I come from a long line of strong women.
My great-grandfather left everything to my great-grandmother in his will. Unless she killed him. He felt the need to put that on paper, along with the make, model and serial number of her pistol.
My grandmother was a single, working mom to seven children.
My mother was once bitten by a dog. She bit him back.
So it should come as no surprise that I came into the world fiercely stubborn and independent: a mini-feminist, even in kindergarten, as I complained that girls were underrepresented and miserable in the world of the Letter People. I was a tomboy in Chuck Taylors, playing ball in the neighborhood vacant lot by age nine. By seventeen I was a card carrying NOW member who wore t-shorts that read, "People call me a feminist when I do anything that might distinguish me from a doormat."
I'm not sure how, but my parents, in their more traditional gender roles, never discouraged me.
Nor did they ever take up drinking.
By my mid-thirties I had a career, a beautiful daughter, a full-time graduate school load, and a really neat guy that wanted me to be his wife.
But I didn't really want to marry my husband.
It wasn't him, but the wedding. The dress and the flowers and the people staring at us when we made a vow and shared a kiss, something sacred and private.
But he really wanted a wedding, so did his family, and some of mine.
Everyone else I could have told no, but HE, he really wanted it all.
So we planned it. Sort of.
There were podium rentals, and music selections. A 19 page wedding contract with the Church.
On more than one occasion I defended our decision not to have a unity candle with the same emotion and defiance only seen in SEC rivalries.
And though I'm not positive, I've been told that our marriage might not be legal because I don't have a bridal portrait of me staring into a mirror. That and I abhor flower girls.
About three weeks before the wedding I found myself cross-legged in the middle of a bed in one my parents' guest rooms, telling all within ear shot that I didn't like anyone at all anymore unless I gave birth to her. Oh, and that I was not getting married.
He didn't ask if he could come in, just kneeled down next to the bed, and said. "We don't have to have a wedding. We can get on a plane and fly to Vegas today or drive to Alabama. We don't even have to get married at all. Just agree that we will spend every moment together. That is all I need."
And he meant it. No cake. No tuxes. No ceremony. All I had to do was say the word and it wouldn't have to be. It was up to me.
After that, he sat everyone down and told them that I agreed to the wedding, provided NO ONE spoke to me about it, asked me any questions, or addressed me in any way. (I've since learned that I was not the only middle-aged, professional woman bride to have an absolute meltdown. Solidarity sisters. Weddings aren't for the weak.) Any question would go through him, and whatever I decided would be acceptable. Period.
There were tears and nods, hugs and forgiveness. It was, after all, people who loved us.
There would not be Christmas decorations, carols, or the freaking unity candle. But there was a dress and song and a ceremony.
And in the end, we were married.
We don't talk about weddings much; I'm secretly hoping that if baby girl ever marries, she'll elope. He wants to walk her down an aisle.
She says that it won't happen either way because she is NEVER getting married.
She is confident in this, so sure of herself. She doesn't need anyone, but her. After all, she comes from a line of strong women.
And the strong men who love them.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Tween girls are not for the faint of heart
Raising tween girls is hard.
Hard.
Like grainy black and white photographs showing anguish and despair will memorialize it in the history books one day.
(Moms of teen girls, please don't tell me it gets harder. I don't have the intestinal fortitude to face it, yet. Moms of tween boys, I'm ignoring you. I am sure it is difficult, but I have to teach someone how to shave her legs, use a maxi pad, tweeze her eyebrows! I win; please tell me I win.)
Today was one of those days, not mine, but a friend's: her girl had shown out and suffered the consequences. My girl was the witness; the mom swearing my baby girl had no part in it; but even then....I was with my fellow mom.
The frustration. The fight. The fatigue.
Oh the fatigue.
Raising tween girls isn't for the weak. It is late nights, hours of hair straightening that end in a huff because "you (mom) can't do it right." Cheer competitions, volleyball practice, history projects. It is the Friday night when the sleepover friend cancels. And that is just two days.
Tween girls out-pace us; they have youth and hormones on their side fueling them at a frenzied pace. Us moms trailing behind. Grateful to just be able to sit down.
The frustration.
I knew baby girl's look, the "I-wonder-why-the Lord-made-you-so-stupid" look; I had seen it before. I had worn it before. We were taking selfies; it was supposed to be fun. Silly. It turned ugly quick, just as she clicked the picture. And I saw that look. Immortalized on my phone. I then saw my own face. The middle-aged version of her look, the "you-utter-one-more-word-and-you-will-get-to-ask-the-Lord-in-person" look staring back at me. I sent it to my mom. She laughed at me. I know she did.
Later, it is the creaking door after she's stormed off, peering out and then walking over to the couch and sprawling out, her feet in my lap. The I-don't-like-you-but-I-need-to-know-you-still-love-me test, so I rub her feet. The silence softer now.
The fight.
She is strong willed, that girl of mine. Quick witted.
Strong willed. As my husband says, "An apple tree can only grow apples."
I have seen here work at a tumbling pass until she gets it. Tired, bruised, sweaty. Victorious.
She has long done her own projects: drawing her own reading fair illustrations, cutting her science fair pictures, a plan formed in her brain, flowing through her hands, wanting no help from anyone.
It is a National Geographic moment when we square off: the young lion jockeying around the alpha, wanting to take the throne.
But there is only one Queen Bee, and I am it. Even in defeat, her learning how to be a grown-up, that lesson best taught by those who love her.
I once asked my mom how old I was before she knew that we would both survive my growing up. She didn't miss a beat, "27."
I almost panic in those moments because I am old and tired, and I long to lie on the couch watching SVU and reading blogs. I have told my husband that we won't make it though this parenting gig. Someone will discover our withered remains huddled together in a corner, like relics from Pompeii.
Occasionally I have thought we should put all the tweens on some abandoned Survivor island and let them go Lord of the Flies. A pick-up scheduled for the week after their 28th birthdays, just in case 27 isn't really that magical. My husband tells me this is probably illegal, and that I would be sad without my mini-me. And because he is wise, "Anyway, they would figure out how to get off the island and combined they would take over the world." So blog-reading and SVU will wait for today.
Yesterday, she told me she didn't eat breakfast, then asked me what I had. I told her that her stepdad and I had gone out for doughnuts while she was at practice. She shakes her head, "So this is what it has come to, Mother?"
And in that moment, my cub and I smile at each other. And twenty-seven seems a little too close.
Hard.
Like grainy black and white photographs showing anguish and despair will memorialize it in the history books one day.
(Moms of teen girls, please don't tell me it gets harder. I don't have the intestinal fortitude to face it, yet. Moms of tween boys, I'm ignoring you. I am sure it is difficult, but I have to teach someone how to shave her legs, use a maxi pad, tweeze her eyebrows! I win; please tell me I win.)
Today was one of those days, not mine, but a friend's: her girl had shown out and suffered the consequences. My girl was the witness; the mom swearing my baby girl had no part in it; but even then....I was with my fellow mom.
The frustration. The fight. The fatigue.
Oh the fatigue.
Raising tween girls isn't for the weak. It is late nights, hours of hair straightening that end in a huff because "you (mom) can't do it right." Cheer competitions, volleyball practice, history projects. It is the Friday night when the sleepover friend cancels. And that is just two days.
Tween girls out-pace us; they have youth and hormones on their side fueling them at a frenzied pace. Us moms trailing behind. Grateful to just be able to sit down.
The frustration.
I knew baby girl's look, the "I-wonder-why-the Lord-made-you-so-stupid" look; I had seen it before. I had worn it before. We were taking selfies; it was supposed to be fun. Silly. It turned ugly quick, just as she clicked the picture. And I saw that look. Immortalized on my phone. I then saw my own face. The middle-aged version of her look, the "you-utter-one-more-word-and-you-will-get-to-ask-the-Lord-in-person" look staring back at me. I sent it to my mom. She laughed at me. I know she did.
Later, it is the creaking door after she's stormed off, peering out and then walking over to the couch and sprawling out, her feet in my lap. The I-don't-like-you-but-I-need-to-know-you-still-love-me test, so I rub her feet. The silence softer now.
The fight.
She is strong willed, that girl of mine. Quick witted.
(Everyone who knows me is smiling. The story of almost getting kicked out of kindergarten because I made such a fuss that there were only 5 girl letter people still makes the rounds.)
Strong willed. As my husband says, "An apple tree can only grow apples."
I have seen here work at a tumbling pass until she gets it. Tired, bruised, sweaty. Victorious.
She has long done her own projects: drawing her own reading fair illustrations, cutting her science fair pictures, a plan formed in her brain, flowing through her hands, wanting no help from anyone.
It is a National Geographic moment when we square off: the young lion jockeying around the alpha, wanting to take the throne.
But there is only one Queen Bee, and I am it. Even in defeat, her learning how to be a grown-up, that lesson best taught by those who love her.
I once asked my mom how old I was before she knew that we would both survive my growing up. She didn't miss a beat, "27."
Twenty-seven.
I almost panic in those moments because I am old and tired, and I long to lie on the couch watching SVU and reading blogs. I have told my husband that we won't make it though this parenting gig. Someone will discover our withered remains huddled together in a corner, like relics from Pompeii.
Occasionally I have thought we should put all the tweens on some abandoned Survivor island and let them go Lord of the Flies. A pick-up scheduled for the week after their 28th birthdays, just in case 27 isn't really that magical. My husband tells me this is probably illegal, and that I would be sad without my mini-me. And because he is wise, "Anyway, they would figure out how to get off the island and combined they would take over the world." So blog-reading and SVU will wait for today.
Yesterday, she told me she didn't eat breakfast, then asked me what I had. I told her that her stepdad and I had gone out for doughnuts while she was at practice. She shakes her head, "So this is what it has come to, Mother?"
And in that moment, my cub and I smile at each other. And twenty-seven seems a little too close.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
And then Jesus
At times I think if I can close my eyes quickly enough; I will miss it: the reel-to-reel replay in my mind.
I never do.
The full feature tumbles through my brain. Colored bits of a lie, an argument. Hazy grays and soundless pictures so that I shake my head to scramble them. And all over again I'm angry, embarrassed, shamed.
Forgetting is hard, even though our souls bathe clean. Each of us sure that mine is different. Too much, too big, too bad for anyone to fix. And so we inch forward, heavy, like Atlas and his world.
It came one night, and e-mail from my dad. The refrain, simple. "And Jesus....and then Jesus" Nothing so great that those three words can't make them right, nothing too real, too ugly.
I was lost AND THEN JESUS found me. I was hungry AND THEN JESUS fed me. I was a wretch AND THEN JESUS saved me.
And then Jesus..........
I never do.
The full feature tumbles through my brain. Colored bits of a lie, an argument. Hazy grays and soundless pictures so that I shake my head to scramble them. And all over again I'm angry, embarrassed, shamed.
Forgetting is hard, even though our souls bathe clean. Each of us sure that mine is different. Too much, too big, too bad for anyone to fix. And so we inch forward, heavy, like Atlas and his world.
It came one night, and e-mail from my dad. The refrain, simple. "And Jesus....and then Jesus" Nothing so great that those three words can't make them right, nothing too real, too ugly.
I was lost AND THEN JESUS found me. I was hungry AND THEN JESUS fed me. I was a wretch AND THEN JESUS saved me.
And then Jesus..........
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
We're mad at Paula Deen
“We’re mad at the Clearmans.”
First thing said as my great Aunt Dottany opened the door to my grandmother’s house. It was the 1950s and the drive from Tampa, Florida, to Hattiesburg, Mississippi, longer than now.
No hugs. No kisses. Just that the Foster girls were mad at their cousins. My great aunt’s response? “Yes, we are.”
Allegiances run deep.
And so I am mad at Paula Deen. Mad at her excuses. Mad at peers on Facebook that say her comments “aren’t really that bad,” “she grew up in the South,” “even black people use that word.”
I recognize that I am not black. I am a middle class, nearly middle-aged white woman. I grew up in a suburb in a coastal southern town. My first boyfriend had blue eyes and blonde hair and listened to Megadeath. My family were regulars at the large Baptist church on the beach.
Every day I am reminded that I am not a woman of color.
And every day I am reminded that my heart is.
It walks forever outside of my body is the beautiful creation that is my daughter, born of me and a black father. In the eyes of the law, she is black; in the eyes of the world, she is “something.” It is a question that has been posed more than a thousand times since she was born. “Is she Mexican? Hispanic?” “Her dad must have a great tan!” “She’s mixed, isn’t she?” This last one is usually whispered.
I taught her early. Always be proud and respond honestly. “I’m half black and half white.” Or “I’m mixed race.” There is no shame in any of her heritage. When she was younger, she had a move she did with her answer, “I’m mixed like a smoothie!” *hip shake* *shoulder shake*
But having to explain to her, at 4 years old, why she was the only one in an entire class not invited to a birthday party.
Having to explain that “n@gger” doesn’t mean ugly or black. Watching her 5 year old face when Barack Obama became president. “He is mixed like me!”
Listening to my former boss use the phrase “blue gum” in 2011 and not understand why I was outraged.
Having a family member tell me that “It is [my] own fault” that we experience racism because I decided to have a baby with a black man.
Those are why I’m mad at Paula Deen. I don’t know her, likely I never will. And I don’t know if what remorse she has displayed is genuine. But I do know, she didn’t readily admit (to any public knowledge) to this series of utter shameful moments when she cashed her Food network checks. And I have to wonder without being found out, would she ever have had a mea culpa?
To those who have said we’ve all made mistakes, yes we have!
But did she need think of all those people she was hurting by having a plantation wedding? Using racial slurs? A “sambo” burger?
To those who said she grew up in the Deep South in an era where “the N word” was used frequently. So did my grandmother. She used the word until the day my daughter was born. She told me once that loving my child suddenly made it very real to her, that every time she heard the word after that she thought of my baby’s face and how 70, 60, 50 years ago my child would have been treated. She forbade others from using it in her presence. She was nearly 80 and in Mississippi. Her change was genuine.
But I’m angrier at all of us! Why aren’t we all outraged, incensed? Why is it still acceptable to use racial slurs? Why is it acceptable to glorify the Civil War-era? Why don’t people see how these things can be offensive?
And why should I be told that I’m “sensitive because [baby girl] is mixed?”
I’m sensitive because it is wrong. It hits home because I have a mixed race child, because I see it almost daily. It is my prayer that one day I won’t.
But until then we’re mad at Paula Deen.
First thing said as my great Aunt Dottany opened the door to my grandmother’s house. It was the 1950s and the drive from Tampa, Florida, to Hattiesburg, Mississippi, longer than now.
No hugs. No kisses. Just that the Foster girls were mad at their cousins. My great aunt’s response? “Yes, we are.”
Allegiances run deep.
And so I am mad at Paula Deen. Mad at her excuses. Mad at peers on Facebook that say her comments “aren’t really that bad,” “she grew up in the South,” “even black people use that word.”
I recognize that I am not black. I am a middle class, nearly middle-aged white woman. I grew up in a suburb in a coastal southern town. My first boyfriend had blue eyes and blonde hair and listened to Megadeath. My family were regulars at the large Baptist church on the beach.
Every day I am reminded that I am not a woman of color.
And every day I am reminded that my heart is.
It walks forever outside of my body is the beautiful creation that is my daughter, born of me and a black father. In the eyes of the law, she is black; in the eyes of the world, she is “something.” It is a question that has been posed more than a thousand times since she was born. “Is she Mexican? Hispanic?” “Her dad must have a great tan!” “She’s mixed, isn’t she?” This last one is usually whispered.
I taught her early. Always be proud and respond honestly. “I’m half black and half white.” Or “I’m mixed race.” There is no shame in any of her heritage. When she was younger, she had a move she did with her answer, “I’m mixed like a smoothie!” *hip shake* *shoulder shake*
But having to explain to her, at 4 years old, why she was the only one in an entire class not invited to a birthday party.
Having to explain that “n@gger” doesn’t mean ugly or black. Watching her 5 year old face when Barack Obama became president. “He is mixed like me!”
Listening to my former boss use the phrase “blue gum” in 2011 and not understand why I was outraged.
Having a family member tell me that “It is [my] own fault” that we experience racism because I decided to have a baby with a black man.
Those are why I’m mad at Paula Deen. I don’t know her, likely I never will. And I don’t know if what remorse she has displayed is genuine. But I do know, she didn’t readily admit (to any public knowledge) to this series of utter shameful moments when she cashed her Food network checks. And I have to wonder without being found out, would she ever have had a mea culpa?
To those who have said we’ve all made mistakes, yes we have!
But did she need think of all those people she was hurting by having a plantation wedding? Using racial slurs? A “sambo” burger?
To those who said she grew up in the Deep South in an era where “the N word” was used frequently. So did my grandmother. She used the word until the day my daughter was born. She told me once that loving my child suddenly made it very real to her, that every time she heard the word after that she thought of my baby’s face and how 70, 60, 50 years ago my child would have been treated. She forbade others from using it in her presence. She was nearly 80 and in Mississippi. Her change was genuine.
But I’m angrier at all of us! Why aren’t we all outraged, incensed? Why is it still acceptable to use racial slurs? Why is it acceptable to glorify the Civil War-era? Why don’t people see how these things can be offensive?
And why should I be told that I’m “sensitive because [baby girl] is mixed?”
I’m sensitive because it is wrong. It hits home because I have a mixed race child, because I see it almost daily. It is my prayer that one day I won’t.
But until then we’re mad at Paula Deen.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Like Lot's Wife
I wonder her name,
if Lot called it out as he felt
her start to pull away.
Or did he just let her turn,
Another reminder he could be rid of?
Quiet voices tell me to leave it all at
The Cross.
Just lay it there, at the feet of Jesus.
They never know
how to keep from picking it back up.
Again.
Again.
Until the path to His feet is tear-stained and threadbare
and you wish He would just let you forget.
It is the price of forgiveness.
Having to remember.
Just as the price of faith is
having no neon sign.
Over my shoulder I see it.
The Sodom of my making.
Beneath the shadow of His outstretched hands.
Knowing he will make it whole,
if I can leave it long enough.
if Lot called it out as he felt
her start to pull away.
Or did he just let her turn,
Another reminder he could be rid of?
Quiet voices tell me to leave it all at
The Cross.
Just lay it there, at the feet of Jesus.
They never know
how to keep from picking it back up.
Again.
Again.
Until the path to His feet is tear-stained and threadbare
and you wish He would just let you forget.
It is the price of forgiveness.
Having to remember.
Just as the price of faith is
having no neon sign.
Over my shoulder I see it.
The Sodom of my making.
Beneath the shadow of His outstretched hands.
Knowing he will make it whole,
if I can leave it long enough.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Downsizing
Downsizing seemed like a good idea. Until I was knee deep in baby girl's clothes, our books, papers. Oh my.
I lost everything. Once. Katrina. How did so much stuff materialize so quickly? (My dad references George; Carlin's "Stuff" routine here.) And why does it matter so much? Last summer, I joined other bloggers during the summer of 7. Getting rid of stuff was fun then. A challenge. A competition?
But now. Moving in a few days. And about half the room. It is these occasional times I wish my ulcer would allow some wine. It doesn't.
So we sold. 4 chairs, 2 stools, statues, odds, ends. We gave away. I quit counting at 78 pieces of clothes and 13 pairs of shoes. We threw away. (Judge me here for not recycling or up-cycling.) And still moved more stiff than our new digs could hold.
And with our new 3 room place (Yep. Ours. Hers. Living/Dining/Kitchen) I was determined not too overcrowd.
So truckloads went to the Palmer Home thrift. And more to the trash. (Again. Judge me for my lack of green-ness. I was overwhelmed!)
And our rooms turned from cramped to cozy.
Around me I see the vase a friend brought back from India almost 15 years ago and the cake stand that I love. She sent it for a wedding gift. It holds our fruit.
Elizabeth is there. Husband and my good friend. It was she who stood in when a parent was needed and mine were states away. The vintage Fiesta ware displayed on shelves built by a cousin.
The table that survived. Placed in the corner where Husband said it would look best. He was right.
The brown mug that Cathy and Vicki gave him. We smile every time.
There is the shelf that fell while Dad and Husband put them up. Two good men. Falling in love with one helped me begin to appreciate the other.
The brown pottery bird. The one Mom gave me the day I ran away from home. Old enough to know better, stubborn enough to still go. I brought it with me a month later when I returned. The first time I saw the prodigal son play out live, in person, in love.
This is the home we're building. Small enough so as to not be wasted. Big enough to hold all that is dear.
I lost everything. Once. Katrina. How did so much stuff materialize so quickly? (My dad references George; Carlin's "Stuff" routine here.) And why does it matter so much? Last summer, I joined other bloggers during the summer of 7. Getting rid of stuff was fun then. A challenge. A competition?
But now. Moving in a few days. And about half the room. It is these occasional times I wish my ulcer would allow some wine. It doesn't.
So we sold. 4 chairs, 2 stools, statues, odds, ends. We gave away. I quit counting at 78 pieces of clothes and 13 pairs of shoes. We threw away. (Judge me here for not recycling or up-cycling.) And still moved more stiff than our new digs could hold.
And with our new 3 room place (Yep. Ours. Hers. Living/Dining/Kitchen) I was determined not too overcrowd.
So truckloads went to the Palmer Home thrift. And more to the trash. (Again. Judge me for my lack of green-ness. I was overwhelmed!)
And our rooms turned from cramped to cozy.
Around me I see the vase a friend brought back from India almost 15 years ago and the cake stand that I love. She sent it for a wedding gift. It holds our fruit.
Elizabeth is there. Husband and my good friend. It was she who stood in when a parent was needed and mine were states away. The vintage Fiesta ware displayed on shelves built by a cousin.
The table that survived. Placed in the corner where Husband said it would look best. He was right.
The brown mug that Cathy and Vicki gave him. We smile every time.
There is the shelf that fell while Dad and Husband put them up. Two good men. Falling in love with one helped me begin to appreciate the other.
The brown pottery bird. The one Mom gave me the day I ran away from home. Old enough to know better, stubborn enough to still go. I brought it with me a month later when I returned. The first time I saw the prodigal son play out live, in person, in love.
This is the home we're building. Small enough so as to not be wasted. Big enough to hold all that is dear.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
A letter to my husband
"Baby, will you go with me to get a tattoo?" Him, "Can I wear my suit?"
Our first date was to a swanky steak house at a local casino. He was handsome, dressed well. But what I noticed was how proud he was to be seen with me: opened every door, held my hand, stood when I left (and returned to) the table. He told me I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
I still believe him.
Our political votes usually cancel each other's out (To his credit he has only mentioned this once. When doing our taxes.) He is more personable in 1:1 situations; I'm better on a stage. He is college baseball, and I'm professional wrestling. I'm fiction and quiet retreat; he is a study of presidents. I'm a great project starter; he is a great finisher.
My letter to him.
Dear L_____,
You told me once that you always hoped you would find a woman, marry, and have a family some day. Told me that when you moved to the Coast your were optimistic that it might begin there.
You were cute the first day we met--your suit and your spiky preacher hair. You were ambitious and smart and about to enter a work force with 150 hormonal women. God help you.
When you would stop by my office late in the day, offering to help (even though you always said you were "not a nurse") but staying to visit. I wanted to marry you that instant in the Yukon, when we were waiting for Lisa to get her oil changed and you did a perfect rendition of Steve Harvey as Sister Odell. You even sang the songs. And again on the trip to New Orleans when I heard your real voice. How it comforts me still when you sing to me some nights.
I know I have told you but I don't think you can ever understand what you did for me. I saw the woman I knew I could be reflected in your eyes. Feeling all those times like Gomer, broken, exposed, a sinner to the world. But you were faithful, a Hosea, to whom God called you to marry. You were proud of me. Everything the world viewed as questionable you saw as strength and determination.
Strong men are not afraid of strong women. Strong women can fall apart in the arms of their strong men, only to arise refreshed and stronger still. Thank you for praying over our baby, as I lay willing with all I had to keep him alive inside of me and grieving that loss in your own way beside me. For letting me be mad at you because the small north Mississippi town we moved to had nothing I wanted and for not saying a thing when I figured out it had all I needed with you and baby girl in it. For being dressed in cheer dad attire before you married me, taking pictures, being at awards day, and playing hours upon hours in the pool.
The moments I love most are lying in the bed watching stand-up on you tube (You know you thought Katt Williams was funny.) and seeing you explain things to baby girl. In those moments everything else fades away.
Someone once asked me if I was madly in love with my husband. Of course I said yes. But then he asked if you knew. And today I don't want the answer to be I hope so.
Thank you for being an hour early to our wedding, for singing Holy Ground to me softly as we stood in front of all those people, for letting me stay true to me when we joined as one. Thank you for choosing me, for putting me first before any other (save God), for making me the only Queen Bee in your world, and for going on this journey every day. It is the only way I want to travel, with you by my side.
I love you.
Kim
Our first date was to a swanky steak house at a local casino. He was handsome, dressed well. But what I noticed was how proud he was to be seen with me: opened every door, held my hand, stood when I left (and returned to) the table. He told me I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
I still believe him.
Our political votes usually cancel each other's out (To his credit he has only mentioned this once. When doing our taxes.) He is more personable in 1:1 situations; I'm better on a stage. He is college baseball, and I'm professional wrestling. I'm fiction and quiet retreat; he is a study of presidents. I'm a great project starter; he is a great finisher.
My letter to him.
Dear L_____,
You told me once that you always hoped you would find a woman, marry, and have a family some day. Told me that when you moved to the Coast your were optimistic that it might begin there.
You were cute the first day we met--your suit and your spiky preacher hair. You were ambitious and smart and about to enter a work force with 150 hormonal women. God help you.
When you would stop by my office late in the day, offering to help (even though you always said you were "not a nurse") but staying to visit. I wanted to marry you that instant in the Yukon, when we were waiting for Lisa to get her oil changed and you did a perfect rendition of Steve Harvey as Sister Odell. You even sang the songs. And again on the trip to New Orleans when I heard your real voice. How it comforts me still when you sing to me some nights.
I know I have told you but I don't think you can ever understand what you did for me. I saw the woman I knew I could be reflected in your eyes. Feeling all those times like Gomer, broken, exposed, a sinner to the world. But you were faithful, a Hosea, to whom God called you to marry. You were proud of me. Everything the world viewed as questionable you saw as strength and determination.
Strong men are not afraid of strong women. Strong women can fall apart in the arms of their strong men, only to arise refreshed and stronger still. Thank you for praying over our baby, as I lay willing with all I had to keep him alive inside of me and grieving that loss in your own way beside me. For letting me be mad at you because the small north Mississippi town we moved to had nothing I wanted and for not saying a thing when I figured out it had all I needed with you and baby girl in it. For being dressed in cheer dad attire before you married me, taking pictures, being at awards day, and playing hours upon hours in the pool.
The moments I love most are lying in the bed watching stand-up on you tube (You know you thought Katt Williams was funny.) and seeing you explain things to baby girl. In those moments everything else fades away.
Someone once asked me if I was madly in love with my husband. Of course I said yes. But then he asked if you knew. And today I don't want the answer to be I hope so.
Thank you for being an hour early to our wedding, for singing Holy Ground to me softly as we stood in front of all those people, for letting me stay true to me when we joined as one. Thank you for choosing me, for putting me first before any other (save God), for making me the only Queen Bee in your world, and for going on this journey every day. It is the only way I want to travel, with you by my side.
I love you.
Kim
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