My husband just had his birthday. A big, important birthday. One of those with a ‘0’ at the end of it. I won’t mention which one because, to be honest, I reached that mark a year and a half before he did. He keeps trying to catch up, but no success yet.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, in the midst of one of those full-blown college girl frenzies caused by (of course) college boys, I cried out to God, “OK, I’m done! I’m done picking out guys. Clearly, I don’t do it right. God, this is the kind of guy I’m looking for, and if he’s out there, I’m leaving it up to you to find him. I quit.” Yes, I did give God a list of my qualifications for a guy. I’m not sure why I thought He couldn’t figure that out on His own. But I definitely remember what I heard next, in the quiet after my rant. (Not audibly, as in heard this voice in my bedroom, which would have been a little creepy. But when you hear from God, you know.)
“OK, deal. It’s about time, really. But you already know someone who meets all those criteria. Have you thought of him?”
Who, God?? No, I hadn’t. Probably on account of I was a junior and he was a freshman with Coke-bottle glasses and an ROTC haircut. And a girlfriend back home. Nice friend material, but . . . really?
That was near the end of the school year, and said freshman and I went home to or respective states, and we wrote letters. We were friends–that was OK, aforementioned girlfriend and all.
Yes, letters. those things you printed on paper with a pen and needed a stamp and a mailbox for. Strange. I sent one letter with the sticker you see here:
It was just a fun sticker. Although, in fact, that was one of the worst summers of my life, and chocolate would definitely have been welcomed.
He sent it. A box of chocolate. Not just any chocolate, but homemade fudge, without nuts (just the way I like it), made not by his motherbut by him. I think that’s when I fell in love. (Plus, somewhere in there he dropped out of ROTC, grew curly dark hair and a beard, and got contacts. Those things helped. A girl’s got eyes, after all.)
Three years later, I married Mr. Fudge Guy. Hey, if God says he’s the guy for you, AND he bakes fudge, I do not argue.
The course of true love never did run smooth. (Thanks, Shakespeare. You are almost always correct.) Sometimes it’s paved with college tantrums, desperate prayers, hippo stockers, cancelled stamps, and even fudge. His parents’ path was paved with war. His dad mailed bath towels to his girl back home with an engagement ring attached. We are all resourceful in our own ways where love is involved.
In any case, it has been a good road. Thanks for letting me ride. Let’s keep driving for a very long time.
What’s your love story? Do share.