This is dedicated to the man that allowed me to start calling him ‘Husband’ on the day that we were married. The same man that has allowed it to progress to Hubby, Hubbykins, Hubbers, HubbyMcWubberson, you get the idea. Let’s just say it feels weird when I call him just ‘Ian.’ He’s a keeper.
Today is our ninth anniversary. I considered commemorating
this day by writing nine things I love about Ian, or nine things that drive me
crazy about him, or sharing nine of my favorite hairs on his head, or some
other such things relatable to the number nine. But, nine things I loved seemed
too easy and I couldn’t possibly reveal nine things that drive me crazy since I
can hardly come up with one ;). So I have settled upon nine memories that stand
out to me over the course of our nine years together.
First, the prologue. This doesn’t count toward the nine
memories because I am making the rules. There was a night we shared before we
were married, perhaps before we were engaged (but who could know for sure?),
that I will never forget. I was having one of those days when I hated every
inch of myself. I was the wrong size, the wrong shape, and I was so frustrated
with it all that I had come to tears while enjoying a starry evening with my
beau on his balcony. He was adamant that I was beautiful, I was adamant
perfectly opposite. Frustrated with my persistence, Ian got down on his knees
and forced me to look into his face while he proclaimed (with much fervor) how
perfect I was through and through. Up to that point, I had never so readily
believed someone when they told me I was beautiful. The sincerity in his eyes
was unmistakable. It is a memory I love because of how much he loved me. How
genuinely he wanted to protect my heart from my own self-destruction. The best
part is I am a far cry from the hottie I was then, and still I hear at least
once everyday, with all the sincerity in the world, how beautiful I am.
Ok, on to the married memories.. I promise they are not all
quite so sappy :)
Year 1. Upland, Indiana was home, and home was too quiet.
Our only options for companionship were birds or fish and fish weren’t cuddly
enough. We settled on a bird hunt and found one at a garden store not too far
away. He was a silky white cockatiel and was crazy as a foaming possum. Let’s
just say had we done our research, we might have purchased a hand-raised bird.
I will never forget riding in Ian’s Nissan 300ZX with that bird scratching and
shrieking trying to escape from the dainty, brown cardboard box on my lap.
Undeterred, we spent the ride home coming up with a name for him (her? We still
don’t really know). We passed a road sign that said ‘Hamilton’ and I was sold.
It was perfect! Ian thought so too, but if you ask him, Hamilton was named for
Patrick Hamilton, the martyr. And that, my friends, pretty much sums up the
difference between Ian and myself. I still get warm fuzzy feelings when I think
of our crazy, sweet Hamilton.
Year 2. Perhaps the most poignant memory this year was when
Ian told me he got in to St Andrews for his master’s degree. I was on a mission
trip in Mexico, so received the news via a short pay phone call, and spent the
rest of the trip wondering where on earth life was taking us. However, my
favorite times to think back on from this year are those that we spent together
in the art building at Taylor University. Being the weirdo married couple
living on a college campus, Ian was around a lot though he was not a student.
Most of my work had to be done in the art building, so he often came with me
and I loved every minute of it. I loved how easily he talked to my peers and
professors. I loved that he was there with me, knowing that part of my life. I
love the memories I have of him working just as hard as I did to finish framing
and setting up all the artwork for my senior exhibition.
Year 3. Hello change! Neither of us had ever moved further
than Upland, Indiana, and here we were moving to a different country. A little
over a month after we moved, still in the throes of culture shock and
insecurity, I remember getting the news that my grandma had died. I remember
feeling so shocked and numb. I thought she was getting better. It was the
beginning of the end of my childhood utopia of trips to grandma and grandpa’s
house. The expected. The norm. It was changing. I didn’t know how to handle it,
so I took the longest shower of my life and cried a lot. Ian was there. He
cried with me, he remembered with me, he helped me sort out a plane ticket so I
could be with my family to grieve the loss of my loving, feisty grandma. He
probably got me a drink of water, too, since that’s what he does when someone
is crying. That was the beginning of a tough year that pushed us to burrow into
one another, to trust Jesus, and to soak up the sun and the rain alike.
Year 4. This was the year that we took a little getaway to
Glencoe for the weekend following our American Thanksgiving celebration. It was
our first time hiring a car. A car that we barely fit into. I remember
marveling at how easily Ian could reach over and touch my window, and the fear
(that I would mess up his driving) wrapped in giggles every time he hit my leg
as he shifted. It was Ian’s first time driving on the left, but it was not the
first time he impressed me with his readiness to handle what is thrown at him.
We saw the Northern Lights, we got to drive and hike in snow, we got lost
together so many times, we marveled at the incredible scenery and the
difference between the east and west coasts, we did what married couples do on
getaways and then we had a baby.
Year 5. This was the year that we learned that having a baby
is not all it’s cracked up to be. Obviously, a sentiment we recovered from. I
remember my first attempt to drag myself out of bed after bringing our ‘bundle
of joy’ home from the hospital the day before. There had been no sleep. My eyes
were burning, my body was exhausted, I turned and look at my husband’s
bloodshot eyes and found he was thinking the same thing I was. What have we
done?? In our sleep-deprived short-sightedness, we were pretty sure our lives
were ruined forever. Happily, we were very wrong. Ian was ingenious at figuring
the baby thing out. Someone told him crumpling a chip bag could quell the
screaming. When that stopped working, he found a giant trash bag and made all
the ruckus he could until our ‘little angel’ was asleep. I hope I never forget
watching him desperately flapping that black trash bag around in our first
son’s tiny bedroom.
Year 6. Ok so it is harder than I thought to only pick ONE
memory from each year. We do so many things each year! In year 6 we drove
across Europe, spent 5 weeks apart while Ian studied at Rutgers, had another
baby, I mean, come on. I remember our first time leaving Aed completely and
going SO far away to Edinburgh :). The Tattoo started at 10pm so it was a very
late excursion. I remember feeling giddy with excitement that we were FREE! We
were alone, just the two of us, going out somewhere without our son. Don’t get
me wrong, I loved our son and I loved going places with him, but the feeling of
being by ourselves was irreplaceable. We had next to nothing to carry and could
go anywhere or do anything on a whim. We could be LOUD. I remember thinking we
were getting old as we struggled to enjoy something that started at 10pm
because we were so tired. I remember feeling so happy and refreshed as I
enjoyed such an experience with my favorite person in the world. Focusing only
on him.
Year 7. We left
Scotland, I ran a half marathon, Ian got a job and graduated. Another full
year. I remember when he left to return to Scotland to teach a class and defend
his thesis. We were living with my parents during our in between, full of hope
for a job. We made a paper chain so the boys could see how many sleeps were
left before we saw Daddy again. I remember hanging those little circles while
feeling like it may as well have been a year before we would see him again. I
remember my eyes filling with tears as he told me about his visits to places
that meant so much to us, visits with people that I loved and missed. I
remember the phone call to tell me that he had passed. The joy and thankfulness
we felt. I remember making ‘Dr. Daddy’ signs to greet him at the airport. I
remember the way it felt to see him again, to feel so proud of my husband and
what he had done, to watch my big boy run to his daddy with such joy, to see my
husband’s face full of life and light as we relished in the possibilities.
Year 8. A cross-country move to a place that promised
sunshine and sand, then delivered it, along with sweltering heat and
earthquakes. Earthquakes. I am not the worrier in our family. Ian takes care of
that unfalteringly. Anxiety is a very real experience for him. I can’t say why,
but moving to a place that threatened earthquakes at any time really ate away
at my mind. I found myself constantly trying to figure out how to handle an
earthquake in each place we went, so heavily burdened by being responsible for
my helpless children’s safety. I remember realizing one morning how consumed I
was by this fear, by the worst-case-scenarios that were becoming a constant in
my consciousness. That night as we went to bed I tearfully confessed to my
husband how much I was struggling – how I had no idea how to handle it, and I
remember so clearly feeling like I finally understood, just a tiny bit, what he
deals with all the time. He was so ready to comfort and help me, so experienced
with such a burden. He knew.
Year 9. My most constant memory and feeling this year has
been awe. My moments to reflect and sit with my own thoughts are few and
fleeting, but every once in a while I catch a glimmer of the amazement that
lies in my spirit, down underneath the diapers and worries and peanut butter
smears and bubble blowing. We moved across the country again and this year has
carried a theme of provision. Things we didn’t even think to ask for we were
given. Things that have made this place such a rest and refreshment for our
family. Our home is just that, a home. It is not a tiny apartment, it is not
filled with the goods of strangers, we have made it ours. Most every day, I
have awakened to the presence of my husband lying next to me. I have ended each
day with an ‘I love you.’ I have watched
my husband love our children, I have thrown my hands up with him as we gave up
trying to figure out how to fix yet another situation. I have given thanks for
his steadiness, his patience, his willingness to do and do and do. My favorite
memory, right now, was waking up to his smile this morning as he reminded me
that it was our anniversary. The feeling that washed over me as I knew, even
with all the mundane and monotony, today would be a special day. Maybe there
aren’t enough years in a life for me to feel like I’ve gotten sufficient time
with my husband, I can’t say yet. But I can say that nine isn’t enough :). I am
eternally grateful for the man I have been given to share my life with. Happy
anniversary, Hubbywubbyshmubbykins.
