Chapter One: We Should be Friends

Photo by Aubrey Renee

I am not a love expert and actually am pretty far from it. I was never the girl who had it all together when it came to relationships and guess what--in my seven years of marriage I still don't have it all together! What I do know though, is that a story like this one is absolutely worth reading.

 If you had told eighteen-year-old Ashley that she would be married in two short years, she would have straight laughed in your face. My freshman year of college brought me heart-ache, disappointment, unsafe situations, unpredictable bosses and all of those things just proved to me that marriage was not something I felt called to. I wasn't the Christian girl who prayed for her future spouse and her hypothetical children. I didn't pray for his purity or his heart because honestly, I didn't trust too much that he was out there. At one point before I moved out of my Michigan home, my mom and Grandma suggested to me that I may need to learn to cook just in case I did get married someday. "No I don't," I responded. "God knows the desires of my heart." And guess what? God did. I wasn't concerned with cooking for a man or him cooking for me; if I had to eat cereal and Easy Mac every night, I was going to college and would celebrate my independence.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be with someone. I've been a hopeless romantic since I was a little boy, claiming that I would marry my mother and live with her forever. It was no big secret. I spent most of my teenage years falling hard and fast for different girls. Some relationships were certainly better than others, each one was important in my growth as a man. To be fair and honest, I learned the hard way that I was needy and clingy. I wanted so desperately to be in a romance like you see in the movies, to be with my forever love and to live out our happily ever after. I am positive along the way that I creeped more than a few girls out. Truth be told, I've thought about emailing an apology to them, but even that sounds creepy. I hope they have chalked my exuberance for love up to being immature.

After my heart had fallen, broken, repaired and fallen more times than I really can remember, I started writing in a journal. It wasn't a fancy handmade leather bound journal, but I thought it was pretty.  This journal was the outlet my heart needed. I wrote love letters and notes to my future wife. I told her that I was praying for her, and day dreamed about lazy snow days together, and the exciting trips we would take. I speculated where we would meet, and hoped that where she was, she was happy. I used this as a journal to temper what I was saying to my girlfriend (whomever she was at that time) so that I could try to hide the fact that since I was eleven-years old, all I ever wanted was a wife.

I entered Sunergos Coffee Shop on Preston Street one crisp morning in October of 2007. I wore black gaucho pants (I am so glad those went out of style, but then again maybe they weren't ever even IN style...??) and a black and white striped tee. I had a speech that morning to give that was worth a doozy of my overall grade, three finals and a ginormous paper due that wasn't quite yet complete. With my arms piled high with textbooks and a laptop (I was the weird one who has never carried a bag, or at least a useful bag), the Barista offered me a free cup of coffee. He began making casual conversation, smiling a lot, and when I told him the giant workload that welcomed me that day, he said, "I hope you have someone at home who can rub your shoulders at the end of all this!" I smiled and without really thinking twice, said, "We should be friends." I sat down, chugged my cup of Joe and went on my way. Little did I know, those four words would be the most important thing I said all day.

During my undergrad, I worked the morning shift at Sunergos Coffee. I had to be at work at 6:00 AM to open, and lived a good twenty minutes away. So naturally I woke up every day at 5:45. I loved working there. Let's be honest, everyone coming through the shop at that hour needed the drug I was serving, and so they were all really friendly. I knew most of them by name, all of them by their cup of coffee. On October 4th, 2007, someone new walked into the shop. She was blonde, gorgeous, carrying a huge stack of books and went straight to a table where Pastor Tim (Coffee, Room for Cream) was sitting and started talking to him. I knew Pastor Tim, and I knew this girl was beautiful, so I did what any hopeless romantic would do: I flirted shamelessly and unabashedly. I'm not even sorry.

"You look like you have quite the day with all those books, your coffee is on me." As I started making her a Café Miele, I asked her about the day. She was describing to me the tests and speeches and papers that were ahead and that she needed a place to get some work done. I remember saying "I sure hope you have someone to rub your shoulders tonight after all this." I was testing the boyfriend waters. She said, "We should be friends. I live with Jill, but I don't think she'll rub them." (Jill, Peach White Tea, keep the leaves for a second steep).  "We should be friends, I'm Asa".

I left Ashley alone to study. I didn't want to be any more forward. I knew how to reach out to her if I wanted. Pastor Tim and Jill I saw every day. I'm very sure I was much happier and friendlier with everyone else who came in the shop that morning. I was hoping Ashley would take note of my good nature- Hoping she would want to talk some more. She didn't. She had work to do. She brought me the empty mug and thanked me for her coffee, and I watched her leave. I finished my shift wondering if and when I would see her again.

Later that evening, I attended a Cru event (Campus Crusade for Christ) and I just started to crash- emotionally, mentally and spiritually. I was tired. I hardly slept the night before but I thought, Hey, this will rejuvenate me and I'll feel so much more rested. Five minutes in, I was ready to walk out. The topic was marriage and the guest speaker was talking about how college was such a great place to meet your future spouse, especially in ministries and events such as the one we were in. Whatever else he said apparently royally offended me and struck a nerve because I walked out sobbing hysterically. That night on my drive back to my house I called my mom in tears. "It was stupid, Mom. I didn't come here to find my husband. I especially didn't enroll in college to find one. I came to pursue horses, get an education, and stand on my own two feet. I just don't get it--what is the BIG deal?! Besides, if I ever get married, which I won't, it will be to someone like the man I met today at the coffee shop."

It was so late, and was probably even crossing into early morning, but I (like most college kids) wanted to check Facebook.  I stooped a pot of tea, washed my face with hot water and changed into comfy clothes (my love language to myself). Opening my laptop, I decided to search. How did I find him? I have NO idea, because I don't remember us exchanging names, and surely not first and last names? But with a name like Asa, perhaps I searched all the Asa's local to Louisville and I recognized his face immediately. Not in the mood to 'friend' him, after all, he had only given me a cup of coffee and we had only just met; I messaged him instead. "Thanks for the cup of coffee," I wrote. "It really helped me get through my day." I remember closing my eyes that night, wondering why my heart skipped a little beat at the thought of him messaging me back.

Then I had an idea: (This is why I owe a lot of girls an apology for being creepy...But again, still pretty sure that's a creepy thing to do.) Ashley told me she had a Biology mid-term and a speech to give for her Communications class. I knew the school of Natural Sciences and the Communications building were just across the street from each other. So I went and found a bench in between them to "read" and get "fresh air". I waited on that bench for longer than I care to admit hoping to see her. I went to the coffee shop on campus hoping she was there getting refueled. And I left campus, not sure if I would ever really see this girl again.
Defeated, I went home. I'm sure I buried myself in homework, TV, or any other number of distractions. The hard part about hiding is that you can't escape your own head. And I couldn't stop thinking about the Blonde in the white and black striped shirt. I couldn't stop hoping she had been successful with her tests and speech; wondering if she was happy and finding some rest at the end of this long day. I prayed for her, prayed that despite the stress of life that she would have peace, and a reason to smile. And just as I was climbing into bed I got a Facebook message. "Thank you for the cup of coffee". And I knew it was time to fall one last time.

I Am Here

I hear the 'drip...drip...drip' and the beep of the coffee maker. The candles are glowing and giving off a faint vanilla and lavender scent. Standing up from my little white desk in my tiny dining room nook, I wrap my cardigan tighter around me. Slowly, I pour a warm cup of decaffeinated coffee and add my favorite hazelnut cream. The house is dark and I can hear the faint hum of the heater, soon to kick back on. Our fat black house cat hops in my lap, his favorite place, while I sit and write. I close my eyes before I begin putting my pen to the paper, and I breathe deeply. I can feel it encompassing my shoulders, I can smell it down to the bones of our one hundred year old home. I can sense it in the squeaks and creaks of these aging wooden floors- it is love. It is here. It is home.

I have always struggled with love. In high school I dated a handsome and Godly young man who I truly believed that I would marry. We met when we were fifteen and stayed together until I was eighteen and preparing to leave Michigan for Kentucky. That summer, I began to panic. I feared change and in my heart, I was convinced that I would end up being the one who got hurt in the relationship. So kissing another guy made total sense in my still very young mind, when in reality it ruined our relationship, making me emotionally miserable for many months of my freshman year of college.

Fast forward to my fifth year of marriage, when I was twenty-five and figuring out how to be Mom to two babies, fifteen months apart from each other. My hormones were a mess, I had Postpartum Thyroditis for almost two years straight and my emotions were all out of whack. It made total sense to start toying with an emotional attachment to someone else then, right? My once God-centered marriage, the one I naively believed was immune to wrong-doing, was shaken to its' core. I was so scared because everything seemed so good and so safe- Our jobs, two happy and healthy children, a beautiful home in the heart of the city; I began to consider sabotaging it, just like eighteen-year-old me.

What resulted was the worst storm our family has ever seen, a summer spent of guilt, repentance, forgiveness and reconciliation. The words 'I choose you' tattooed on our arms, are a daily reminder that my husband chose me, in spite of my failures; and that I so humbly, choose him in return.

The wick on the candle pops loudly. The coffee maker beeps again, this time letting me know that it has been almost two hours since it brewed. My cat stretches and yawns, looking up at me almost as if saying, “Aren't you ready for bed yet?” No, not yet. I want to write a little more. I want my heart to be reminded of how far it has stretched and grown, how it has been rebuilt from the tiny shatters along the way. I want to appreciate this life, this love. And then I want to close my tired eyes as I climb into bed, slipping my hand into his as I drift off.

Our children are so happy. Sweet Pierson and spunky Reese. Three and two, they are not anything I could have planned for, nor could my heart have ever realized the bittersweet pain it would endure by loving them. They have been spared, by the grace of God, from when I was digging my heels into figuring out how to accept grace and forgiveness. They never witnessed my husband's hurt and anger and they never heard me say that I thought about leaving. Thank God for this, for growth and for mercy—that we want our children to grow to know their Creator and that because of that, we strive to be better.

Life is leveling out, our routine now just flows, they love their nightly bath and bedtime. They are learning how to love each other as well as how to manage their feelings when they don't. He asks a million questions a day and he radiates love everywhere he goes. She speaks up a storm, and spends her day being Mommy to her baby dolls. She is absolutely the best cuddler in the entire universe. Together, they complete me.

Here I am, mother of two, wife of seven years and I have grown so much. I remember sobbing my eyes out (as well as shamefully spewing out some not-so-nice words) when I read 'pregnant' on that stick. He was seven months old; I had been nursing and taking a birth control pill safe for breastfeeding mothers. My cycle never started, I woke up on Martin Luther King Jr. Day three years ago feeling funny, and I just knew. Every single ounce of me doubted my capability of raising two tiny humans. “How am I going to go to the grocery store?” I thought. “How will I get out of the car and up the gazillion (ten...) steps to our home?” “How can I carry two children on my hips?” All of these trivial questions entered my brain and sadly stuck there for months on end, until learning she was a girl and when I started to embrace my journey with her. They play tag, running in circles around the open spaces of our first floor. Play-doh creations and Hotwheel races, dressing up like Batman and Princesses, experimenting with nail polish and Spiderman tattoos. And I just want to freeze time. Every single night before I climb into bed, I can't not quietly go into their rooms. It never fails that he is cuddling Lion and she is holding her Bitty Baby's hand, their fuzzy blankets warmly comforting their still baby cheeks.

My legs are beginning to fall asleep. I need to stretch them out and he jumps down. “Sorry, Sam,” I whisper. I close the cover to my journal which reads, “Let it Be.” I rest my head on the back of my hands and my eyes happily close. The words that have been said here, the memories that are embedded in this place; let them stay. I am so far from having it all together. I have screwed up, I have had to ask for complete forgiveness in more ways than one and I have cried into my husband's chest as he reminds me why I am loved. It doesn't come easily for me, sometimes it has even made me want to run. But the place that I am in, the “You are Here” dot that grounds me; it is their love. It is in the safety of his arms, the soothing tones of his voice. It is the contagious laughter that bursts from my children and in the warmth of their perfect embrace. The road to get here hasn't been easy but I am here now and that's all that matters.