The This Is How We Met series is slowly winding down. I've loved hosting everyone's stories and I don't know if I'll ever shut it down altogether. It is, however, time to focus on other endeavors. Before I do all that, I had to share Sarah's contribution with you all. Sometimes we really don't know what we want or need.
(The last TIHWM post will be May 10. Stick around!)
It was October 2006, the year I walked everywhere. The year I didn’t have a car.
I
left my downtown office late that night, and by then it was dark. I had
to pass a dark corner or two as I wound my way through the autumn
streets, passed the low--income high-rise building, on my way to the
coffeeshop in the bar district.
I
was alone, and I felt it. I walked briskly as the darkness and the
nighttime chill called for it. And then I heard footsteps behind me. I
couldn’t tell how close, but they were close enough. I turned around to
see a man, but I couldn’t make out his face. It was too dark. He was
maybe 20 steps behind me.
I walked faster. And it felt like he did too. I felt more alone, but I wasn’t.
Then
I looked up. In the light of the post office building sat something
familiar. My friend’s car. And my friend was inside. My friend was a
guy, which made me feel a little safer. I nearly ran to the door of his
car and jumped in, maybe without asking.
It
felt like a portal, whisking me suddenly from danger. He drove me the
almost-mile to the coffeeshop where I planned to meet my friend, who
would drive me the rest of the way across town to my apartment.
As
I burst into the warmth and light of the coffeeshop, I felt like I’d
narrowly escaped a disaster. My friend, Michelle, sat at a round table
with another friend, Josh, and I gushed the harrowing tale to her,
hoping she could absorb all my fear and relief. Josh didn’t say
anything.
A few minutes later, we left.
I
guess that was the first time I met him, but I hardly remember it. But
anyway, Josh says we first met that night. He tells me I launched right
into my story of near-death, and didn’t pay any attention to him.
I’m not surprised. It sounds shallow, and it was: I knew he wasn’t my type.
Two
months later, Josh hosted an event of 24-hour prayer and worship at a
local church. My church’s worship team took a two-hour set. I met him
again there. He was intense, quiet, squinted eyes that seemed to take
everything seriously. So not my type.
I
ran into him again in January at the same coffee shop. He sat at the
same round table, this time with several young gentlemen. Josh with his
narrowed eyes, books stacked up, talked theology with whoever would
listen.
They asked me if I’d heard of an author they were discussing. I hadn’t. I escaped to another table.
In February 2007, Michelle invited me to a prayer and worship night. Josh was there again.
I
sang my heart out that first night, and it felt so natural to be there
with these people. I felt like I found home. And there was this weird
thing, this chemistry with Josh that I couldn’t explain. Because he was
so silent and contemplative. I knew he was not my type at all.
Then
in May that year, Michelle, Josh and I went to Burger King after a
church volleyball game. We decided we wanted to be radical. All in for
Jesus. We only had a few methods of radical we were familiar with,
mostly fasting, so that’s what we did.
I
know it wasn’t every day – we weren’t that radical – but we fasted
during the day and met in Josh’s kitchen for dinner each night. One
night I bragged about my fondue, and then I burned it.
It
was something to look forward to, the meeting of the radicals. And then
one night, Michelle couldn’t come. It was her work schedule, I think.
Josh and I decided to meet anyway. We put chicken on the grill and stood
out on the back porch in the warming spring evening.
The tension was growing.
I
said something snarky, although I can’t remember what, and he snapped
back. A clever remark that left me speechless. I was stunned. This from the silent man?
As
he sauntered victoriously back into the house, I stood with my mouth
open on the patio. “Maybe you’ve met your match,” he called back. What does he mean by that? I wondered.
I didn’t wonder for long. That night he asked me on a date. I said Yes, even though I knew he was not my type.
Three nights later he asked me to be his girlfriend, and I said Yes
again. I was shocked because I couldn’t figure him out. He was so
different. Not like anyone I ever dated. So quiet, with furrowed eyes
and sharpness I couldn’t comprehend.
He was wild about me though. I knew that. And he just grew and grew on me.
Two
weeks later I found out he was funny, not corny or goofy funny, but
truly smart funny. And it was all over. He said something that put me in
my place again, and I just laughed.
I had met my match indeed.
One
year and one day later, we married. And I know after nearly five years
of marriage, he’s more match all the time. I love him and am in love
with him.
Josh is still a totally different kind of person than anyone else I know. He’s Josh. And he’s my favorite.
And he taught me well we often don’t know our type until we meet our match.
Sarah
Siders is a social worker, pastor’s wife and mom, a dreamer, Jesus
follower, people lover, and word junkie. She writes on spirituality,
parenting and the journey of transformation at her blog home, www.sarahsiders.com. She likes visitors so please stop by for a chat.
Facebook at facebook.com/sarahsiderswrites
Twitter: @sarahsiders
