My Jeff

Jeff's birthday was this week. My sweet hubby is 35 years old. 35! I have known him for almost 16 years. We met when Jeff was 19 and I was 21. It seems like such a long time ago. And so much has happened in between. We have grown up together. And I love the way that feels. All the memories, the life that was his and mine and now ours.

And here is how it began. When I was 9, I sat in the parking lot of K-Mart in an old green pick-up truck with my head on the seat and a prayer on my lips. It was the sort of prayer only a nine year old girl in a old pick up truck can pray. "God, please let me be invisible. Please, please, please. Please, let no one see me. In this car. In this parking lot. Especially in this parking lot." That was the gist of my prayer. I had an image to uphold. And that beat up truck wasn't helping. And sitting in that beat up truck in the K-Mart parking lot was torture. I would not go in. As in, would not be caught dead in the most embarrassing store in the universe. Ever. So, naturally my mom went in, ignoring every desperate plea of mine, and left me in the truck. I was no K-Mart shopper thank you very much.

And here is where we pause in the story and fast forward several years to another K-Mart parking lot in another town far away. No lounging in the car on this day. No silent prayer on my lips. Just a worn out pair of Mary Janes on the brake pedal as we pulled into a parking spot and rushed into the store. Fox was annoyingly on time. All the time. And we were always late. Especially on p-days. New elders were coming in and we were part of the welcome committee. More or less. Really Sister Foster was the more part of things and I was a little less welcoming than I could have been. There they were, waiting right at the front of the store. Fox and his tight-lipped, accusing smile. And the new kid. A greenie from California with big hair and shiny shoes. Poor kid, didn't know what he was in for. Fox was a treat. We introduced ourselves, Foster with her big happy smile, warmth oozing. I was more on the cool side. Disinterested and curt. At  least that's what I am told.By my husband. That eager, shiny elder from California. We met at K-Mart on his first day in the mission field. In my least favorite store. The one that left me traumatized as a child. The one where I met the man I would marry. The irony. And that is where our story began. He would tell it differently. Embellish here and there. Remember details I have forgotten. Which he has every right to do. But I remember it this way, so this is the way I will tell it. We met on that day. I did not know he was the one. I did not feel all tingly inside. In fact, I felt a little annoyed. He was too friendly, too California. Every sentence ended with 'Dude.' You know the type. The type that was not my type.

And so that first meeting came and went. And after that we were thrown together quite a lot. Not in the usual ways couples are thrown together, but in the way that missionaries in the same district are thrown together. We served in the same ward in the same district in the same zone. We spent our p-days together exploring every part of Kingston, New York. We saw every waterfall and college campus and state park in the area. And we taught the gospel. A lot. And baptized a lot. And it was one of the sweetest times of my mission. Not because of Jeff. He was still Elder Blackmun then. But we were on friendly terms now. Our entire district had grown close over the past months. We worked hard and played hard and the blessings poured over us. And we knew it. It was one of those rare times in life where you have the perfect balance. A time where things come together just as they should and you hold your breath because you know it is so sweet in the moment and if you breathe it just might end. That was the kind of time it was. The people we taught, the members we loved, the spirit that we felt, it was a sacred time. And Jeff and I shared that. We all did.

And then the holidays came. One of my favorite Christmases. We ate Christmas dinner together at the Thompson's. They fed us wild turkey, venison meatballs and squirrel jambalaya. We opened boxes of cherry cordials wrapped in shiny paper.  It was perfect. And we were transferred the next week. Jeff went to Schenectady and I went to Glens Falls. New companions, a new ward and a new city to explore. It was a happy time. And I thought it was the place that I would end my mission. I even pled with President Hatch to leave me there until I went home, what was a few months? But he didn't. And I was transferred to Camillus the next month. Which turned out to be just the place I needed to be. The place where two of my favorite elders from the Kingston days were serving, Elder Jensen and Elder Blackmun

Jeff was called as the new district leader in Syracuse the month I arrived. He had to call every night to check on all the sisters, make sure we made it home safe and sound. My companion had a strict no phone policy. As in, she would not talk on the phone. I made our appointments, called members, talked to district leaders. And so we talked, that district leader and I. He would talk about his mom. I would talk about going home. And we became friends. Not just missionaries, but real friends. It was nice to have someone to talk to. For both of us. And in the midst of all that talking and missionary-ing we sort of just fell in. Maybe not love yet, but something like it. Jeff fell first. And said it first. In that not yet love but liking way. I am sure I have it in a journal somewhere, the exact words. But it would make my cheeks pink, like it did then. I was not as willing to voice it, to commit to this feeling. I was leaving in days, far away from this place that was home. This leaving was full of emotion. Emotion that went beyond this elder, emotion tied to a people and a place that were rooted in me. And my heart felt heavy with the weight of it all.

My mom and dad knocked on the door that morning. It seemed so natural, seeing them there after 18 months. We went to breakfast with my district, a last little farewell. Jeff had chocolate chip pancakes and didn't say a word. The other missionaries chatted happily. My dad asked a million questions, life stories in minutes. And then we were done. And I got very nervous. Sweaty palms nervous. I hugged my companion and the elders and I didn't care that they were elders and weren't supposed to be hugged. And then I hugged Sister Mitchell again. Squeezed her tight so she would know how much I loved her. And then there was just Jeff left. And I wished everyone would just disappear so I could tell him to stop looking so sad. So I could tell him that it would all be alright. So I could tell him that somehow his mom would be OK and I would be OK and he didn't have to worry. That somehow I just knew. Because I did. I had that feeling, the kind that made it OK to leave because I  knew I would be back. Not in this place, but with this person. That somehow it would all be just the way it was supposed to be.  But nobody disappeared. They all stood and stared, some waiting to see me off, others waiting to whisk me off. And so I hugged Jeff, like I hugged the other elders. I squeezed him tight so he would know. And I left.

And that is how our story began. It was a good beginning. We have so many stories. We can still stay up late into the night talking about Gus and Nola and the Heywood's and Kathy and all the missionaries we knew and the fun we had. They were good times. Jeff still had another year in New York when I left. I went back to BYU and picked up the life I had left behind. We wrote letters every week. We weren't always sure about each other. And then Jeff came home. His mom died a week later. It broke him a little. And softened him too. I could tell the first time I saw him again. It was a little terrifying. All the anticipation, the sadness, the excitement. But then we held hands. And they fit.

We dated for a year at BYU. It seemed like a very long time. All of my friends were married, their babies turning into toddlers. And Jeff was mourning. We weren't always sure about each other. And then we were. My engagement ring was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I flaunted it shamelessly. And we married 6 months later. It was a beautiful day. And here we are, 12 years in. That 19 year old boy just turned 35. In all those years, we have learned to take care of each other. And I have loved growing up with him, watching him turn into the man he is. That is our love story.