We knew we would get married the first time we met. Still, it’s not the sort of thing you discuss on a first date. And it almost didn’t happen.
We met at a Christmas party in Canada. My job was to greet guests at the door. I was resplendent in a pair of yuletide green jeans and two oven mitts shaped like moose heads. I used the oven mitts like puppets, welcoming new guests to the house in my best moose voice. The moose slurred a bit, since I had been “sampling” egg nog most of the afternoon. But most of the guests spoke French, so they had no idea what the moose was saying anyways.
I opened the door and there she was. The moose slurred Merry Christmas. She smiled, greeted me, and glanced down at my green jeans. It was not altogether a look of approval.
As it so often does during Canadian parties in winter, talk soon turned to hockey. I overheard her say to someone that her sports interest was not actually hockey, but American football. She instantly had my respect because you NEVER say that in Canada. She overheard me laugh at myself as I slopped egg nog on my green jeans. She was amused. Those first moments – respect, humour, and slopped food – formed a pattern for what was to become our relationship.
I switched to drinking tea in an effort to actually engage her in meaningful conversation. We talked for hours about family, faith, our previous work in Africa, and other matters of the heart. We exchanged numbers. As the party ended the moose bade her farewell. I watched her walk away, and I knew.
The next day I called. She was abrupt. She hung up quickly. My heart sank. How could I have gotten it that wrong? I hadn’t drunk that much egg nog! But then she called back. “Sorry about that”, she said sheepishly. “It was 4th and inches with Dallas inside the ten yard line and the game on the line. I just couldn’t talk. Kansas City and Oakland play in an hour, do you want to come over to watch?” And so it was to be.
Two short weeks later we went on separate trips to opposite corners of the world. We were going to see very close friends who happened to be of the opposite sex. During our respective trips our friends disclosed to each of us their preference to be more than friends. These expressions came from people we cared for deeply and had known for years. She and I still barely knew each other. What to do?
When we returned home I asked her how she had responded. She smiled and said, “I said thank you, but I can’t. Because a few weeks ago I met the man I am supposed to marry.” And so it was to be, 20 years ago this week.
This story is dedicated to the love of my life. Happy Anniversary, my dear.
[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]