In an era where we have “National Holidays” commemorating everything from tacos to sea turtles pretty much every day, today is a day ACTUALLY worth celebrating…it’s my wife’s birthday! To know her is to love her; the only people who aren’t captivated by her eternal spunk are those who are far too easily overwhelmed by heaping quantities of Awesome. But when you don’t have a self-imposed restriction on your capacity for handling the deluge of energy that is The Christa Experience, your mind will be continually blown by the Fireworks of Fun and Explosions of Effervescence. Even the collateral shrapnel from her unending stream of hilarious quips shimmers with such brilliance that it can brighten up the darkest days.
If I’m ever irrationally ungrateful, I only need to look over at the most gorgeous person God ever created to remind myself of His favor and faithfulness. Enjoy this story of how we met!
How I Met My Wife
Life is a constellation of beautiful stories, and one story that I never get tired of purveying is the tale of how my wife and I met. Similar to many fairytales and romance novels, we first saw each other in front of a U-Haul; we had both been recruited to help a mutual friend move across town. I was nattily clad in a baseball tournament shirt from when I was 11 years old (I’m still waiting for that magical growth spurt), and she was all dolled up in a purple tie-dye shirt brandishing a utility knife. Despite our stunning wardrobes, it was actually her confidence that immediately stood out to me; she was completely comfortable in her own skin (and tie-dye shirt), and this was intriguing to me given the annoying engulfment of insecurity that often renders physically attractive people intolerably insipid. I later found out that she was also packing a Taser and pepper spray, and perhaps these elements contributed to her self-assuredness.
But anyway, delightful dialogue ensued and persisted as we trafficked boxes and furniture in and out of the U-Haul. And at the end of the night, I said to the group, “Guys, this has really been fun…I’d like to get all your phone numbers so we can all hang out again!” Now, did I really care about scoring Carl’s number or feel any rush of excitement as I pretended to enter Jamie’s digits into my first-generation flip phone? Clearly not, but I thought it was a pretty slick and non-confrontational way to secure the vivacious olive-skinned girl’s contact information…after all, I still needed to be wary of her Taser and pepper spray.
I knew on Day 6 I was going to marry her. During that time I was finishing up my first Doctorate, so I was driving back and forth from Boise to Pocatello multiple times per week, because although I was physically going to school in Eastern Idaho, my heart was 3 and a half hours west. And on one of those drives, waves of inspiration flooded my lovestruck brain, and the result of this deluge was some lyrics to a song…not a rap, but a song asking this girl to marry me. So I pulled over at Exit 208 outside of a town called Burley, sprinted into a gas station, grabbed a napkin and a pen, and furiously jotted down the passionate poetry.
And, as the story unfolds, those lyrics must have been pretty good. Because right before I proposed to her, I decided, after careful consideration, that it probably would be best to NOT wear the baseball shirt from when I was 11 years old when I asked her the most important question of my life. And given that my hair, which could euphemistically be described as “lush and voluminous” would more accurately be described as “undomesticated and utterly incapable of being tamed,” I felt it would be appropriate to get a haircut as well.
And I usually give the barber a picture of Zac Efron or Rob Lowe and say, “Do that,” and typically it sort of works out ok and then I can pomade my way to aesthetic acceptability. However, on this occasion, the barber at Not-So-Great Clips practically sheared me; I have never received anything that close to a buzz cut in my life. And this is a massive problem; I have a comically small and weirdly-shaped head; this is why I need ample plumage to conceal this horrifying secret.
So there I was, 3 days before the biggest moment of my life, and my lopsided light-bulb of a head had nowhere to hide; I had to hope that “my nice personality” and ability to play guitar would overshadow the abomination above my eyebrows. So I rented a U-Haul, decorated it in a florally festive manner, left my guitar in there, parked the truck at some friends’ house, picked up some of the Youth Group kids from church to further set up the ruse that we were helping some people move…and when I opened up the door to the U-Haul, I got down and played that song. And I guess it worked! But boy, that haircut was truly a test of her unconditional love; those pictures of me from that day simultaneously evoke pity and nausea.
If you get married, don’t settle for anything less than marrying your best friend, even if they’ve just gotten a cringeworthy haircut. And she is, without a doubt, my best friend, and I thank God every day that He brought us together; I couldn’t live without her.
