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| Picture by my friend Doug Ross |
"What did you say to me again? 'So, do you always come here alone?'"
It's the morning of our 23rd anniversary of when we met.
"No, Sweetie, I asked, 'Why are you always here alone?,'" my wife Amy says and smiles.
"Right," I say. "I always remember it differently."
"Oh, it's your anniversary? Happy Anniversary," says Bryce our youngest.
"Happy anniversary," says Beatrice our oldest.
"Why does your anniversary have to be on a Sunday?" asks Bryce.
"Because that's where the date fell this year," Amy says.
"Oh."
"Thank you both. That's why we went to the water yesterday, to read our vows," I say.
"Oh."
Kids, I think.
The day before our anniversary we did go to the water to read our wedding vows, something we do every year (our wedding date being on the same day when we met, just six years later). Some of the parking lots near the lighthouse and close to the beach where we met are closed due to COVID-19, and the ones that are open are always full. We parked down the street and walked toward the beach where we met all those years ago. Beatrice rode her skateboard, Bryce had on her roller blades and we had our dog Jenny in tow.
It was a lovely afternoon as it usually is in October where we live. Windier than usual, but still lovely. The girls sat on a bench as we looked out over the beach where we met October 11, 1997. The waves kept time with our vows and the sun lit up the sea...
Amy and I had been coming there alone for weeks during that El Niño late summer into October. The weather was beautiful and the ocean much warmer than usual. I'd hang out closer to the water and write in my journal, and Amy would sit in her orange beach chair against the cliff wall. I noticed her the first time I went down to the beach, shortly after I had moved to Santa Cruz, but never approached her. I was in the early stages of a separation that would ultimately lead to divorce (something that would challenge our relationship early on), and had no interest in approaching her, or anyone at that time.
Then one day I looked up from my journal and there were two sun-tanned legs in front of me. I looked up higher, and there she was, awash in sunshine, wearing a two-piece bathing suit and a baseball hat. She was so beautiful (still is), and it was the baseball hat that actually wowed me more than the suit (okay, a close second). I had never known a woman who could wear a baseball hat so well.
"Why are you always here alone?" she asked me.
Every time I think of that moment, I remember not responding immediately. Not because I didn't want to respond. I just wasn't sure how to. Her question was confident and direct, and at that time, I wasn't so confident and direct, and again, wanted to be alone. Seconds passed. Whatever strange and exciting connection I felt in that moment was already slipping away. The weight in her legs shifted, indicating she was about to walk away. The universe taunted me and my silence. C'mon, Kevin, I thought. You'd better saying something.
"What exactly did I say to you again in response?" I ask Amy.
"'Because I like to,'" she says.
"That's really what I said?"
"Yes, but you can make something up if you want," she says and smiles
"Ha. No, I want to get it right. But 'because I like to'? Subpar, Kevin."
"Well, that's what you said."
"I love you, Amy."
"I love you, too. Happy Anniversary."
That was only the beginning back then. Since then our journey has brought us to today, 23 years in the making. We've had some amazing experiences together, and travels, and had two daughters along the way. We've also had our own challenges, too, and throughout it all it's been a loving journey of forgiveness empowered by grace. We are grateful for each other and our family every single day, awash in love and hope, and we choose us, always. And all because of one day at the beach.
Other "Days of Coronavirus" posts:
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