Eleven years ago, on Memorial Day weekend, a red-headed hippie chick took a deep breath and looked at the dreadlocked hottie in front of her and let the words tumble out.
I love you.
Who knew that those patchwork bohemians, who lived in a van down by the river (or where ever it was parked that day), would some day live in a lovely house in the boonies?
Who knew that the name Jesus, that made those two young people so uncomfortable, would someday come to be the one word that could bring comfort in times of trial?
Who knew that it would take a battle with alcohol to bring that young man to a place where he knew he needed to look for help outside of himself? And he made the choice to give his life to the Lord even though he was certain it would mean that the stubborn woman he loved would leave him for it.
Who knew that the stubborn red-headed woman would come to a place where she didn’t recognize herself, angry and bitter over a long and twisted custody trial? A place where she had fallen so low that she had no other choice but to look up and ask for help. And that God would reach out as soon as her hand was raised.
Eleven years ago, who knew that these two would last? That they were a perfect match?
Through years of highs and lows, selfish arguments and nights of going to bed angry. Through months of living like strangers while alcohol and immaturity stood like a chain-link fence between the two.
Despite all odds, the Word of God and the Grace of Jesus would bring the two to understand true love and the divine plan for marriage.