i've had worse

on the beautiful monotony of monogomy

9.15.2012

It’s nearly impossible to write about my husband. Twelve years in, and I don’t have words. At least, words that seem adequate.

The romantic writer girlies of the internet would shake their heads at me. They’d have the words. They’d be quick to compare their love story to the wistful, romantic stories of Jane Austen or of L.M. Montgomery, with maybe some slight Emily Brontë tension. Or they’d have some romantic story that would make their readers lean in, have tears well up in their eyes, or even make them (gasp) jealous. I have no such stories. Our story is an honest one but not a particularly romantic one.

We met online. For three months all we had were phone calls. He’d call me at 7pm every night, my time (he was Pacific, I was still central). He listened and I talked. And then we met. He tried to kiss me in the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel for the first time, but I stopped him. He got his kiss later that evening in the kitchen of my cabin. Not super romantic, but very honest.

Our first “real” date was a disaster. He took me out to a restaurant that had a photo booth. He thought it would be fun to take pictures together. The food was so-so, the service terrible, the photo booth broken. And then, he forgot his wallet. The mortification on his face was profound. He insisted that he walk back to the car (a good five blocks away—in snow) to get it. I laughed and insisted he not. He said “this was not what I planned” and I said “but now we have a good story to tell.” Not an hour after this moment, I met his family for the first time while they took professional family photos together. Did I get pulled into these photos? Yes, I did. Was I mortified? Yes, I was. Did one of those photos end up becoming our “save the date” postcard? Yes, it did. It all worked out I suppose.

We lived in Idaho for four years. We moved to Oregon for seven. Now, we’ve been in Washington for a year and change. We’ve had jobs and lost jobs. We made friends and lost friends. We traveled to Scotland, the Oregon coast, the gulf coast, the Southeast, the Northeast. We buried my mother. We fostered. We adopted. We were rumored to be infertile. We allowed that to remain a rumor. We bought and sold a house. We bought another one. We lived in what felt like a million shitty rentals (and a few good ones). We left a toxic church. We found a healthy one. We got confirmed and blessed by a Bishop. We laughed that our former Evangelical selves would think we had flown the coop. We laughed even harder knowing that we now feel closer to God’s presence than ever.

david and sam, enjoying a cold one at our favorite neighborhood taproom. sam’s more of an IPA kinda guy, but that day he had kombucha.

And David? He’s been steady through it all.
If you’ve ever seen the final Harry Potter movies, you’ll recount the sixth movie where Dumbledore takes Harry globe trotting in an attempt to look for one of Tom Riddle’s more hidden horcruxes. In one such scene, Dumbledore and Harry are transported to a large rock on the edge of a cliff face in the ocean. Dumbledore points to the cave that, therein, lies the horcrux they’ve been seeking. The waves crash around them and the wind whips, but the rock they are on is unmoved. It’s been there for centuries and will be there for centuries more.

David is that rock. He has not been unchanged by the winds and the waves in our life, but he has been steady. His faith is rarely if ever shaken. He knows that God exists. He knows he is His image bearer. He believes in the saving sacrifice of Christ. You cannot convince him otherwise.

I on the other hand am more like the sea. I’m easily tossed around and all it takes for me to forget my place is a wind stronger than a light breeze. Not David. He shakes but is not overthrown. And when he doubts himself, I remind him that if he does not doubt God, then he cannot doubt God’s good works and David is foremost of those works.

the makings of a man

David is good. He’s not particularly romantic, but he is the very definition of integrity. He struggles to find the right anniversary gifts every year, but he knows what to say (or not say) when my heart is broken. He believes in me. He believes in us. I have given him multiple outs. He has never taken them. He’s introverted but loves people and craves to be hospitable. He’s a man of few words, but when he talks, people listen.

David is fast with a pun. He loves peanut butter cups more than anyone I know. If I were to die tomorrow, he’d probably make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch every day until the good Lord called him home. He wants a motorcycle with a sidecar. He loves LEGOS and Star Wars. He will find the good in anything—he is the proverbial “glass half full” on legs. He has the mind of an architect and the heart of an artist. He loves stories and can discuss movies and books ad infinitum. He could fall asleep at 8:00 PM every night if he was allowed. He’s allergic to avocado. He makes a damn good chili. Don’t get him started on Vivek Ramaswamy.

It was because of David’s tender heart that we fostered and adopted. It was because of his bravery that he started his own business. Because of David’s work ethic, we are still in our home after being unemployed for eight months. Because of David’s encouragement, I started writing publicly. And because David leaned in when he could have run away, I believe in love.

cold feet

A few nights ago, David flipped over in bed to face out and I did the same. We tend to sleep with our backs to one another, but we’ll intertwine our feet until they come undone in our sleep.

As I scooted my foot over to David’s, I apologized for how cold they were.
“I’ve had worse” he said. I could hear him smiling in the dark.

He has had worse. These days we’re so thankful for cold feet in bed. It could be worse. It has been worse. It was such a comforting way to end the day. We laid there, back to back (like we often are in life), resting and knowing that we’ve both had worse, and the tiny discomforts we experience now look more like blessings in disguise.

David is not Mr. Darcy. He’s not really a man out of any Austenian fantasy. If anything, he’s Gabriel Oaks from Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd. He sees what needs to be done and does it. He’s nuanced and fathoms deep. He’s loyal and steadfast. He’s not afraid to say what is true, even if it’s uncomfortable. And somehow, he took my restless, selfish heart and called it his own.

Here’s to a dozen years.

Always,
Emily

P.S. The traditional gift for your twelfth year of marriage is a plastic yard flamingo. Do with that what you will.