Leigh Kramer

This Is How We Met: Danielle Vermeer's Story

Even though she told me she's a Cubs fan (sacrilege!), I'm happy to share Danielle's story of love in the time of summer camp with you all.

Want to submit your TIHWM story? Check out the guidelines here.

Every summer in high school I attended a co-ed Christian camp where we worshiped with arms raised, talked about the immodesty of tank tops thinner than two-fingers' thickness, and learned how to be young men and women after God's own heart (in no particular order).  The memories of my adolescent coming of age and coming to Christ are some of the fondest I have.  It was at camp that I swayed on the worn, wooden swing near the lake, writing and praying in the early mornings before reveille.  It was at camp that I cultivated some of my most deep and enduring friendships.  It was at camp that I began writing love letters to my future husband.  And it is at camp that I met the love of my life and my best friend, my husband Mike.  

Month one: we meet.  The summer after my first year of college I served as a camp counselor for the first time. One of my best friends since my first year at camp, who was several years older, introduced me to one of the new counselors, a tanned, blonde-haired, blue-eyed guy with board shorts and a cartilage piercing who had attended college with my friend. I didn't think much of this hunk until my friend ever so unsubtly chimed, "Dani, Mikey thinks you're cute."  (For the record, she is the only one who could ever call us Dani and Mikey.)

Month two: we go on a non-date. A month later, my friend-turned-conniving matchmaker hosted a post-camp party.  In the midst of playing games, we somehow started watching repeats of SNL Celebrity Jeopardy.  Teary-eyed and with a knotted stomach from laughing so hard, I spotted Mike looking over at me, amused and enraptured with my response.  It stuck with him because a week or so later, he asked to grab coffee.  But I made it abundantly clear beforehand that it was a non-date since we would be just friends.  Four hours later, just a cup of coffee had not only turned into a blossoming friendship, but also into a lifetime of deep relationship.  We gave a (lingering) hug goodbye as I headed home and then headed back to college.

Month three: we begin to date long-distance.  We began talking almost every day.  Then one day Mike calls me, telling me that he is interested in pursuing a relationship and that even though it will be difficult long-distance, I'm worth it.  I'm so nervous and giddy and smiley that my teeth hurt.  Over the phone, hundreds of miles apart, we begin officially dating.  It even became Facebook official.

Month four: we have our first in-person, official date. A month later, I came home to run the marathon.  Mike picked me up for the airport and braved almost two hours of traffic to head downtown for our first real date.  (I later realized how much this meant because this small-town boy cannot -- I repeat -- cannot handle city traffic.)  We walked hand-in-hand and had our first kiss under the metallic, abstract sculpture in the middle of the park (you Chicagoans know what I'm talking about!).  Afterwards, we headed to his place to make homemade pesto pasta as we slow-danced to the first song on the mix I made him -- what many months later would be the song for our first dance.

Month eleven: we get engaged near the wooden swing at camp.  We had talked about it for months.  First in lofty hypotheticals.  Then thinking about the practicality given that we would be long distance for at least two more years while I finished college.  Then talking with my parents.  His parents.  Our friends.  Pastors and counselors.  Tentatively supportive, my parents put Mike through the gauntlet.  A week later, we said our first "I love you"s as Mike slipped the ring on my hand and we embraced next to the wooden swing near the lake at camp.  God has a funny way of bringing some things full-circle.  
 

Photo by Beyond the Well

Month thirty-five: we become one in marriage. (Yes, you did the math correctly. We were engaged for almost two very long years.)  Last June, surrounded by family and friends in a gorgeous, lily white church, we promised to love and cherish one another all the days of our lives in this holy, mysterious, fun, challenging, and life-giving journey from two to one.

 

Danielle blogs at from two to one about marriage, feminism, and faith and is especially interested in developing relationships among other self-identified feminists who practice their faith traditions. Connect with her via her blog, Twitter, or Facebook.

Yes, I Do. No, I Don't.

I'm flitting about the kitchen, dicing pattypan and summer squashes while the couscous cooks. I head over to the cupboard to grab a few spices, before moving on to cucumber and tomato. I love creating a dish out of bits and pieces of recipes and whatever ingredients I have on hand.There's a rhythm when I'm in the kitchen, an unhurried calm settles over me. My thoughts are free to roam and wander.

Which is perhaps why it hits me so hard.

"Holy hell," I exclaim. (In my head. I typically don't talk out loud to myself, though I haven't ruled this out for the future.) I look at my kitchen arranged the way I like it, with my spices and the cutting boards just so. What if he, this hypothetical someone, wants different dishes or organizes it his way? I wouldn't change a thing, other than add a few more kitchen gadgets. I stir the veggies in the pan and wonder whether anyone else would appreciate my random, thrown together dinners.

And how on earth would another person, a man, fit in my small duplex? I'm adding two more bookcases to contain my own stuff. How would I make room in the closet? Where would another dresser go?

I say I want to get married. But dear Lord. Am I ready for what it entails? Am I ready to cede space and compromise?

Why am I even thinking about this?

 ***

I sit on the office floor, pieces of Ikea furniture around me. Normally I sit at the desk to pay bills but the stool is covered with tools and hardware. I sigh as I sign checks and tear off remittals.

Month after month, it comes down to me. My parents raised me to be responsible financially. I stay on top of due dates and running the rent check over to my landlord. I mostly adhere to my budget. No one gives me input on where to go for vacations and whether or not to buy the book I've been wanting.

The buck stops here. Always.

It's not that I'd happily turn the responsibility over to someone else, given the chance. I like knowing these things.

I want to share the load. I want to divvy up chores and responsibilities. Another set of hands to put furniture together. I'm tired of everything and anything coming down to me, me, me.

***

I sleep on the right side of the bed. Wherever I sleep, I choose the side closest to the door. The last few months I've noticed an interesting trend. A few books fill the empty space next to me. In cold winter months, an extra blanket lay ready for use.

I'm not trying to trick myself. At least, I don't think.

I love living by myself. I do. I'd outgrown roommates before I moved to Nashville. It would be hard to go back to sharing a place. But a husband? I could easily make room for him in my bed. We'd toss the books to the floor.

God said it wasn't good for man to live alone. I don't think it's good for this girl to sleep alone either. Year after year after year.

And yet, this is the life I lead, the very one meant for me. For now.

There is purpose in freedom, sole responsibility, and denying myself. There is purpose in the single life and it is very often good.

I keep processing these moments, trying to mine truth where I find it.

I don't understand how I can want something- feel ready for it- and fear it at the same time. Marriage means change. A lot of it. No one fully understands how marriage will change them until they're in the midst of it.

Even though I don't know if Mr. Right awaits me, I sense in my spirit preparation is occurring. I'm not entirely sure for what, though I have inklings.

If I meet the right guy, we'll figure this out together. It's part of making a relationship work.

I'll clear space if I need to. Or suggest we move to another house.

My Grown Up Childhood Friend

Every June 20 I think of my childhood best friend Ruth. I don't have all of my friends' birthdays memorized but this one is ingrained.

Outside of family, Ruth has probably known me the longest. We easily recall the day we first met. We were in kindergarten; her mom was late picking her up from the AM class and my mom dropped me off early for PM. We stood near the door and said hi. I don't remember whether there was time to play before she left.

We were in different first grade classes so our friendship didn't officially begin until second grade. My brother and her sister were in the same kindergarten class and we lived near each other. Our friendship was meant to be. Both book nerds, we loved playing Little House on the Prairie in Ruth's backyard and going to the library. We made amazing mud pies, as well as bricks. Our pioneer-like endeavors were quite impressive.

We made our own puppets and performed a play. For fun. Don't even say it.

Eventually, Ruth, Alyce, Matt, and I started walking to school together. The mile or so walk cemented our friendship even further. Unless our backs were strained by the weight of our books. Memories of playing dress up, watching MASH and Saturday morning cartoons, sewing projects, spelling bees, drizzling honey on hot biscuits swirl through my head.

How many sleepovers did we spend whispering and giggling in the dark? How many secrets shared and dreams uttered? Even so, some things were not discussed, too raw, too fresh.

We graduated from our small Christian grammar school and transitioned to the same public high school. I cannot express my gratitude to have a friend along for that particular ride. We made other friends in high school but the bond endured. We might not have been best friends any more but it was not a calculated change, more a drifting as we each honed separate interests.

Class of '98, yo! (And my dad still had a beard then. Ha!)

The last sleepover I can remember happened in her college dorm room. This was a step up from pull out couches and twin beds. We laughed and whispered as usual, making sense of how far we'd come and processing whatever we faced at that time. Ruth fell asleep first, as she always did. And when my eyes finally closed, it was with gratitude for my dear childhood friend.

It's hard to believe we graduated college ten years ago. Even harder to believe I still talk to a girl I first met when we were 5 years old. The magic of social media keeps us up to date now.

We rarely see each other, she having lived out of state since college graduation. Every once in awhile, we manage to be in the same place at the same time. When the stars align, I appreciate her all the more. We talk about the things we didn't have words for back then. We talk about how we're different than we'd imagined- but in a good way. We reminisce.

There is so much about our formative years only Ruth understands. What it was like to attend the grammar school, what spring time meant in 6th grade, Battle of the Books, riding the bus, the perks and pitfalls of growing up in Wheaton.

I don't know either of us envisioned back then the lives we've made for ourselves. Surely, we're a new and improved version of those childhood dreams. Maybe that's what has kept us in each other's lives all this time.

My friendship with Ruth is comprised of nostalgia, our shared childhood, and an appreciation of the women we've grown to be. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

I'm in awe of all you've accomplished so far, Ruth. You are smart, confident, and determined. I cannot wait to see what happens next! Happy birthday to my ol' pal Rutebaga.

Do you have any childhood friends?

What My Glasses Say About You- and Me

I understand Clark Kent. His glasses, amongst other things, changed the way people perceived him. To viewers, it seems obvious Clark Kent is indeed Superman. In younger years, I didn't get why Clark Kent needed to exist. Sorry, CK. It's true.

But now? I get it. Sometimes we don't want people to know All of Us. We're content to let them in on the prepackaged version we've chosen. Best to leave the nitty gritty details for a chosen few, if any.

When I told my mom I thought I needed glasses in 3rd grade, she didn't believe me at first. Quite a few of my friends needed glasses and she thought that's why I wanted them. Pretty funny to think of glasses as a desired commodity. In any case, a doctor's exam convinced my mom.

My fourth grade pic- all hail children of the 80s

Back then, I relished the clear pink plastic frames. Plus, I could see clearly now, the rain was gone. Or something like that. The clear pink frames graduated to blue-rimmed wire frames. And just before 8th grade, I got contacts. Glasses were relegated to evenings and whenever I was sick- but not always even then.

It's not worth exploring here how, and why I came to have a poor opinion of wearing glasses.  You need only know it happened. Contacts-version Leigh was far superior to glasses-version Leigh, at least in my head. Prettier, wittier, wiser. With my contacts in, I was definitely the full package. Surely boys would love me and my pretty blue eyes!

In my glasses, I felt invisible, nerdy, and yet more likely to be taken seriously. I definitely wouldn't land a husband that way. (Please know I laugh at myself so much for ever thinking this. I'm also relieved I woke up and smelled the coffee.)

Somewhere along the way, definitely by the time I started grad school, I grew tired of the complications of wearing contacts. Sometimes, I thought, it would be nice to throw my glasses on and not care. The only problem being my old glasses were literally falling apart. My roommates Jen and Donna were lucky enough to see me continue wearing them at night, only held up by a wish and a prayer.

In 2005 I decided to purchase a new pair of glasses. A pair I wouldn't mind wearing in public. Ones that conveyed a sense of who I was. I ended up with a pair that I loved, which incidentally veer in the hipster direction. Ah, irony.

I tentatively wore them around friends, testing the waters. I wore them camping. I didn't shove my contacts in first thing on the weekend. I even wore them to work when I hadn't slept much the night before.

But still.

A few months ago, I posted a Facebook status along the lines of saying "you know you're a true friend if you've seen me in my glasses." I'd had plans to meet my friend Amanda for morning coffee and didn't feel like putting contacts in. Off I went. We had a blast chatting. It was business as usual.

Interesting that I equated "seeing me in my glasses" as a pseudo-measure of friendship. It's almost a statement about my willingness to be vulnerable.

See my glasses, see me.

That's how it began, at least. The more comfortable I felt with a friend, the more likely I'd wear my glasses around them. And now I see it had everything to do with how I felt about myself and nothing with how I thought my friends perceived me.

I wear my glasses more than I used to. I still wear contacts most of the time because it is my preference and because my contacts help maintain my vision- a bonus of gas permeable lenses. But I'm not angsty about wearing glasses around town.

I'm confident in who I am. Glasses and contacts don't change that. Might people view me differently based on my eyewear? Perhaps but it seems to be more their problem than mine.

I have no grand conclusion here. If I had a sudden influx of money, I'd look seriously into LASIK. I'm OK with that. In fact, I'm OK with however I choose to present myself to the world these days. And maybe that's the best part of seeing myself clearly.

 

Do you wear glasses?

Grief Is the Sum of Pajamas and Remembering

A few nights before Grandma died, I went to Meijer for the first time. My mom and aunt shepherded me through the store as we each stocked up on items needed from home.

A contact case, toothbrush, deodorant. Pajamas and underwear.

Mom stayed out at the farm all week. I stopped by after work each day: caring for hospice patients and then the jolt of our family traversing the same road. I'd set my work bag on the floor, kick off my shoes, and hover the line between granddaughter and hospice social worker. I knew all too well the day grew nearer.

The past weekend my cousins Clara and Emily had flown out from California. Freshly out of the hospital and on the hospice program, Grandma was elated to be back in her home after a two month absence of treatment and rehabilitation. Cousins and great-aunts and family friends traveled far and wide to spend time with her.

Seeing her renewed energy- seeing her in her element with company gathered all around her- I half hoped time was on our side.

But when Sunday came, Clara and Emily said their goodbyes and talked of coming back for the family reunion, another month away, I couldn't ignore the signs. She'd make it until Saturday or Sunday, I thought and then tucked it down deep in case I was wrong. They couldn't change their flights anyway.

One week, I screamed inside. I hugged my cousins and hoped their next flight back would not be for our grandmother's funeral. I prayed for more time.

Each day I hoped I misread the signs yet could find no such solace.

Wednesday Grandma's hand had faltered as she ministered the sign of peace on my forehead with holy water. I held her hand in place and moved my head to complete the process. Thursday night I sensed I should not drive the 45 minutes home. 

I couldn't drive home but staying turned out to be more complicated. The week prior, Grandma asked me to sleep over the same day she came home from the hospital. She liked the idea of various family members tucked in around her house. Mom and I slept on the pull out couch across from her hospital bed in the living room.

But now Grandma required volunteer night nurses who stayed in the living room, the spare bedrooms claimed by other family members. Not to worry- a second cousin opened up her home for any overflow guests. Which only left the problem of not having anything I needed.

The country boasts a different way of life. I made my decision to stay late in the evening- not late by most people's standards but too late for Walgreens to be open. Or any other store we thought of.

Meijer's lights glowed garishly bright. The aisles have acquired an orange tinge in my memory. The store mesmerized me with All The Things and the strange people shopping past 10 at night. As if we had any room to talk.

I wandered the aisles, urgency pressing me forward. Make a decision. How it looks isn't important. These thoughts swirled through my head before being discarded. I could control the pajama selection process.

They almost looked cheery, these pajamas. Bright green polka dots paired with pastel plaid. They didn't match. I didn't care. Everything else sifted through my hands.

I'm not naming names but the snoring kept me awake that night. My overloaded mind welcomed insomnia right on in. The next day I called in to work. Friday night I stayed up with Grandma, administering her medications and holding her hand while she slept, more for me than her.

I slipped the pajama pants on for a couple of hours of sleep once Mom woke up and took over my vigil.

And then again, I wore the pajama pants Saturday night while I sat next to Grandma, knowing I should go to bed but unable to do so.  When the funeral home arrived in the wee hours of Sunday morning, the thin fabric wrapped around me while I sat outside in a daze.

Later I slept on the pull out couch with my aunt. Grandma's hospital bed lay empty across from us. I kept waking up, poised to hear evidence she was still there.

We prepare for a death but we're never ready.

I still wear the camisole which has never kept things in their proper place and the overly roomy pajama bottoms. I haven't shopped at Meijer since.

I don't know why only in the last year or so have I been able to write about Grandma's final days. 

Grief is the sum of these moments. I write to remember those days and explore the griefbursts since. To remind myself I'm still her granddaughter.

Five years passed. This weekend I honor my grandma and her chicken noodle soup and open table and sprinkles and "where's your sweater?" and ever ready smile.