Oh, Is It?

Thirteen years ago yesterday I met my dear husband, Brian. How do I remember such a thing? I did not know at the time that he would be my dear husband, so why would the day - the moment even - be stored in my vast memory vault. (A vault filled with music I learned in grade school and junior high, the birthdays of every person I've ever known, the phone numbers of anyone I have called more than three times. I digress.) I remember it clearly because it was my first day in the mission field. (Ew! Gross! Yeah, yeah, yeah.) My harrowing journey from Milan to Minsk - ha! - from Denver, Colorado, to Grand Junction, Colorado, had finally come to an end. (See, The Van, was driven by an elderly couple who fought to the death during these transferring gigs. This particular transfer took place during the blizzard of the century. I was fresh from the MTC, one of two sisters in the van filled with, what I realized during the eight hour drive, a bunch of boys calling each other "dude." My disillusionment was palpable. I discovered I had made a huge mistake.)

When we pulled into the church parking lot on G Road (clever city planners) and carefully disembarked (so as not to puke in front of strangers who were taking me in for the first time), we were met by our new district leaders. Brian was one of them. He was annoyed. He had been sitting at the church for hours waiting for the van. He shook my hand and I could read on his face that he didn't trust sisters. (Perhaps this post will finally leave him no other choice but to comment on my blog.)

The weeks went by. My companion and I rode our bikes (we did not have a car) and spread the good word. Brian would call on Sundays to get our numbers for the week. If I answered the phone, "Hello, this is Sister Lee" - he would respond, in a voice filled with disappointment, "Oh, is it?" We saw each other occasionally on Preparation Day and always at district meetings, zone conference, and baptisms. I'd known him for a while before I heard him laugh. He has the best laugh I've ever heard. Everyone trusted him - if you told him anything in confidence, it stayed with him alone. He was respectful to everyone - even people who didn't deserve it. He never joined in when the other missionaries would tease me and call me MaryAnn (from Gilligan's Island - I don't see it).

When he went home in November 1995, I thought it would be the last time I would see him. I wrote in my journal that I was glad I was able to serve with him and hoped he would have a happy life. We exchanged addresses because that's what everyone did. There were already several people who had gone home promising to write that I didn't expect to ever hear from. My expectations were met. I sent Brian a few pictures of the last zone conference he attended and wrote a short letter because it would be creepy to just send the pictures. He surprised me by writing back.

So, happy 13th Anniversary of the Day Brian and I Met.