The Perfect Day

Many of you will remember the story of when B. and I began dating.  It was one of those rare epiphanies where I could see my life 5 or ten years down the line and, although the details were hazy, I knew two things:  I was happy and she was there.   After that it didn't take long to know I was going to marry her.


I've been saving this for a while.  I told myself when I began avidly writing that I would save this story for our anniversary in May or the anniversary of this event in December.  Two years later I've realized something: May is busy, and December is more so.  Why would I write about our marriage when I should be celebrating it?  Why spend our anniversary cooped up with a laptop when we should be out enjoying each other and our holiday?

And so, here I am.  A little late, or very early, but here's the story of how we got engaged.

Let's begin in 2006.

My father was attending law school at the College of William & Mary in Virginia.  Washington D.C. quickly became a favorite day trip destination for our family.  We walked reverently through the WWII memorial, we stood at the foot of Lincoln, we saw the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, passed the Capitol, and toured as many Smithsonians as our schedule would allow.

One spot that earns a little less tourism is a small cathedral tucked away near the Jefferson Memorial.  The Washington National Cathedral is a beautiful edifice rich in history.  It stands as a modern testament to the time and care taken in constructing a house to God.  Especially the time.  All of the cathedrals in Europe have stood there so long it's easy to forget that they were under construction for decades.   Such is the case in Washington.

Theodore Roosevelt offered a ceremonial address as construction commenced in 1907.  Colored sunlight anointed the heads of Queen Elizabeth and Jimmy Carter through its west rose window as the stained glass was dedicated.  One of the gargoyles perched atop its Gothic spires bears a striking resemblance to Darth Vader.  Inside a very modern, geometric stained glass window far down the nave rests an ugly black chunk of something indistinguishable from a distance.  That black blotch is a moon rock taken home by astronauts.


Every stone has a story there.  It drips with history, some of it surprisingly recent.

When I was about 17 I found myself walking the hallowed halls of this National House of Prayer and something odd struck me.  I stood under the vaulted ceiling at the southwest end of the nave on a particular slab of colored marble, bathed in colored light from the stained glass high above, and I knew.

Somehow I knew I would ask my wife to marry me on this spot.



I held on to that feeling for years, not sure why I felt it or why that particular spot was so important.  I shared it with a few close friends and even divulged it to my parents.  As years passed, I eventually shelved it away.  I wasn't planning on getting married or even seriously dating until I was done with college and closer to 30 than 20.  yet despite all my plans and protestations, I still remembered that spot in the Cathedral, even if only as a passing fancy.

In the summer of 2011 I left my family, then stationed in England, to begin college classes.  We had found out that they would be leaving for Maryland not long after I left.  Something in the back of my mind stirred as I realized how close they would be to D.C.  Much closer than we were in Virginia.



B. and I began dating in late September.  In mid-October I knew I was going to marry her.  In late October I began ring-shopping.  And by November I had hatched my plan.

This might seem fast but keep in mind we had known each other for years at this point. While dating we had broached the concept of marriage in our many phone conversations in a very mature and responsible manner:

"So... hypothetical situation: we get married next summer."

"So... probable situation: we get married in Utah so the most family members can attend."

"So... hypothetical situation: you get a ring rather than chocolates this Valentine's Day."

This last "hypothetical" was actually implemented by me to throw her off the scent.  She was able to surmise that a proposal might be coming over the holiday break when she flew out to meet my family.  I couldn't have her spoiling the surprise, so I hinted at proposing about two months later than I actually intended.

You know, like a liar.

I had one opportunity to visit her at her father's home before the holidays separated us.  My timing had to be perfect.  One afternoon she hopped into the shower.  I knew I had about ten minutes, more if she wanted to do her hair.  I waited until the water had been running for a few minutes before racing upstairs to ask for her father's permission to marry her.  It was a bit rushed (probably for the best, I was in too much of a hurry to be terrified of him) but he wasn't surprised and was, I think, genuinely pleased.  Permission granted.  Final check.

I shipped the ring to my parents and flew home a week before she arrived in Maryland.  I spent Christmas with my family out east.  She spent it with her family in Utah.  She flew in for New Years.

Those few days between holidays were hell for me.  Left to my own devices I quickly imagined every possible scenario of what could go wrong.  Her plane could crash.  She could say no.  I could trap her in a marriage in which she isn't happy.  She could say no.  We could end up getting divorced.  She could say no.  I'm not mature enough, not ready enough, I don't have enough to offer.  I need a job, an insurance plan, a savings account, a real honeymoon to offer her, a better ring - a better me.


She could say no.


My dad could tell I was on edge and had the wisdom to remain aloof and let me figure it out for myself.  The day finally arrived and I picked her up in Baltimore.  We almost ran into each other in the middle of the airport.  I don't think I've held her so tight.

And just like that, all of the fears and insecurities that had been plaguing me for days melted away in her embrace.  Before heading home to introduce her to my family we spent the day touring D.C.  It was a novel experience showing her around rather than the reverse.  She had been my tour guide through the Red Rock country for so long I felt a little out of place leading the way.

We walked reverently through war memorials, we stood at the foot of Lincoln, we saw the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, passed the Capitol, and toured as many Smithsonians as her energy would allow.  The poor thing took a red eye.



We arrived home in the early evening and my parents welcomed them warmly.  My brothers welcomed her awkwardly.  My sister was giddy at the prospect of having another girl around.  She was the visiting girlfriend, a new experience for everyone involved.

The next day the whole family went up to D.C.  Our schedule consisted of two attractions:  The National Cathedral and the National Zoo.

As we clambered out of the family van, my dad, with all of the subtlety of a hand grenade, called back an at first general reminder to grab everything we'd need (coats, cameras, etc.) with a specific addendum: "Spencer, you have everything you need???"  I did.  I had the ring in my pants pocket most of the morning until I remembered a horror story I had heard of a future fiancee feeling the ring box through the pant leg of her would-be betrothed and spoiling the whole surprise.  So I, in a deft maneuver of makeshift engineering, hid the ring box inside a camera case and placed it in my jacket pocket.  She would not cheat me from my victory.

We entered the National Cathedral, B.'s hand in mine, my brothers playing their gameboys or trying to climb the pillars, my sister taking pictures, and my parents generally trying to shepherd them up the nave towards the rose window.  We all dispersed eventually, B. and I taking our own route and admiring the stained glass.  I had briefly considered enlisting my sister to take some candid video footage of the event, but opted to keep it a private moment for just the two of us.  I saw the spot ahead of us.  B. tried to turn back and rejoin the family.  I urged her back to the south end, insisting that there was more to the cathedral down this way.

Again, like a liar.

There was a pit in my stomach.  My heart was in my throat and my legs felt weak.  But every time I glanced over to her smiling face I drew strength from her.  I timed our arrival at the spot at our current pace and began the simple, unassuming speech I had prepared so long ago:

"I love it here. This place is so full of stories and history.  

I came here about five years ago and I knew 

this was where I'd begin a new part of my story."

At this I turned her around to face the long cavernous nave
leading to the ornate apse and wrapped one arm 

around her waist while the other fished out the ring in its box.  

I took a step back and fell to one shaky knee.  

She spun around in confusion and met my smiling gaze with wide eyes.

"Brittany Lauren Rogers, I love you." 

 I reached my hand out to hers to steady her. 

"We can do this," I whispered.  

Her jaw dropped in a shocked smile.

"Will you marry me?"

It didn't feel like we stood there for very long.  She told me later she was worried she had waited too long and blurted out a hushed, breathless response.  For me it was over too quickly.  I wanted to stay in that moment forever, placed on that same slab of marble on which I had stood when I was 17 and still unsure of what love was.  But as the word "Yes" escaped her lips, new strength surged through my shaky legs and I launched myself back up to hold her tight.

Moments later our surroundings came back into focus and once again there was more in the world than just us two.  A few newcomers to the cathedral were applauding us, along with some of the staff and a portly bishop-woman in flowing purple robes.  It was this kind blueberry who offered to take our picture.  There we are, moments after becoming engaged:

We rejoined my family.  Most of my brothers didn't know how to respond.  My sister was ecstatic.  My father had the quiet smile that seems to smile with his eyes more than his mouth.  My mom blinked furiously and I think sniffled once.  The rest of the day we floated on a cloud.

My family all climbed back into the van not long after that and we headed to the zoo.  B. had a great time teaching my littler siblings all about the animals, and my littlest brother soon took quite a liking to her; at times I had to compete for her attention.  But most of that afternoon, walking between exhibits, the two of us simply held each other's hand and let the moment wash over us.  We were really doing this.  This was really happening.  My family gave us some space to let it all sink in.

We were also all over each other, so that might have helped contribute to our privacy.

I have learned to expect a few fallbacks in my plans.  Maybe God likes to keep me humble.  Maybe the universe wants to keep me guessing.  Fate, it seems will always have me on my toes.  But at least one day - on that day - the most important day of my life, everything went according to plan.  A plan five years in the making.



S

Missing

My new job requires me to bike somewhere between two-and-a-half to three miles uphill each morning to reach the office at 8.  Normally I wouldn't mind this challenge - the way B. cooks I think my pedaling commute has been the only thing keeping me under 200 lbs - but there's a slight hitch in the nature of this job.  I do graphic design in a very formal office setting.  As in shirt and tie formal.  So working up a sweat pedaling uphill for 25 minutes as the hot summer heat turns the balmy morning from 75° to 90° isn't really feasible.  After a few weeks I've finally figured out the right timing and pace to get there without clocking in panting and drenched.

This has given me a taste for biking again, however.  My bike is nothing to look at, it's just a commuter bike that usually requires a new tire every two to four months with a bent gear that makes a strange clicking sound whenever my right foot pedals down.  But I'm grateful for it nonetheless; it's served me well for over two years and 30 minutes on a bike beats an hour walking to work.  Despite its mild state of partial dilapidation, I put the bike to the test last weekend.  I got up early, long before B. planned on waking up, filled my small camelbak and rode down to a small trail that follows a local river into the mountains.

This was why I first fell in love with biking.  As I pedaled past a lazy river in the cool shadow of the mountains I drank in all the green that passed me by.  The air felt purer, the quiet sweeter, nature in its solitary serenity.  Gorgeous.

I reached a waterfall both B. and I are familiar with and took a quick photo on my phone to text her (in case she was still asleep) just to let her know I was fine and that I'd be back in around an hour.  I rode the rest of the trail until it at last ended at a park in the foothills.  I stopped briefly to take in the scenery and admire the ponds and the reservoirs before turning around and beginning my journey home.  I half-heartedly raced another cyclist whose wheels vastly surpassed my own for about half of the return trail until at last he overtook me and gained an impressive lead.  I will say this: it's hard to keep up with road bikes when all you have is a clunky commuter with thick mountain bike tires.

All in all my route took me about 25 miles total.  The camel bak had sustained me for only the first 10.  I was very thirsty and already beginning to feel sunburnt.  I glided into the driveway, locked up the bike and headed inside to find...

No one.

B. was gone.  I called her name.  No response.  I called her cell only to hear her ringtone emitting from the kitchen.  There on the counter sat her abandoned phone.  I checked every corner of the apartment, which took all of 4 seconds, to find that she wasn't home.

Her wallet was home, as was her phone...

Keys!  I hastily dumped out the contents of her purse.  The car key was there, as was the car, still parked safely in the driveway.  But no B.  There were only a few places she could have gone with only her housekey in tow.


...In the first few months of being married, I discovered that one unexpected husbandly duty of mine was apparently fetching morning refreshment.  Coke, Starbucks, donuts, bagels, what have you.  These were all but tools in my arsenal as designated breakfast shopper/errand boy.  My punishment for being a morning person.  And I was her punishment for marrying a morning person.  But as we slowly adjusted to each other's routines I left earlier for classes and she learned to forage for sustenance on her own.  Slurpees at a nearby 7-11 or coke at a Chevron close by was usually enough to jolt her into consciousness and reluctantly welcome the day...


I mentally planned out a route that would hit both of these common watering holes as I hopped on my bike once again.  The 7-11 crowd was sparse.  And an empty Chevron raised my heart rate a tick higher.  Where was she?

After checking with a few neighbors to no avail I widened my search perimeter, occasionally calling her name.  I did the math as my legs pumped me past each block.  I sent her the waterfall text an hour before I got home.  She had received it and checked it before she left. So she left the house some time in that hour-long window between when I sent the text and when I got home.  She had been gone anywhere between 20 and 80 minutes.  

As I furiously pedaled around the neighborhood trying not to panic, something else occurred to me other than the burning sensation in my now exhausted, deadweight legs:  this happened to me before.  Not the exact same scenario, but something like it.


...Years ago my sister went missing while I was babysitting.  She must have been about 4 or 5 at the time.  I tried to urgently enlist the help of my brothers, but Nintendo held their attentions with such a vice-grip that the gravity of the situation didn't fully register to their slavish sluggish brains. (there's a part of me that still hasn't forgiven them - or the manufacturers of Nintedo64) And so rather than spend any more precious time releasing them from the screen's hypnotic hold, it was left to me to find her.  

I raced around that old neighborhood calling her name and checking backyards of friends and neighbors.  I called the mother of my sister's playmate and asked in the shaky, cracking, panic-stricken voice of a teenage boy on the verge of tears if she had seen my sister anywhere.  Although she hadn't, she had seen me bike past earlier and informed me she was headed over to help us look...    


When I rounded back home with still no sign of B. panic continued to gnaw at me.  I resisted the urge to call friends and family, the police, the NSA, DEA, FBI, CIA, and every other noodle in the alphabet soup of American bureaucracy and told myself there was still one last hope: the trail I had taken north to the foothills also extended south. We often ran or walked the south stretch of it and it usually took about half an hour, 45 minutes tops.  If she had in fact decided to go on a walk - if she had left mere minutes before I returned home and we had simply missed each other, she shouldn't be far from home by now.

So, with a pit in my stomach I churned my dead legs onward.  Terrible visions of my wife bleeding in a field or face down in a ditch or floating down the river haunted my mind as I wound past parks and pedestrians.  Maybe it was God sending me a sign, maybe it was dehydration coupled with exhaustion, or maybe I was just paranoid about her being soaked in blood, but for some reason I kept my eyes peeled for red amidst all the green of the trail.  Nearly a mile and a half in and halfway through my 23rd furious threat to God that if anything happened to her, so help me... I saw a figure emerge round the corner.


...  As I hung up the phone I resigned myself to the fact that I was out of my depths and needed to inform my parents that I, an irresponsible monster, had lost their only daughter.  My brothers had taken note at my panic and had broken away from their game's spell to search the perimeter of the yard. I picked up the phone again.  I dialed my parents, steeling myself, willing myself not to cry. I wondered how Air Force Security handles missing child cases on a military base when suddenly a blob of obnoxious neon flashed past my view of the front yard.  I heard through the front screen door my brother declare in his indifferent monotone, "There she is." 

And there she was.  Her neon swimsuit still soggy from playing in the sprinklers in our neighbors' backyard. She, with all the convincing sweetness of a 4-year-old girl, had falsely testified to said neighbors that I was aware of her presence there.  Flecks of grass stuck to her skin, her hair was dripping, and a wide, devilish, tomboy smile was painted across her face.  

I hung up the phone.  I'd tell them after I killed her...


There, sweating from head to toe, dressed in a bright red yoga top, iPod earbuds swaying in rhythm to her stride was my sweet B., eyes wide in surprise at my sudden appearance.  And a wide, tomboy smile painted across her face.

"Hey you!" she said sweetly.

...I was less welcoming.


...I told my sister to rinse off her swimsuit in the shower and then we'd start a bath to get her warmed up. Not long after we had started drawing the bath the mom of her friend - the mom I had enlisted in my would-be search party - the mom who I still remember fondly as a dear family friend knocked on the door.  

I let her in and, after quickly gathering the facts, she beckoned my sister from her perch on the couch, wrapped in a towel, eating a popsicle and waiting for the bath.  She pulled my sister aside and did what I honestly couldn't.  

I was the babysitter.  The brother.  The twelve-year-old, idiot brother, more of a larger child than an adult figure, without any illusion of authority.  And this mom, she did it well.  She didn't chew out my sister; at four years old, she couldn't have known better.  But instead of falling down and weeping over the lost lamb or screaming bloody murder at a helpless, soaked toddler (both of which were my immediate impulses upon seeing her), she quietly, seriously explained to her that what she had done was NOT ok.  She didn't chew her out; she gently gummed her into a realization of her wrongdoing. She nodded shamefaced, I thanked the mom profusely for all her help and then led my stupid sister to her stupid bath so she could get ready for stupid bed... 


B. isn't stupid.  She isn't a toddler. 

After I swore, yelled, chewed her out and grabbed her tight she proceeded to make what I'll admit is a pretty valid case in her defense.  Had I investigated the closet I would have seen that her running shoes were gone.

But you have like three pairs, I saw the pink ones still at home and I panicked!

Next to her wallet and phone was an empty space on the counter that usually held her Nike watch that tracks the chip in her shoes and marks her pace and progress.  Watch AND shoes gone = I'm on a run.

You left your PHONE!!!  Why would you do that?!?!!!  I've been calling and calling I was ready to call everyone we know and set up search parties!  I panicked!

I don't have pockets, besides, I knew you'd be back by noon, I figured you'd piece together that I was on the trail and wait it out, it's only been about 30 minutes.

Half an hour of you gone and me having no clue where you were.  I PANICKED!

I know I shouldn't have been as upset as I was.  I apologized profusely the rest of the day for lashing out at her the way I did and she apologized for leaving her phone behind.  She had decided on a whim to extend her 3 mile trip into a full 5 miles, which explained her tardiness.  We both felt much better once we got out of the heat and rehydrated.


Finding a missing girl brings out a mixture of emotions.


I can't recall any other instance when I have simultaneously wanted to strangle and embrace someone at the same time.  Relief and anger aren't meant to co-exist, and the chemical cocktail these emergencies produce is heady tonic indeed.  I never did strangle my sister, and as I first held B. tightly and waited for my heart to stop racing, I resisted the urge to squeeze her until her eyes popped out.  B. is obviously fine and well, if not a little more aware and attentive of how much she means to me.  

On an unrelated note, I also think that stress and long bike routes stir up quite an appetite; once we had rehydrated we celebrated with steaks for lunch.  I then had 3 homemade burgers for dinner.  Even then I was still hungry after 4 full servings of beef.  Terror makes you hungry I guess.

Our little adventure was a good reminder not to take those we love for granted.  She was genuinely touched by my panic and I don't think we've been this clingy since the honeymoon.  I rarely see her as it is and it has pained me to leave her for work each day.  I dread the day I come home and she's not there.  She's not allowed to go missing from my life.  Ever.

Stupid shoes.


S

A Sardine's Task

This weekend we did something we rarely ever do.  We had guests.  We hosted not one, but four people in our hobbit hole apartment.  Strike that, our un-air-conditioned apartment.  B.’s pregnant sister, her husband and two toddlers of 3 and 1 and a half years all somehow found floor space with us for the holiday. 

It took some getting used to and after two days of the apartment staying above 80 degrees well past 9pm we finally had to succumb and buy a fan.  Then at least the 83-degree air was moving. 

We had a great time visiting with them and catching up.  Plus, babysitting, or even helping babysit is healthy for us.  A good dose or parenting practice helps keep the baby-fever away for a while.

We also just love being a part of the kids’ lives.  Being the oldest in my family, nieces and nephews are a relatively new concept for me; children with a return policy – brilliant.  We went to the zoo, we hiked to a waterfall, and we escaped to window shop in the industrial air conditioning of the mall. 

For the 4th we set off fireworks in the driveway to amuse the kids as the sun went down and then screamed at the hoodlums launching illegal bottlerockets in the parking lot 50 feet from our house.  Our house with sleeping kids.  B. thoroughly chewed out the obviously drunk pyrotechnician.   

She’s hot when she’s angry.

Not long after he left, someone else began launching their own private explosives in almost the same spot.  It was pregnant sister-in-law’s turn to chew someone out.   

She’s scary when she’s angry.

B. called the cops.  We returned to our overheated basement to try to sleep through the warzone outside that always happens when grocery stores sell fireworks like candy.

We visited family a lot, either going to see them or hosting them down below.  We saw numerous cousins, both sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and anyone else who hadn’t seen niece and nephew in a while.  We took pictures and tried our hardest to avoid getting crammed underground like sardines. 

Something my sister-in-law said has been ringing in my ears since they left Sunday. 

My brother-in-law is a fix-it man.  In addition to his experience as a welder, a foreman, a rancher, and essentially an all-around cowboy, he spent years working on cars with my father-in-law.  When we mentioned in passing our recent car trouble as they were preparing to come up to stay with us, he borrowed a $5,000 diagnostic automotive computer from a colleague to help pinpoint the problem and with luck reset the troublesome sensor.  When that didn’t work he made some calls to get estimates for the parts we would need.  When grandparents came to visit us and we all opted to hang out in the front yard, he adjusted the water pressure in our sprinkler system.  Amidst all of these favors and repairs, my sister-in-law cried in exasperation: 

“Just once I would love to go on vacation without you trying to fix everything!”

I laughed.  B. laughed.  She groaned.  And he gave his trademark wry grin before jumping back into his repairs. 

He could have been looking for something to do to avoid diaper duty.  He could have been trying to “earn his keep” while staying with us (we had to push him away from doing our dishes).  He might have just been bored.  But my money’s on something else entirely.

We might have been sardines in that apartment, but we all have a purpose.  An itch we must scratch.  A task that we must complete before ever hoping to get to sleep.

B.’s had a tough transition getting out of school mode.  She’s not a homebody like yours truly.  I can stay in my apartment for days simply because I do so much work there.  She goes crazy if she’s there more than four hours.  More than that, she has been studying and hitting the books at top speed for so long that to do anything else without the same level of neurotic commitment is unsettling to her addictive personality.  Hence her mastery of SuperMario in the past 48 hours.  She was eying a book of trigonometry practice problems in Barnes and Noble the other day.  She’s always been a natural student; she has to read, to study, to do homework. 

As I try to gain more of a following on social media, establish my presence online, and pinpoint a marketable “style,” I spend more and more time in front of my computer at home.  It’s the middle of summer, neither of us are in school, our work hours are more manageable than ever.  We should be relaxing, right?  No!  While B. practices trig and storms Bowser’s Castle I sketch and sketch and ink and color and post and share and vomit my images on tumblr, facebook, and my website.  We should be sleeping in, but we work late and rise early just like any other semester.

My brother-in-law’s a fixer.  B.’s a student.  I’m an artist.  For people who have that itch, there are no vacations.  There is only that driving, purposeful task that we must practice, study, and master.

What's your itch?

S