In the Beginning

We were married in 1992, September.

I'd met him back in January, at the single's group at church. He walked with a swagger. My mother and I were single, and we thought that the single's group would make for a fun outing.

It was.

The men were buzzing bees. The women were flowers.

I noticed him right away, when he sauntered into the room. He was one of the few men in the room who was neither balding, nor overzealous. He sat at our table.

Mother struck up a conversation with him, or he with her, I don't remember. He had a slow way of speaking, and a lazy smile that lit up his eyes. I told my mother later that my mind had time to wander and return before he finished a sentance. He drove me nuts.

He hung around, and became our friend, through the rest of that winter. By Spring break he announced that he was going to marry me. I rolled my eyes. We weren't even dating.

We were engaged in May.

And why not? He was handsome. He spent loads of time with my family. He owned his own business and his own home. He loved the Lord, he knew his bible well, he served in ministry. All those checked off my list.

My friend Cathy said, "I hate you for marrying a home owner." By which she meant that I was marrying a grown up and established man. I was lucky. (Do you remember that, Cath?)

It was the beginning of the loneliest days of my life. I was twenty-two years old.