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Him: “Meet me at the fair”
Me: “That’s the name of one of my favorite episodes of Little house on the Prairie.”
Him: “I love those books. My mom used to read them to me.”
He had a way of saying and doing little things that felt like a tap on the shoulder from the universe, “Pay attention Kristin. Don’t miss the clues. Don’t let sincere words fall on bitter, deaf ears. Don’t let your jaded eyes be blind to genuinely thoughtful gestures. Don’t let your cold, resentful, brokejn heart be too frozen to skip a beat sometimes.” It was so much of what I had been missing and craving for years, even when I couldn’t quite put my finger on the void.
So we met up at the fair one evening. Up until then, we had only had a few dates, drinks together, endless, easy, thorough, heartfelt conversation, and some seriously passionate kisses whenever and wherever the mood struck. Kismet.
He found me waiting for Ginger, who was on a ride. He appeared with two tickets for the ferris wheel in hand; “If one of your friends would keep an eye on your kids for a minute later, I’d like to go for a ride with you.” Despite the best intentions, we never did make it on that ferris wheel, for reasons that I would perhaps thank the universe for later.
It was a lovely evening. Easy and comfortable as always. And it was scary. I was starting to think that he was special, and I didn’t feel anywhere near ready for special. My plan: Keep him at a very safe distance.
He walked us out to my car at the end of the night. We all said goodbye to him. And as I turned to walk away, he said “Oh wait, here, this is for you. Trust me” and handed me a flash drive.
I went home, and for some reason (because I have four kids) I forgot about it. Then he sent me a goodnight text and urged me to plug in that flash drive. “It’s something you’ve been missing. Trust me.”
So I plugged it in, and up on my computer screen, popped the titles of all of my long lost stories that I had been mouring the loss of for months. Stories I had written about motherhood as I know it, that I had poured my heart into and cherished. My very first published stories. They had disappeared from my limited scope of the world wide web and were seemingle being held captive in a cyber abyss locked in a treasure chest. And now, I had just laid eyes on my treasures, right at my fingertips.
It stunned me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like a little puzzle piece of my heart was put back in place and in the silence of my awe, I swear I could hear my heart pounding and it’s icy shell cracking. I cried. I cried because I had my stories back, and I cried because someone cared so much. Someone, who had only known the severely broken version of me, found me worthy of such a miracle. I cried because I knew if he had gotten me on that ferris wheel, and handed me this gem, I would have cried and cried and cried and my cover as cold and heartless and incapable of love may have been blown. I cried because he was, in fact, special, and I still wasn’t convinced that I was worthy of special just yet.
But that’s the beauty of special. Special is patient and strong and courageous. Special can see beauty in our flaws. Special wants to help carry our baggage. Special sees our battle scars as a badge of courage. Special admires our strength during our weakest moments and never lets us forget that it’s there. Special is not afraid of four kids and their broken mom. Special feels heroic while insisting that it is in fact you who has saved yourself. Special is all of the demands you throw out to the universe when you’re jaded and your standards go up because broken hearts teach cold, hard lessons, appearing when you’re certain the timing is wrong. Special is an understatement.
Him: “You just set the pace, and I’ll keep us moving in the right direction.”
Universe: “He is special. You are worthy.”
