minalisms

My husband is under the impression that if he creates more blogs for me to oversee, I will somehow transform into a dedicated writer who pens something profound and comical and engaging and notable each day.

This is what love does — it instills so much optimism in people. Sheesh. Ben clearly has overlooked my less-than-stellar performance on this site.

Nevertheless, I think you should go here today to peruse the news and views of two and see what ensues in saint lou.

You will not be disappointed. Not yet at least.

Three years ago today I met Ben. We refer to it as the night of our “first unofficial date” because neither of us approached the meeting with romantic aspirations.

Up to that point, I was passing my days in Long Beach, while he was hustling in St. Louis. We were not only strangers, but strangers who had 1,800 miles, 26 hours and two time zones between us.

The World Wide Web changed that.

Ben and I became pen pals of sorts. We sent a handful of messages and realized that we were similar in several ways, but one in particular: We were love-haters.

A couple months passed and Ben informed me that he was coming to Los Angeles for a photography assignment. He wrote saying that he’d like to meet in person, and tried to convince me to skip work on a Friday so we could instead hang out, talk, eat and laugh. But I dismissed his crazy proposal and went to work, offering a compromise to see him another time, when I didn’t have to sacrifice a day’s pay to meet a random, possibly dangerous, guy from the Internet.

And I kept my promise.

For our first unofficial date, I met Ben in Downtown Los Angeles. We walked over to The Standard Hotel, where we had two beers and two hours to talk about work, our childhood, our families, music — a lot about music — and ambitions. We ate, and we laughed.

So, he kept his promise, too.

I said it to myself three years ago, and I’ll say it again today: I don’t remember anything being as effortless as that night with Ben. It was simple. It was real. It was fresh and comfortable. Despite salty outlooks on romance, we each had a feeling that this time this love would be too big to hate.

And here we are — three years running.

Whether it was coincidence or kismet, I am thankful.

I awoke today with the intention to sleep in longer. The inevitability of work the next day was my first thought, and so I was hoping that the tighter I squeezed my eyes shut, the faster the thought would dissipate.

But knowing that it was Mother’s Day, and that Ben was going to leave in 10 minutes to accompany his mom to church, and that I’d feel lame and guilty for allowing laziness to trump my promise to tag along, and that my own mother would scold me over that decision, was the motivation I needed to spring into gear — and the distraction I needed to forget about work.

So, I went to church. And for the first time, I was able to understand fully what was being preached.

It wasn’t about God, or Jesus, or Mary, or the Apostles whose names I cannot remember. It was about being a mom, being a parent.

“Parents are written all over their children,” the pastor said.

He expounded on the statement: All parents have hopes that their children will be smarter than they are, stronger than they are, have better jobs than they do, and sustain healthy relationships. But, he said again, “Parents are written all over their children.” So unless parents themselves show strength and intelligence and perseverance and engage in healthy relationships, the children can neither reap nor reflect those traits. 

It was at that point that I thought about my fortune — my independence, my humor, my wisdom and patience; my home, my fiancé, and, yes, even my job — and saw my parents’ faces rooted in all of those things. They taught me how to be the best of themselves. 

I was wiping tears from my face when I noticed that there were many others doing the same. They all understood just the same.

“Parents are written all over their children,” the pastor said, one more time.

“Amen,” I said. 

There will be approximately 450 invitations sent out for my wedding.
So much for my vision of an intimate gathering.

…to return to my hometown has been overwhelming as of late.

It’s like something snapped the other day after a couple correspondences with friends. I was California dreamin’. Now my steady job no longer matters; St. Louis affordability no longer matters, and exploring unfamiliar turf doesn’t either.

Love, however, matters.