Our Love Story - let's back up, Do you have arms?

After I had started having so much fun talking to Mr. F, but before we met, I started having this intense, irrational fear that he was an amputee and didn't tell me.  I could deal with the fact that he was an amputee, but not deal with his secrecy about it.  

The fear was not completely unfounded:  He had been in a war.  True, the people I knew who had also known him, knew him after he'd come back from war--with all limbs in tact.  BUT, no one had seen him for at least three months.  What if something happened in between?  True, there are pictures of him will all limbs.  BUT  photoshop! Photoshop, people.  

In addition, there were all the mentions of amputees.  Who brings up amputation in everyday conversation?  My roommate and I were at my parent's house doing the P90X thing, and since my roommate is 6 ft tall, my grandmother, who happened to be there too, cautioned her not to chop off her arm in the ceiling fan.  

Another girl I met for the first time at a dinner with friends started telling a story about a guy whose leg had to be amputated.  

In helping my mother, who is a chef, slice some roast beef, I was warned no less than 7 times not to cut off my fingers.

I could go on.  Countless references to loosing limbs or appendages.  Why!?!  What was I getting prepared for?

Not only mentioned in conversation, but a real life example of something crazy like this:  My dearest friend on earth met a guy online, and he had this amazing story how he used to be paralyzed but he was healed and so excited about getting on with life.  Then, when they met, he never used his right arm, and his right leg was clearly not fully operational.  He hadn't told, or maybe realized, the truth of his situation.  

Again, let me be clear:  I was not afraid of the amputation, as much as I was afraid of someone who could be so NOT self-aware enough to know that it would matter to at least mention it.  

This went on for a good 10 days or so.  And even Mr. F mentioned it!  We were talking about breakfast, and how I love eggs from my head down to my legs, didn't he?  Without skipping the proverbial beat, he quipped, "What if I don't have legs? ...I guess I'd love eggs from my head down to my stump.  But that doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?"  He was clearly pleased with his silliness.  I was stunned.  

What if he really didn't have legs?

I think it was the very next morning, my beautiful roommate and I were doing P90X in the middle of the road, with a laptop on the roof of her car (so we could have plenty of room to jump around).  It was the jumping episode I think--the one with the guy that has a prosthetic leg.  And it hit me.  

It would be fine.  It's ok if Mr. F is an amputee.  It's just fine.  

I stopped the workout.  Told my roommie.  And she bear hugged me and said, "That's so good."

Then we finished the workout.

All's well that ends well.  I was prepared.  If he were an amputee, it wouldn't matter.  

Our Love Story - getting started

Sara asked me if I would be interested in giving him my phone number.  And that just seemed weird to me, and forced.  I was still a little not ready for the awkwardness that meeting a complete stranger and talking like you are at an interview (aka: dating) brings.  I just wanted to meet the man of my dreams ...organically.  Sara didn't know what I was talking about.  So I said, for instance, if he just happened to fall across my blog (not this one, obvi.) and fall in love with my brain, ok.  Or if we happened to meet in the farmer's market, or something.  Not just a cold call.  I never liked that.  It seemed the same to me as a salesman knocking on my front door trying to sell me a vacuum while I was in the middle of grading papers.  

I failed to mention that Mr. F. had just moved to Chicago.  Therefore, we were no longer in the same town. A few weeks after he had talked to Sara about his soul mate, I got a message on Facebook from him.  We had about 50 friends in common, but somehow had never met.  He pointed this out and shamed Facebook for not just automatically making us friends.  It was a friendly enough message, and not forward or expectant.  It just seemed like he genuinely wanted to know me.  

He did mention some specific things that I had written on my blog, which made me very suspicious that Sara had put him up to reading that blog, but they both swear she didn't have anything to do with that part.  

And so we wrote.  We wrote emails via Facebook, and letters via the post office.  And soon enough, he referred to me as his pen pal.  I liked that.  We wrote about all the things you discuss as you are getting to know a person:  the funny, the weird, the family, the dreams, the neighbors, the coworkers, the disappointments, the happinesses, the things you read.  Probably a month after we'd been writing, at the end of a letter, he asked for my phone number so we could chat.  And by that time, my only thought was, "Oh, how fun! I get to hear his voice!"  

When he called, we talked and laughed and talked for about an hour.  At the end of the hour, he said he would love to keep talking, but he didn't want to keep me for the whole evening.  So, we said goodnight, and he promised to call again soon.  

That tone of respect pervaded our relationship.  He never assumed anything, he was always looking out for my best interest, and I never felt any pressure to be or do anything but be me.  Since he gave me that space, I could relax enough and learn that this this was an amazing human I was dealing with here.  

Several weeks after we had been talking on the phone, he tested the waters about meeting in person.  He invited me to come to Chicago, but I was like, um.  Yeah right, I don't know anyone there but you!  So, he wondered aloud about coming down to visit his old town (my current town), and I encouraged that--it'd be fun.  When he formally asked me to go to an ordination with him, I totally missed that he was asking me to go with him and breezed over the question, informing him I was already going!  It would be so fun to see him there.  He persisted.  Maybe he could fly into my town, and we could drive the three hours to the ordination together.  Sure!  I thought this was a great idea.  I assigned him to making the playlist for our journey, and I would make the snacks.  

Thankfully, a three hour car drive was not the first time I met him.  He came a couple weekends before that to visit his old town.  He lived in that town for 4, maybe 6?, years (forgive me, pregnant brain is kicking in), so he had loads of old friends to catch up with, hang out with.  I didn't want to get in the way of all that.  I let him know what my weekend looked like, so that we could hang out whenever he wanted.  He was welcome to do anything on my to do list with me, or hang with his old buddies.  

He was to arrive Thursday afternoon, which would be perfect because our town has concerts in the town square Thursday nights.  My family attended religiously, so he'd meet my family too.  Thursday mid-morning, I got a call from Mr. F. telling me his flight had been delayed, which made him miss his connection.  He wasn't sure when he'd be in town.  Thursday evening came, and I just headed to the park with my family.  In the middle of the second half of the concert, Mr. F.'s plane landed!  I scurried to the airport (accidentally taking the longest route possible), and found him on the curb--white roses in one hand and a big ol' weekend bag in the other.  

He'd bought the roses before his last flight, but also before he knew that he'd have a 6-hour delay.  He sheepishly handed them to me, apologizing that they were wilted.  But I thought they were the most beautiful half-dead roses I'd ever seen.  I made a Dumb & Dumber joke about the roses--and he laughed.  I was elated to see this man face to face.  I knew it.  I knew he was a good egg.  And I was comfortable with his egginess.  

We hopped into the car to go back for the last bit of the concert at the park, and not until then did I even think, oh.  It's kind of a lot to meet someone's whole family right as you are just meeting that one.  Hmmm. I wonder if he'll be freaked out.  Well, we'll see!

Our Love Story - his beginning

Mr. F. celebrates Mardi Gras every year.  And since the beauty who prophesied our nuptials--we'll call her Sara--is a Katrina refugee from New Orleans, her family invited him to come celebrate with them for a few years running.  And by Mardi Gras, Sara and I had made good friends.  Our schedules just happened to be open at the same times and got to grow our friendship in such a sweet way.  Every now and again, she would mention this man I must meet; but I was determined not to fall in love with some imaginary Mr. F.--who was surely too good to be true.  And who was in another relationship.

But this is supposed to be his beginning.  ahem.  

He met Sara's family in New Orleans for the week.  Oh, and brought along his girlfriend.  And one morning, as he was cooking breakfast for everyone, Sara was chatting with him and said, "I met your soul mate."

...silence.  So she continued, "When you break up with her (nodding in the direction of girlfriend) , you give me a call."

Notice what didn't happen.  Mr. F. didn't say, "Yeah, me too.  She's right in the other room."  Nor did he protest in any way.  There's no way Sara could have known what was going on inside Mr. F's mind and heart.  But he was on that hard road of realizing that though this person he was dating was wonderful and lovely and so many beautiful things, she wasn't the missing piece to his puzzle.  And sometimes when someone seems so perfect, it doesn't make sense why she doesn't feel like a perfect fit.  

Sara's words were instrumental in his sorting all this out in his head.  And mere weeks later, he called Sara up and said, "Alright.  Where's my soul mate?"

"She was very beautiful--to his thinking

the very pink of feminine grace,

and replete with charms--

soft in voice, soft in manner,

with just enough spirit to give her character."

~Lady Anna~

by Anthony Trollope

Our Love Story - my beginning

It all started at a holiday party.  Such a lovely evening that dwindled into a few girls drinking chocolate espresso martinis--the best part of any party to me:  when all the small talk is out of the way, and you get to get real with those few who make it through to the end.  Or is it the end?

One of the beauties sipping a 'tini across from me, whom I had met maybe twice before at other parties, had a light bulb-moment.  With her eyes alight she said, "Oh!  I know your husband!"

I assured her she didn't, because--well--I wasn't married.

Unbefuddled, sure as ever, she waved away my contradiction, "No, I know, but.  I know him."  She continued to tell me all about this man:  He was oh-my-gosh, to-die-for darling.  Such a cutie.  A navy pilot, who doesn't love a man in a flight suit!?  He is a modern day renaissance man.  He is so incredibly talented in anything he decides to do.  He built his house from the foundation up, because he wanted to learn how to be handy.  And his house is exquisite.  And he's so hospitable!  Anyone is welcome at his house, and he is so good at making you feel it.  AND he's musical!  He plays like five instruments, probably more.  And he loves kids--he's so good with hers.  And he volunteers with the young men at church, and is such a role model for them.  He surfs.  He has such an incredible heart for God, but it doesn't make him weird, you know?  and FUNNY!!!  He's literally one of the funniest people she'd ever met.  And. and.  and...

She just kept going until someone said, "Is he on Facebook?"

Yes!  She hopped on the ol' computer and pulled up the book of faces, and there was his.  With some chick.  "Who's that?" I asked, pointing to the girl.

"Oh, that's his girlfriend.  Don't worry about her."

"Be too self-respecting to lavish the love 

of your whole heart, soul, and strength 

where such a gift is not wanted, 

and would be despised."

~Jane Eyre