Twenty

Some quarter-century ago, I was a graduate teaching assistant in the German Department of the University of Missouri. Among the many benefits afforded to me as part of my lavish state-sponsored employment package (cramped office ten thousand miles away from classrooms, access to broken coffee maker, etc.), I was fortunate to have a mailbox in the department offices themselves. One afternoon, I strolled into this Sanctum Sanctorum and checked my mail. Frankly, I was expecting the usual admonitions about using the mimeograph machine to print fliers for "Official German Club" parties which normally occurred at my house off campus and at which legal injunctions concerning underage drinking were normally honored solely in the breach.

Instead, I found a letter.

The letter was one of those tissue-paper Par Avion things from Europe. I looked at the return address to see that it originated in a smaller Bavarian city, the university of which had an exchange program with Mizzou.

I opened it and pulled out the contents, noting as I did, that something fluttered down toward the floor. I ignored the envelope's jetsam, and proceeded to unfold the letter and read.

It was from a young lady in the humanities at said German university. She was majoring in English and Physical Education and had applied for several different exchange programs in the United States. Actually, because she was an avid skier, her first choice had been the University of Colorado at Boulder. However, she'd been offered a teaching assistantship at Mizzou and had decided to come to Columbia, Missouri instead. Thus, because she'd heard my name from a prior participant in the program, she was writing me to see whether I could help her find a place to live and get settled in. She also wanted to know the straight skinny on the department.

I resolved to assist her, gentleman that I was/am.

It was only then, that I turned my attention to the floor, to see what had fluttered out of the envelope when I'd pulled out the letter. There, sitting on the top of my foot, I saw this:

I still keep the photo in my wallet.

"Cute," thought I, but inasmuch as I was already "relationshipped" with someone else, my musings on the photo remained pure.

We corresponded for the next several months and I assisted in finding her an apartment. When August rolled around, I took possession of her apartment and acquired enough stuff to allow her to move in for a few days without having to negotiate American supermarkets and/or Wal-Marts, culture shock being a concern of mine. I was to be out of town the day she arrived, but when I returned to Columbia, I strolled over to her apartment to introduce myself.

I need to mention here, that August in Missouri can be excruciatingly hot. I recall the temperatures during that particular August to be in excess of 110 degrees Fahrenheit with humidity at about 90 percent.

In other words, the atmosphere was pretty much equivalent to a bowel of chicken noodle soup.

Unfortunately, the apartment I'd found for the new exchange student did not have air conditioning. Thus, did the door to her place open upon my knocking to reveal the new exchange student, sweating profusely and standing resplendent in her underwear:

Sorry, not an actual photo from that first meeting.
This blog steadfastly maintains a "PG" rating.
Sue me.

I wish I could say it was love at first sight, but it really wasn't. Each of us were otherwise occupied in long distance relationships at the time, but perhaps as a consequence of that, we felt comfortable hanging out together without worrying about subtexts or ulterior motives. As it turned out, over the course of the next year we became close friends. During the same time, both of our "other" relationship interests went the way of all flesh, and almost exactly a year later, we came to realize that perhaps the two of us might make a decent romantic "item."

Following a Biblically traditional courtship, which, among other things, impressed my in-laws to no end, we were wed. The rest, as they say, is history and today, we celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary.

Obligatory Honeymoon Photo From France.
She got Paris; I got Omaha Beach. Call it a "German v. American Thing."

It's difficult to know what to say about such a milestone, especially in a venue such as this. Certainly, after two decades there's a lot to talk about. How does one distill twenty years into an epic poem, much less a single entry in a web journal?

Does one discuss the good times together, so many that over the years they have merged into a single smile?

Czechoslovakia, 1990ish.

Or perhaps I should talk about the kids and everything she's done to make them what they are?

Guadalupe Mountains, 2004

I don't know. There's so much. I suppose that happens when a person has been a part of one's life longer than not.

I will say this, however. I cannot imagine living the past twenty years without the EMBLOS. There is precisely nothing I can think of which would have been "better" had she not been around. I cannot imagine anyone else putting up with me and my numerous flaws and quirks. Why she does it, I do not know, but I thank God every day that He sent her my way. For the life of me, I can think of nothing which I've done to warrant such a blessing.

One hears people talk about the Grace of God, His favor granted to us who are unworthy. Sometimes, it's difficult to explain what that means to others. Sometimes, it's difficult to understand it ourselves. Yet, while I may never completely fathom His gifts, His grace to me, I catch a glimpse of it every day when I'm greeted with this:



Schatz, ich hab' dich ganz fest lieb'.

Cheers.

R. Sherman