I Did Not Marry My Best Friend

My Dad was a big Marty Robbins fan. I remember Dad singing along with the mustachioed musician yodeling about El Paso City, standing alongside Big Iron, and then taking a trip back through time through the Badlands of New Mexico. I remember the day Marty died and how that stunned Dad. I don't think he ever engaged in "hero worship" - that would have been a waste of time - but there was something about his death that caught Dad off guard. As I recall, Marty died from complications after heart surgery. I, too, have a bit of the Marty Robbins bug and enjoy listening to his music and watching the old videos of his performances in Elvis-esque bedazzled and bejeweled costumery.

I don't know how many awards he won in his musical career, but I know Marty won a Grammy for writing one titled, "My Woman, My Woman, My Wife." While it is a bit chintzy - especially the last two verses that talk about God giving Mrs. Robbins Marty's share of heaven for putting up with him (heaven doesn't work that way) - it is still a strong statement of his love for her.

Eyes, that show some disappointment
And there's been quite a lot in her life
She's the foundation I lean on
My woman, my woman, my wife

Tomorrow, July 13, 2022, my wife and I will celebrate 26 years of marriage. We've known each other longer than we've not known each other, and adding in our dating years, it's close to three decades of being together.

We met in college. I still remember seeing her walk across campus and asking my roommate, "Who's that?" When he told me, I said, "I want to get to know her." She worked security on campus, and I would conveniently wait until the evenings she was on duty to go to the student center (where the security desk was located) to check my mail or play ping-pong or shoot pool. One day while she was checking her own mail box, I heard her say "No one ever sends me anything!" The next day, I bought a small card at the bookstore and sent it through campus mail to her. It wasn't anything that would get me arrested by today's "woke" standards, just a note that was signed "Nobody Ever." Then, I hung around waiting for her to check her mail again. It took forever, it seemed, and when she opened the card and read it, she said, "What the heck is this - and who is 'Nobody Ever'?"

I "just happened" to be nearby, so I said, "The other day, I remember you said 'nobody ever' sends you mail...I guess he finally did." I would like to say that I remember her blushing, then touching my arm with a warm hand and asking if I was the anonymous writer, but I don't recall exactly how things progressed. Our first date was a disaster - if you want to ask her, you certainly can - it truly a miracle there was a second date, but there was, an indication of the grace that lives in her heart. And there was a break-up that took place in Zilker Park that lasted seven of the longest days of my life. And then there was the ring I bought that I asked her to pick out. And there was a beastly hot Saturday afternoon at Hope Lutheran Church in Austin, Texas where family and friends gathered to help us celebrate our "I do's" and "I will's".

And, by the powers vested in the clergy (we had three - her pastor and two of my uncles) by the State of Texas, we became husband and wife. I married my love, my sweetheart, my girlfriend, my darling.

You sometimes hear people say "I married my best friend." Nope. Not me. I did not marry my best friend.

I do have a best friend - he's a good man, a Godly man, a faithful husband and father, a solid provider, a good neighbor. I've known him since the first day of class in the fall of 1992, when we ran into each other in the library. He noticed the textbook I was reading and asked what I thought of the prof. A recent transplant from New York, I actually laughed at his traditional Noo Yawhk accent. But, we've been friends since then. He's listened to my hurts and broken heart and I have listened to him. I helped him work on his house. He helped me put together a swing-set for my kids. He and his wife are baptismal sponsors for our kids and we are sponsors for their kids. As his friend, I am called to love him as his neighbor and help him to the best of my ability.

But, a friend's love is different from the love of a husband and wife. As her husband, I am called by God to love my wife to the point of surrendering everything, even my very life, for her. I am to love her in sickeness and health, in wealth and poverty, in joy and sorrow. I made her that promise and, God willing, I intend to honor it until one of us draws our final breath. And, we have had our share of those polar opposites. We have had to count pennies to buy milk and bread, and we have been able to buy other people's groceries who had run out of their own pennies. I held her hand when we were scared about our kids, and I wrapped her in my arms and just held her when we lost one to miscarriage. When things were bad - really bad - and all could do was wrap her in prayers, I did that. And when I hit a really bad, dark spot, and literally could not talk about it, she held me. She held my hand when I had an owie on my finger from an accident in the shop, when I spilled hot soup in my lap and needed a tetanus booster. When my back went out and I couldn't tie my shoes, she stooped down and tied my shoes for me after helping wrestle my prosthetics on my feet. I've told her hard truths and she has told me harder truths. She's called out my mistakes and she's forgiven them. She still loves me. And I still love her.

No, I didn't marry my friend. I married my wife.

Sing it, Marty...

Everyday has been uphill
Oh, we climb but we can't reach the top
I'm weak and I'm easily discouraged
She just smiles when I want to stop

Lips, that are weary but tender
With love, that strengthens my life
A saint, in a dress made of gingham
My woman, my woman, my wife

She's stood next to me while we made our way up mountains and when there were molehills I had no idea how to climb. She helped pick me up when I crashed and burned. On days I wanted to quit, she told me she would stick with me whatever I decided to do. On days I thought the cup was half empty and had a hole in the bottom, she reminded me the glass can always be refilled. She's kissed tears from my cheeks and kissed my lips so my heart skipped a beat. Hubba hubba. She's my woman; she's my wife.

This is my favorite picture of Laura. She's dressed in jeans of denim and a blouse of some kind of synthetic polyester. It was at a family Christmas at her parent's house, oh - I don't know, anymore - ten, twelve years ago. I have lots of pictures of her. Some are with me, or with the kids, and some are just her by herself. There's even a few from when we were dating, and I still have a picture of the group we were with for our first "just friends' event in 1994. I have a lousy snapshot from our wedding (long story, but if you are ever in charge of photographs for a wedding, hire a professional and not just someone who "can take pretty good pictures of stuff"). This black and white picture shows not just her beauty but her joy, her happiness, her open spirit, and her tender heart. If I had to have just one picture, if I had to trade every other picture in order to have just one, this would be the one. It's a picture of my wife.

Only the Lord knows what year #27, and following, holds for us. I suppose we are about even, years behind us vs years ahead of us. If she asks me tomorrow, "Knowing what you know now, would you do it all again?" I know exactly what I'll say. I'll hold her in my arms, look down into her green eyes, and say, "Nope... There are lots of things I would change. But the one thing I wouldn't change is marrying you."

After all, she's my woman, my woman, my wife.

July 13, 1992
and
a few months ago

She loves tulips. I didn't know this until year #24.