Just over 18 years ago . . .

. . . I heard one word that changed my life forever. The word was “yes,” and it came from the girl I loved when I asked her to spend the rest of her life with me. The days that followed were exciting and challenging.  They were filled with laughter, tears, lots of joy, and plenty of anxious moments.

Today, I was reminded of one such moment.  On the night of our wedding, my bride was determined to have her picture made in her gown on the steps of the Opryland Hotel’s Magnolia Lobby.  This would have been fine, except that our wedding took place at the First Baptist Church in Cullman, AL. That’s roughly 153 miles from church altar to hotel steps.  Since the complexities of getting into her dress prevented the option of simply changing clothes, we were stuck in our matrimonial best for the duration of the trip.

Furthermore, while we left the church in a spacious limo (thanks again Mike and Melanie), the bulk of our journey took place in a two-door Nissan Sentra.  The train of Darlene’s dress alone contained more fabric than the entire interior of this car.  Nevertheless, my two eyes peered through a sea of white satin as we made the perilous journey toward those fateful steps and on to the rest of our lives.

Now, I told you all of that to tell you this.  I dropped Darlene off at the entrance of the Magnolia lobby, along with all of our assorted bags, suitcases, and ancillary items.  Then I set out in search of a parking space, which I eventually found somewhere in the neighboring city of Hendersonville.  When I finally returned, I found Darlene in the lobby out of breath and frantically gathering our things around her.

Apparently, it was only after I left that she realized there was no good way to get through the revolving door in her dress.  And once she was in, how would she get back to all of our bags?  She saw no staff to ask for assistance. She was stuck. So she waited, and waited, and waited.  But since I was walking back from the next county, it took a while.

In the mean time, people began noticing my lovely bride in her sparkling cathedral gown. Even now, I can hear what they were thinking. “Oh look, Henry.  That poor girl has been abandoned on her wedding night, and in such a lovely dress.  What a shame!”

Eventually, a few well-intentioned bystanders learned of my wife’s plight. Suddenly and without warning, they grabbed our bags. They took Darlene by the arm.  They propped open doors. And in less time than it took us to say “I do,” they ushered my new wife across the threshold . . . without me.

She still talks about the fear and panic that set in immediately as all of those people, some she had just met, some who were total strangers, began swarming her and taking our things.  The flurry of good intentions left her disoriented and scared.

Almost 18 days ago . . .

. . . I heard a word that changed my life forever. The word was “cancer,” and it came from the girl I love as she suddenly wondered about the rest of her life.  So began the anxious moments. But this time, I found myself standing at the threshold.  It was my job to get Darlene, along with our children, along with everything in our lives, through that door despite the huge obstacle in our way.  There were all these things I was responsible for. And so I waited . . . and waited. I stood there not knowing what to do next.

That’s when it happened.  The people around me began picking up my stuff.  They began taking me by the arm and ushering me forward.  But wait! I don’t want to go through that door.  I’m not ready.  Put my stuff down. I can carry it.  I just need time to figure this thing out first.

Fear and panic set in as all these people began swarming me and carrying my things.  The flurry of good intentions left me disoriented and scared.  That lasted a couple of days.  That’s how long it took me to realize how to do what only I could do.  So I reached out and took my wife by the hand.  And with the help of our family and friends, we’re now walking across that threshold . . . together.

This is a special note of thanks to all those who have suddenly grabbed a bag or gathered a gown or opened a door.  There are so many of you.  And you are so good . . . so God.  Thank you for loving us during this time.  I can’t say that it’s easy to let you do these things.  But this is simply a journey we can’t take alone. We love you.

If Logan is going down, he’s goin’ down in a blaze of glory. Bring it on, bandits.

A big thing in our house right now is the History Channel series America: The Story of Us. Our recent home-schooling experiences have taught us the value of history told in unique and creative ways. We keep recording these programs and getting sucked in by the “I-never-knew-that” factor upon which these types of series seem to be built.

Yet despite the flashy reenactments and deep-voiced cinematic narration, there’s still no substitute for first-hand experience.  My children learned this on a recent family trip to Logan Jr. High School, the historic institution where my wife attended kindergarten, first, and second grades.  I should immediately point out that my wife is in no way historic.  The school, however, is.  In fact, it’s not even a working school now, but rather a community center safely in the hands of local preservationists.

Logan Jr. High School is an unassuming, ancient structure with tan rock walls and hardwood floors that bare witness to years of young feet finding their way through life. Thanks to the afore-mentioned preservationists, almost every detail of this facility is still in tact, right down to the trophies displayed proudly in glass cases along the main hallway.  Fading class photos chronicle a legacy of neatly posed children sitting in ordered rows of desks. Of the few classrooms, most are large and designed to accommodate more than one class at a time. According to my wife, her second grade classroom and its teacher were shared by an entire other grade – at the same time.

The large rooms still have all the trappings, including the manual pencil sharpeners and chalkboards of solid and dashed parallel lines.  But perhaps the most intriguing fixtures are the small hallways hidden behind each of the classrooms.  These narrow spaces, called cloak rooms, are lined with wall hooks and low shelves.  Designed for quick one-way traffic, cloak rooms facilitated the in and out rush of children as they hurried to beat the bell or were saved by it.  It’s not so odd, even now, to find an area of a classroom devoted to coats and books.  But this space was different.  It’s placement, it’s design, it’s feel were all oddly reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie.

I’ll spare you the true historical facts surrounding the school.  Suffice to say that it housed more than one generation of the local community.  Even older family members touring with us remarked several times how much smaller things were than they had remembered as a child.

As we strolled through the dark halls (apparently the preservationists are also energy conservationists), my wife began to laugh.  She told our girls about a particular morning when she decided NOT to go gentle into that good school.  After being dropped off, she cried and kicked and screamed and employed all sorts of unorthodox diplomacy.  Her teacher, unyielding, tightened her grip and hauled her into the school.  My wife’s subsequent protests turned to kicking which resulted in the unfortunate flight of one of her shoes.  The flight ended when the shoe struck the principle in the forehead.

As she laughed, she told us that neither she, nor her teacher, nor the principle were laughing at the time.

She could have shared that story sitting in our living room.  But now my kids have touched and smelled and felt what it was like for their mother to be a kid in school.  They’ve walked those halls, seen those pictures, and heard those stories, even as they stood in the very spot where that history was made.

And so, on a Sunday afternoon, in a little town from which we get the name of our third child, our family gained a true understanding of, and perhaps even an appreciation for, one episode of The Abbotts: The Story of Us.

In 1998, Dr. Spencer Johnson released a book about change and how we respond to it.  The book, Who Moved My Cheese, was an instant success.

In 2010, Darlene Abbott discovered that someone had in fact moved her cheese.

When she finally found it, she was reminded of the dramatic change that entered her life just three short years before.

That’s when Logan, the cheese monster, came to live with us.

I know. Scary, right?  Welcome to our world.

This is the man who taught me to hunt and to fish. Things are beginning to make sense now.