to leave me or that there isn’t space for me in his future plans. Instead, I worry I’m the only one who got what she wanted. Have I done enough to help Jake chase after his dreams? What’s more, am I willing to try harder if not?

A few nights later, with a fire crackling in front of us, I pull the neck of my sweatshirt over my chin and stretch my legs across his on the couch. “Do you feel like George Bailey?” I ask. “Do you feel like you’ve settled in your life?”

He keeps his eyes on the fire and doesn’t answer right away.

“No,” he says a few moments later, “I don’t think I settled. This is the life I chose for myself.” He turns to look at me and his flannel shirt brushes against my hand. “I like this life,” he says resolutely.

I pull my legs beneath me and lean against his chest. We stay here for awhile—quiet and watching the fire—and I think about those two kids on top of the roof all those years ago. This kind of love, warm and stable and selflessly given, is what I hoped Jake had space for in his plans, and I see now that I never had any reason to worry. Even so, I know a zest for the unpredictable still hums in his chest, so I resolve to lean into the thrill when the winds change and stay open to adventure.

He lassoed the moon for me. The least I can do is keep the rope in place, so he has something to climb.

Guest essay written by Molly Flinkman. A lover of gray t-shirts, hand-written correspondence, and good books, Molly spends her days with four small kids and a husband who works unpredictable hospital hours. In her margins of free time, she is either watching Netflix with her husband or writing about how her faith intersects everything else in her life. You can find Molly on her website or Instagram.

Molly is a member of our Exhale community, and her essay was our Love After Babies contest winner, an exclusive submission opportunity for Exhale members. Learn more at www.exhalecreativity.com.