My Valentine

Today I shared the story of my storybook romance. They listened kindly as I told how my eyes met his across a grand piano during our first rehearsal as singing waiters. How it was my 20th birthday, and I spent the next few days thinking about the boy from Waterloo with the brilliant smile – the one whose last name I could not remember. I just knew he was Mark, the kind, smiley guy who – unlike the other seven of us – attended a different college.

Who made the first move, they asked?

I’m not really sure, I answered.

They didn’t believe me, so I continue to tell our tale. They could decide.

Sometime that fall he began bussing my tables. Then he asked if I would take the drink orders for his tables because he found it morally reprehensible. I agreed, but not without challenging him.

“Isn’t that hypocritical?” I asked. “You agreed to take a job that you are not actually doing. I am doing it for you at your request. How does that make it better?”

He was a singing waiter, I reminded him. A job that was 50 percent music and 50 percent customer service. Our octet shared gratuities, and we wanted the income from his bar tabs too. I didn't drink alcohol either, but I kept taking the drink orders. It was my job. He kept bussing my tables. He thought I flirted with all the male singers but him. I thought I was joking around, and that he didn’t joke.

Soon he began driving me home after work, and we began discussing issues important to us. I wanted to know why he believed women couldn’t be pastors, and he wanted to know why I thought I could claim to be a child of God.

I wondered if he would attend a dance with me.

He wondered if I would attend church with him.

During a break at one of our special Christmas shows, we sat at a table drinking coffee. I told him I was in love with his voice (it’s all I yet dared to love). He wondered privately if I had considered loving the rest of him too.

After our New Year’s Eve dinner show, he drove me to his home to spend the night, waiting for a snowstorm to pass. We talked by his fireplace until 4 a.m., his little brother a tired chaperone on the couch. I watched him carry his sleeping brother upstairs, helping him into bed. Then I watched him ready his own bedroom for me. Later, unaware only three hours had passed, I wandered downstairs to keep his father company as he mopped their kitchen floor. It was 7 a.m.; no one else was awake.

“Good morning.” I announced myself to his father, the owner of the house.

“Well, hello. Have a seat in our dining room while I finish in here. Can I get you a cup of coffee and some toast?”

“Umm, sure.”

We shared the smallest of small talk. But then I wanted to know: “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you mopping the floor at 7 a.m. on New Year’s Day?”

“Well,” he started slowly, pensively. “I promised Carolyn Ann I would mop the kitchen floor, and I thought it would be good to start my year off right.”

Ah, I thought. This Mark, this 6-foot boy with the beautiful smile, comes from very good stock.

The next week I was attending classes at my college again, but he was waiting for classes to begin at his. On Thursday of that first week of the year, I stood beside my Lutheran campus pastor, fulfilling my duties as the chapel cantor. The first time I looked into the congregation from behind the altar I saw him – a Southern Baptist boy – sitting in a row near the front. His hymnal was open, and he was following the service as best he could. Afterward he met me in the hallway with two questions: Do you have time before your next class? (Yes) What is this thing about the holy uterus, does it have something to do with Mary? (Laughter.)

"Holy Eucharist, you mean?" His embarrassment. Our commitment to continue figuring each other out.

There had been no kissing. There still wouldn’t be. Just more talks – debates really – about God, life, salvation, churches, families. We lacked agreement on many things, but we shared something more that surpassed all else. We laughed together. Joyfully. Had fun together. Willingly. We cared about things together. Deeply. We questioned things. Sincerely.

And then Valentine’s Day. A dozen roses delivered with a card that read: “Friends are friends forever.” I knew how the phrase should end. He sang it every night that we worked at the restaurant. This time it was for me.

One day later another of our dinner shows. The day after that a dance, a Mardi Gras Dance. And he danced, this Baptist boy. He was surprised I was surprised he would. I was surprised when he left the dance floor because a song with "questionable lyrics" was playing. But then the music slowed. We returned to the dance floor. He pulled me close. Tight. And REO Speedwagon described the predicament we faced. We couldn’t fight the feelings any more, or remember what we had started fighting them for. He made sure his eyes found mine as the song played. They locked on and didn’t let go even as the song ended.

We walked off the floor together, closer than hand-in-hand. Later his lips found mine – finally – and we said good night in the stairwell of my dormitory, only hours away from morning.

What had we done? What had begun?

I could not have known then but I certainly know now – 27 years later. That night I began to share my days more fully with my soul’s partner. Someone I could trust with my life. My love.

He is my Valentine.
I am forever his.
He is forever mine.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Mark. I love you.

Donut Days and Deep Roots

Tonight I discovered something about myself that should have been pretty obvious: The fact that our family has donuts for breakfast each Saturday is more than a treat for me. It’s an emotionally comforting ritual with deep roots.

In college, during Mark’s and my stint as singing waiters, Saturday mornings were our time to rehearse the music for our weekend dinner shows. Larry Kussatz, the owner of Carver’s Restaurant and our music director, would always have fresh pots of coffee and platters of donuts ready for us at 9 a.m. We each had our favorite selections – donuts and songs – and we each counted on this weekly ritual, just as we counted on each other to fill in the melody or harmony of our particular vocal part.

As Mark and I reconnected tonight with Pamela Cross Samuels, one of a select few who knows what it felt like to be a Carver’s Singer, I found myself grateful for the comfort my Saturday donut continues to bring me each week. I also found myself hoping that Pam has something similar to comfort her at the end of weeks when she might feel at bit overwhelmed at times.

In the years since we entertained diners at Carver’s (Craig Bennett being such a patron), we’ve all experienced some fairly daunting life detours. The most dramatic part of Mark’s and my detour story is connected to Stross’ birth, as recounted in Involuntary Joy. Yet Pam’s and Craig’s lives have also been defined by moments that are equally as book-worthy.

For instance, HIV has detoured Craig’s life plans while leukemia has detoured Pam’s. Her diagnosis came six months after losing her mother to cancer and seven years after becoming a single mother. Yet it’s clear that Pam refuses to have her life defined by chronic myelogenous leukemia (CML), single-parenthood or life without her mother.

As we lingered tonight – laughing over who we were back then and how we lived out our more naïve existences – we affirmed the rhythm of life and the transcendent power of love. We helped transport each other to happier times, silently acknowledging a fierce, if unspoken, love for one another along with an inability to fully recognize that love for what it is.

Tonight we affirmed there is nothing that can diminish the power of life itself. Not physical and intellectual disabilities, not HIV, not singleness, not single parenthood, not the loss of a parent, not the loss of a job - not even chronic myelogenous leukemia.

And certainly, if we ever experience a week when we begin to feel diminished or overwhelmed, we can count on the revival that Saturday morning donuts and a fresh pot of coffee might bring. Emotional comfort with deep roots. “What would I do without my music? What would I do without my song? What would I do without my music, to pick me up when everything seems wrong?”

Love to you, Pam. Thanks for the memories. And, thanks to you, too, Craig! Let’s do it again. Soon. Life’s way too short. (Don’t we know it!)

Singing "Evermore"

Those who know Mark's and my "back story" know that we met as singing waiters. Only a few people witnessed what took place on those weekends as we reluctantly gave in to an infatuation that had the potential of becoming something more. The something more has extended more than a quarter century - 9 months figuring it out, 9 months being engaged, and 24 years marveling at what it means to be married.

Of course we love singing with each other at a wedding (and, yes, we sang at our own wedding). Weddings allow Mark and me to experience the intimacy of music in exponential portions: phrasing together, breathing in sync, knowing when the other might miss a lyric and then finding our way back despite it. During a wedding, we are all about the married couple, trying not to look directly at each other too much, since the attention belongs to the bride and groom. But during the pre-wedding rehearsal, we can just be us and have fun singing together, because - truly - there is nothing else like it in the world.

The song in this vlog (footage begins with actual wedding but the remainder is our pre-wedding warm-up) is one of the very first songs we ever sang together - early in our dating relationship. I don't think we could have comprehended how prophetic the lyrics have been. I simply know that every time we sing Evermore, decades of experiences pass through my mind in a storyline that feels epic.

I always wanted to marry a man I could sing duets with - and not just any kind of duets - romantic ones. So whenever we have an opportunity to sing together, especially for a wedding, I am reminded that I had a dream come true. I know I probably take that for granted too often. But I'm not taking it for granted tonight: I got to marry a man who made my dream come true; and not just one dream, but a few others as well.

Ok, that's probably more schmaltz than you like. But you know what? It's real. And I will be deeply grateful from this time forth and evermore.

The Effect of Music and Memories

I'm not really sure what to say about this vlog other than it is the first time Mark has appeared with me on camera for such a soul-exposing experience, and that is a bigger deal than you know.

My soul mate is a pretty private guy, but I detected an opportunity to receive an affirmative answer to a vlog invitation during the intermission of Godspell on Saturday night at our college. Buoyed by the satisfying feeling of a delicious meal and the renewing effect of musical memories, Mark softened into a answer that wasn't "no."

When we we got home, I simply got the computer and he began to set the shot. Note that he chose for us to share a chair. What a clever man. Is he pleased with the framing? No, but we were operating with the understanding that we were living a carpe diem moment, and it was time to capture memories, not create flawless video. (Take note, video students. Maybe you can try that excuse sometime when your composition is questionable. I don't think it will work, but you can try.)

Those of you who've known us since our courtship or newlywed years probably still hold memories of a quiet Mark. Certainly I did far more talking in the early years of our relationship than he did. Yet, one of the fascinating aspects of who we are as a couple is that conversation is always easy regardless of who is manufacturing and distributing the words. Those who don't know us well likely believe that I'm the one who does the majority of talking. Au contraire. Mark does a great deal of the communicating. He simply is more efficient with words and able to convey more with less. Do I talk more? Yes. Does Mark communicate more? Yes.

Since you may be more attuned to joyisms than markable moments, allow me to offer you hints of what to look for:
• His eye contact as I talk.
• His instant smile when I put my arm around his shoulder.
• His sense of fun and playfulness.
• His ability to mention a touchy topic without the need to explore further. (Theological discussion anyone?)
• His willingness to be vulnerable. (You just gotta love a man who admits to getting teary and nostalgic.)
• His ability to patiently listen at times when he senses my need for "me to be me."
• His capacity to simply let me be me.

Which leads me to this: I cannot hold back from pointing out my capacity to remember a date v. Mark's. To Mark, a date on a calendar doesn't matter as much as a memory and what that memory represents. For me, I need the fact verified before life can proceed and be credited as valid. But I'm glad I wasn't hung up on it Saturday night. As Mark began to reflect on his own musical experience, I knew he wasn't correct about the year he appeared in Godspell at the Waterloo Community Playhouse. I also knew it didn't matter. What mattered was that he was sharing what it had meant to him then and now.
He, like me, is fascinated by the fact that we appeared in the same musical prior to knowing each other. And that it was this musical that lead to our eventual meeting and courtship. The music director for Mark's production owned the restaurant where we met as singing waiters. Meeting this man-Larry Kussatz-led to Mark's eventual invitation to become a singing waiter. Therefore, had Mark not earned a role in the December 1982 production of Godspell, our paths might have never crossed.

And so - there we sat Saturday night - sitting side-by-side while singing along with every song as we privately heard them playing to different pit bands for the same show.

Mark is so fun to talk to and to share life with. I'm glad I captured such a moment and locked it in time. Also, a shout out to the cast of North High School's 1981 production. What a fantastic experience. Thanks for wonder-filled memories.
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