When I decided to leave the hardwood forests and the corn fields and my family in Wisconsin for the prairies of Oklahoma, my parents were deeply concerned but for two different reasons. My father was worried because I was going to Oklahoma Baptist University to pursue a degree in church music. An electrician by trade and a pragmatist by nature, Dad wondered what kind of job his church music major son would be able to get after graduation. He wasn’t optimistic that a degree in church music would lead to a regular paycheck, so maybe he was secretly afraid that after graduating I would move back home, lay claim to my old bedroom, and sponge off the old man. In his mind studying church music wasn’t practical. A degree in church music was about as helpful as a doctorate in Elizabethan poetry, for instance, in preparing me for any vocation Dad understood.
Mom had a different concern. She didn’t trust my plan, which was to get my degree then return to Wisconsin and go to work in a church. Mom was convinced that I would get to Oklahoma, fall in love with a local girl and stay in Oklahoma. I told her that would never happen. I was a Wisconsin boy who loved the Packers, squeaky cheese curds and snow way too much to stay away. I would be back home before she knew I was gone.
At the beginning of my junior year I met a pretty, bright freshman from Macomb, Oklahoma named Debbie. She smiled at me and that was that. Two kids and a granddaughter, four dogs, a couple of cats, and several generations of gerbils later, here we are. We will be married thirty years this summer. And you know where I live.
Dad was pleased, albeit surprised that the salary for a music minister provided nicely for my little family. And Mom was right; I’ve spent nearly half my life in Oklahoma. I tell people that enough red dirt has worked its way between my toes that I feel like I belong. But the best part of Mom’s rightness is Debbie. It is good to live anywhere so long as she is with me.
I stumbled at bit at the beginning and almost blew it. Our first date was wonderful. We arrived back on campus around curfew time. We were on the porch of her dorm trying to figure our how to say goodnight, enjoying those deliciously awkward first date moments when the dorm mother, a gruff but kind woman poked her head out of the door and said, “Kiss her and get it over with!” Without thinking I leaned down kissed the first thing I ran into – Deb’s forehead. I floated back to my dorm.
A mutual friend met me as I walked to my room and asked about our date. I told him it was fabulous. Then he said, “Well, I hope you didn’t try to kiss her. She hates it when guys try to kiss her on the first date.” I felt faint. Shivers shot through my body. I really liked this girl, and the thought of ruining the whole thing with a rushed kiss to the forehead made me feel sick.
I asked her to church the following Sunday night and on our way home in a voice full of genuine contrition, I apologized for kissing her on our first date. Then I waited a full month before I tried to kiss her again, but when I did, it was a good kiss. A really good kiss. A few weeks later that I found out she thought the forehead kiss was sweet, the after church apology was a little weird, and waiting a month for the next kiss filled her with doubts about me. I also discovered that our mutual friend had a thing for her. Can you say sabotage?
Fast forward twenty seven years.
Our youngest child, Zach, was preparing to leave home for college when he looked at me, his teenaged brow furrowed with worry. “Dad, I’m concerned,” he said gravely.
“Really? What about?” I asked.
“I watched how hard it was on you and Mom when Lindsay left. I’m just worried that when I leave you’ll fall apart.”
I smiled. “We’ll miss you, son, but we’ll be okay.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he said. “I’m afraid your marriage will fall apart without me around. I mean, what will you do with yourselves?”
Now I laughed. “Hey! Your Mom and I did quite well together before the thought of a man-child ever cross our young minds. We’ll be just fine. I loved her then, I love her more now.”
So happy Valentine’s Day, Deb. Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone, young and old, who have been fortunate enough to find the one you cannot imagine living without. Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone searching for their one and only, their true love.
And for the record, Deb encourages me to watch the Packers whenever they are on television, she had cheese curds shipped from Wisconsin for Christmas, and when it snows she flashes that smile and says, “You’re excited, aren’t you?” Now that’s evidence of true love if ever there was.
