The Proposal

One day, it's going to happen. The proposal from a man who loves me. The one moment when I'll wish for time to stop. The question that will be the second most important answer to the meaning in my life.

Yes.

My heart will swell; my eyes will burn, and my cheeks will ache, raw from smiling.

I will want to tell the world. Call my Mama. Call the papers, and shout my blessings from the rooftops. One day it will happen. The beginning of the rest of my life.
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I stood in the kitchen, clutching a red glass bowl in one hand while busying myself in the refrigerator, looking for the salsa.

I was famished. I'd just come back from fetching you at the airport and it was later than I would normally eat. My head was hurting and I couldn't wait for the food we'd ordered to arrive.

You had pushed me into the kitchen when I'd started to feel dizzy. "You need to eat, baby, " you chided. "We can't have you sick."

So there I was, still in the clothes I wore to work, a figure hugging dark purple dress, black tights and knee high boots. I was stooped over the bottom fridge shelf, holding the door open with a crutch.

I could feel you watching me.

You slowly laid your hand at the small of my back, careful not to cause me to startle.

"Jess," you whispered. Your voice was tender, different.

I turned to face you and watched you kneel, shakily, on both knees. The bowl dropped from my hand to the cream laminate floor in the tiny kitchen without shattering.

My breathing quickened. There was a pain in my throat. The pressure of anticipation. I'd waited for this for so long. For you. Specifically for you.

The next few minutes were a blur. You told me you loved me more times in 5 minutes than I'd heard in 2 years, and I knew you knew how I felt. I adored you.

You Loved Me Too. Me! You wanted me for your wife. For the mother of your children.

I was, you said, the only person you could ever love enough to marry.

You pulled me toward you and I grasped your shoulders, pushing myself against the wall.

You kissed me in a way you never had before. Deep and passionate but still soft. My knees buckled and feeling the sway, you placed your hand at my waist.

When you pulled away, I wanted to scream for joy. Call the papers. Call my Mama Shout my blessings from the rooftops.

There you were in my arms, my soon-to-be husband.

But I couldn't. Call my Mama. Call the papers. Scale the rooftops.

My happiness was a lonely place. A hard bench in a deserted wood meant only for two. You and me.

No one else would approve.

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One day, it will happen. The proposal from the man I love. Someone who loves God, Christ, and my soul, in that order.

My heart will swell; my throat will pulse, and my cheeks will ache, raw from smiling. And I will know that I have waited for so long for this moment. For you. For your love. But specifically for you.

Yes. You.

My Special Person

When I was a little girl, I loved playing house and pretending I was coming home from work to cook dinner for my husband and kids.  I would go through a lot of "imaginary husbands," sometimes 3 or 4 a week.  They were usually based on soap opera character names I'd heard at my babysitter's house or little boys I knew.

You could say that I've always felt "called" to be a wife and a mother. 

It's not because anyone told me that I had to be someone's wife, or that I grew up thinking single people weren't just as awesome and happy, but.... I admired my parents' marriage.  I wanted what they had.  They laughed together.  They seemed stronger together than apart.  They were best friends, and had been for such a long time. 

As a young kid, I didn't always see the struggles that made them strong or the tears that came before their laughter. 

All I could really see was love. 

When I would talk to my mom about getting married someday, she always said, "It will take a special person to love you forever."  As I grew older, especially into my teenage years, this statement started to bother me.

Why did it have to be a special person?

Wasn't I loveable enough for any guy?

How special did this person need to be? 

Wasn't I good enough to be somebody's wife?

I see now more than ever, though, that she's exactly right.

It hit me when I moved into my 2 bedroom apartment last week, and all of my boxes and belongings were strewn in the front two rooms.

I needed help.  Lots of help. 

I wanted to just pick up a box and move it to the correct room, but I couldn't.  I have an awesome brain, but I needed some brawn.  I not only needed someone to help because he felt he had to, but more than that, because he wanted to. 

The thing is, it takes a special person for everyone.  A person who is ready to love us for who we are, flaws and all... and not just for our flaws, but for the things about us that can't be changed, whether good or bad.

We all have boxes to move and bags to carry, but the trick is in finding the right set of arms, willing to pick up the box for you when it becomes too heavy.

I need someone who not only sees me for me and loves me for me, but who thinks that I am enough for him--who wakes up most days thinking that he is lucky I'm around.

That person, whomever he is, is already incredibly special, and I hope I find him.