Hell freezes over
Looking back on the event, it happened about the way I figured it would: nothing went as planned.
"Let's go to the Truman Home," I said, during a lunch break in Independence, Mo. It's a historic site dedicated to a couple in love.
Unfortunately, tickets weren't available for another hour.
Then I figured the little church we attend while in Independence would be perfect, but Cheryl said we had places to go, it was 104 degrees in the shade, and we would be back there in a couple of weeks.
I hadn't thought past the church.
"Let's see what's in the little gazebo," I said a little desperately, heading across the street, hoping she would follow.
Cheryl, who lives near Des Moines, Iowa, wasn't sure how to deal with people who appear to be in the first stages of heatstroke. She followed, cautiously.
The gazebo had faded maps of downtown Independence.
"Now, we're right here," I said, studying the map as I jammed my hand into my pocket to extract the gift.
Cheryl politely feigned interest.
I turned to her.
Held up the ring.
Took her hand.
"That's my right hand," she said.
Stupid tradition. I took her left hand.
She laughed. And laughed. And laughed. I thought I knew what the answer would be, right until then.
"You can think about it," I said.
"Well, I guess the answer is yes," she said, her blue eyes shining.
We went to St. Mary's Church to light a candle in thanksgiving. We talked again about The Mothers: The Virgin Mary, Cheryl's mom, my mom, my dear friend Bernadine, and the mother of Cheryl's close friend Peg, who had promised Cheryl she would pray for her to find true love — or hit the lottery. We could see them up in heaven, conspiring to bring together two people who live seven hours and three states apart. It really wasn't up to us, we decided. They were orchestrating the entire thing; we were just along for the ride.
On the drive to Marion, we talked about the future, and about the past. Mutual friends Don and Anita Westerhaus introduced us via e-mail. We wrote, talked on the phone, became good friends. When the friendship blossomed into something more, I went to the bank, got my mother's engagement ring from the safety deposit box, and asked the folks at Flint Hills Gold to make it shine. It spent 50 years on my Mom's hand, but lost its luster just sitting in a bank vault.
Now it gleams again, on the hand of another woman of grace, kindness, dignity, and beauty.
I'm getting married.
Wow.
— MATT NEWHOUSE
