Once upon a time, I was helping my future husband with his college French class. And we were totally not dating, because I was totally not 18.
So, he’d call me up and say: There’s a French film screening on campus today.
Him: And your apartment is on the way, so if you’re planning on going, we could walk together.
Me: Is this a date?
Me: OK. I’ll go with you on a not-date.
The thing was, we were constantly on not-dates…To the art gallery, cooking at each other’s apartments, reading together,* playing Scrabble, and I was completely and totally infatuated with him.
So when he brought up marriage two days after my birthday, I did that thing where you cry when someone proposes.
And then very romantically reply: how do I know you won’t (insert litany of behaviors I had watched destroy marriages in my family)?
At which point, it felt a little warm in the apartment common room, so we went on a walk. And by walk, I mean a six mile, late night trek in the frozen Rexburg January.
And we talked about faith and covenants and atonement and children and parents and friendship and love and life goals and priorities and difficult scenarios and working together to build meaningful things. We talked for hours.
And then my feet went numb and he carried me home.
And then, a while later, he did the whole kneeling with a ring thing.
And everyone asked about colors and reception and setting a date, and we didn’t know.
Have you guys thought this through at all?
Only the other part.
One particularly clever fellow explained that now that he gave me a ring, he’s invested. Because money.
It didn’t happen with the ring. It happened in the many hours in each other’s company prior. Most especially that frozen January night.
Which was the very real beginning of the longest, most fulfilling conversation I’ve ever had. A conversation I’m bold enough to hope and believe will never end.
A conversation I fondly think of whenever I look at my ring.
*Most memorably, the Book of Mormon in French, and The Long Walk by Slavomir Rawicz. So romantic….