I can say, with complete honesty, that April 27th, 2013 – November 30th, 2013 was a whirlwind. I refer to that time period as a whirlwind because in those seven months and three days I fell in love and the man I fell in love with asked me to be his wife.
Seven months, three days.
In hindsight it seems simultaneously short and long. My mom always told me that I should date someone for at least a year before getting engaged, but the older I got (I know people will laugh at that!), the less I worried about how long I’d date someone before getting engaged. I don’t mean that in the “when you know, you know” cliché kind of way either. I mean that if it happened after six months or two years, I’d made my peace with it. At some point in my life I had to stop going into every single first date with the “this could be my last first date ever” mentality and open my mind up to whatever God wanted me to see.
That being said, my first date with Anthony was wonderful. I showed up to the restaurant late, which I never do, but he didn’t even notice. We ordered the same thing and enjoyed some casual conversation. The entire time I was nervous beyond belief. There, sitting across from me, was this man who I’d heard so much about for well over a year, this man who I’d secretly been admiring, and he wanted to go on a date with me. He asked me a series of seemingly random questions to determine where we went next, and he drove us to a roller skating rink. Though it had been years since I’d skated and I didn’t have socks, I loved skating with him. I fell a few times and he always helped me up. Once I found my feet, the conversation continued to flow naturally. When I fell and sprained my wrist, I hid it from him because I just wanted to keep skating and holding his hand. Words can’t describe how overjoyed I was that it took him less than twelve hours to contact me again and ask for another date.
The days and months that have flowed since that first date haven’t always been easy. We dated for six weeks before he left for Lebanon for six weeks. A nine hour time change and an ocean separated us. We were talking one night (well, 3am where I was at) and I heard something in the background. He asked if I heard it and I said yes, and then he told me it was gunfire. I freaked. He said, “No! It was fireworks, I am kidding!” Even from hundreds of miles away we could joke and laugh and talk for an hour or two. Love letters crossed oceans and he finally returned home, just the man I remembered him to be.
We’ve had our ups and we’ve had our downs. Having no idea the proposal was coming, I almost messed it up more times than I can count, including the day he went to my parents house to ask for permission to marry me and I showed up minutes before he arrived. He waited in the nearest Wal-Mart for half an hour for me to leave so he could talk to my parents.
Though to many seven months and three days may seem short, to me it is perfect. We’ve been through a lot together, and while I’m sure there is plenty more to come, I’m so grateful he asked me to be his wife when he did. Seven months and three days, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
