Our Story, Chapter 1.

I thought that on the occasion of our third anniversary, I would begin sharing our story.

I know first-hand that there was a helluva’ lotta’ curiosity surrounding our “courtship” if you will.  I totally get it.  Had I been a student (as opposed to THE student) at the college at the time, I would’ve had a ton of questions resembling, “Huh?!  Whaaat?  How?  Who?!  No way!”  Maybe yours went something like that.

(Although, those of you who were just plain mean–and there were some of those–I’ll never understand.  But, that’s probably none of you.)

Or maybe you didn’t go to the college and you just wonder how I had four older children in such a flash while maintaining my narrow hips.

“She must not’ve posted the pregnancy pictures on Facebook.”  Naturally that would be the explanation.

So, whichever school of questioning you find yourself in (or if you don’t even care), here goes.  And just chapter 1.  Chapter 2 will come some other time.  My shameless plug to keep you coming back (and because I don’t feel like typing the entire thing).

Let’s start at the very beginning.  A very good place to start.  When you read you begin with A, B, C… ah, I’m getting off track.  Where was I?

I’m at college.  I was a freshman (you see?  I’m going way back.) with a schedule-in-hand for my second semester classes.  Pan down.  The schedule read “New Testament” with a certain Dr. Hunt.  This guy required that you make a short trek across campus to buy his specially constructed notes that would aid you in your note-taking.  So thoughtful.

So my friend and I headed on over to buy the aforementioned notes.  Small, red, camp-resembling building…  Here we are.  Enter office.  There he sits.  My first observations?  He’s young and he’s handsome.  He pushes back from his desk and gives us a smile.  He’s suave too (seriously honey, you were… are… suave).

“Hi, I’m Bridget.” I say walking forward and holding out my hand.
“I’m Steve.”

He’s totally hip too, requiring that we call him by his first name instead of the official title.  No crotchety, pen in shirt pocket, poor fashion taste professors in this room!

He comments on my friend’s last name, a Swedish one (those Swedes).  Maybe asks us where we’re from?  I don’t know, details get fuzzy and this was, after all, six years ago.

We leave, notes in hand, and probably both comment on the fact that we thought he was cute, seemed sweet, and was, what was it again, oh yes, suave.

I soon discover that this little pseudo-crush I had was shared by many of the female students.  You only had to mention his name and another crush-confession would come out.  Totally harmless though, the guy was married, and come on… he was a professor after all.  Student-professor relations… that didn’t happen here.

I take his class, skipping only a few, but basically consider it one of my favorite classes.  Tell my Mom about him.  Take a few tests.  Turn in some homework.  He hands back homework, smiles at me as he passes, I turn to giggle at my friend sitting next to me (true story) who also has a crush on him because I knew she’d be a little jealous.  And so the spring semester goes.

Fast forward through summer.  Fall semester, sophomore year.  I take another class of his and contemplate a religion major in addition to my English major simply because I enjoy his class so much (pseudo-crush aside, he’s a great teacher).  He’s a fresh voice, makes you laugh, is really quite smart, but, perhaps best of all, challenges you and makes you think in new ways about religion (sometimes to the dismay of more conservative students… but for me, it fit).

In October, he missed a few classes (eventually missing the entire second-half), and I suppose it quickly came out that his wife had cancer.  Soon after, we discovered that she was really very sick.  Prayers went out from all corners of the campus.  Four young kids–the youngest being only two–made it all the more grave.  The campus, in my opinion, was consumed by it.  I was literally consumed by it.  There was little else I could think of throughout the whole ugly time.

From discovering she was sick to her death, was only about one month.  Crazy.

Chapter 1 isn’t entirely happy.  But it eventually gets there and this is a big part of the whole thing.

Fast forward again.  Junior year.  Early on, by way of my older sister who was in a small group through her church where Steve also went, I discover he’s in the market for a babysitter.  I had thought so much about him and his kids (who I didn’t know at all) over the year that I really wanted that job.  I really did.

So, I got it.