Beyond Ordinary: When a Good Marriage Just Isn't Good Enough (3 page)

We started to share about our families. Justin was the oldest; I was the middle child, yet we both played the role of the peacemaker in our families. Our dads were both the blue-collar, jack-of-all-trades types. Our moms had both worked hard to advance in their careers. Justin’s mom was a teacher’s aide but earned her college degree to become a special education teacher. My mom was a paralegal who landed a job in downtown Chicago at one of the largest law firms in the world. There was so much we had in common.

Yet Justin was bold; I was timid. He could sell a used doughnut; you might buy one from me out of pity just because I lovingly offered it. He was book smart; I was street smart. My very first test at LCC was writing the books of the Bible in the correct order and
spelling
them correctly. It might as well have been the bar exam! Justin, by contrast, could glance at a textbook’s table of contents on his way to a test and ace it.

The once-arrogant jock who relentlessly got on my nerves was now a friend I started to miss when we were apart. Rather than dreading his calls, I anticipated them. After turning him down fifty-one times, I was praying for the fifty-second!

I will never forget coming back to the dorm after my first official date with Justin. Team Justin was waiting for me in my dorm room. As I entered, we all giggled, and Angie, who was never shy with words, spoke up. “So . . .
what happened
?
”

“We kissed!” I said as I slid to the floor with my back against the door, my eyes closed as if I were back in that moment. “When he kissed me it was like fireworks!”

Team Justin had won, and I’m so glad they did!

JUSTIN:

When Trisha and I were away on basketball trips, we would sit together on the bus and talk, hang out in the lobbies of hotels and talk, and sit on the bleachers and talk. We talked about everything: our families, relationships, God, ministry, our hopes and dreams, and everything under the sun. There was a natural flow to our conversation. Perhaps because dating initially was not an option, I felt a freedom to relax and be myself, and soon we became best friends.

The semester ended, and we both went home for Christmas break. We missed each other. When we returned to school in January, there was a sense of romance and attraction in our relationship that hadn’t been there before. (It had always been there for me, but Trisha was now open to reciprocating.) Approximately the fifty-second time I asked Trish out, she finally said yes.

We went to Bennigan’s on our first date. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. I had a 1988 Ford Taurus, but I didn’t want to drive that on our first date. I borrowed a friend’s beat-up, run-down Chevy Cavalier convertible instead. It was January in Illinois, so we wouldn’t be riding with the top down anyway, but for some reason, the convertible made the date more romantic. Trisha ordered a grilled chicken salad and didn’t eat more than two bites. She was nervous; I was nervous. But despite our nerves, it was easy to be with each other. I had never gone out with someone who already knew me so well. When we got back to campus, I asked if I could kiss her. She said yes, and I’m not going to lie, it was amazing!

We couldn’t talk enough. We’d stay up late at night talking on the phone. I was never much of a breakfast person, but I started getting up so I could see Trish in the cafeteria before her classes. We spent most nights studying together. We just loved being together.

A few months after we started dating, Trisha came home with me for the weekend. She was excited about meeting Kyle and some of the other kids at the church where I was a youth pastor. I could
feel myself falling in love with Trisha before, but seeing her interact with the kids and share the love of God with them made me fall head over heels. We started to serve together. She sang and led worship for our little youth group, and I taught. God had created us to complement each other in an amazing way.

Not only did we fall in love with each other, we fell in love with the vision of what God could do through us as a couple. We fell in love with the thought of serving God—together. We fell in love with the idea of changing the world—together. God had brought us together and given us the same desire to serve him, the same desire to serve students, the same desire to help people find the way back to God through a personal relationship with Jesus. It was amazing. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this woman, and I wanted to serve God for the rest of my life with her.

I proposed to Trish on July 5, 1994. We had been dating only a little over six months, but we had been looking at engagement rings and dreaming about life and ministry together. Trisha was living at home for the summer, and I came up with a plan to surprise her. I drove about three hours to her house. I rented a limo and was going to pick her up from work.

Trisha worked at a Christian day camp for third- and fourth-grade kids. I got dressed in the only suit I owned; the limo came to Trisha’s house to pick me up. I had purchased two dozen roses and had them in a vase ready to greet her in the car. As the limo drove me from her house to the camp, I cued up an audiocassette of our song: “I Swear” by All-4-One. This was going to be an
incredible
proposal.

I had called the camp director and asked that he keep Trish in his office until I showed up. He was glad to help me pull off the proposal. I rolled up in the limo, stepped out of the door, and the camp director walked Trish out of his office and into the parking lot. As soon as I saw her, my nerves went into high gear. I had made reservations at Michael Jordan’s restaurant in downtown Chicago. My plan was to propose to her with our song playing as we drove to the restaurant.

Trisha was caught totally off guard. She was muddy and dirty and wet. I had had no idea that on this particular day the camp had gone creek walking. I was undeterred. I asked her to get in the limo. I was shaking as I pushed the tape into the tape deck and we pulled out of the parking lot.

I had my speech planned out. I had envisioned this moment my entire three-hour drive to Trisha’s house. As I began, the driver took a sharp turn, and the two dozen roses fell off the seat, spilling onto the floor. The water from the vase filled the floorboard and covered our feet.

I was flustered. I dropped the ring box into the water. By this time, our song had played all the way through and a different song that had nothing to do with swearing or “better or worse” or “death do us part” was playing. Now
I
was ready to swear, just in a different way. As I scrambled to pick up the ring and soak up the water, we came to a dead stop in Chicago rush-hour traffic.

There was no going back. Despite the soggy conditions, despite the wrong song playing, despite my nerves and my unmet expectations of how this proposal would play out, I got on my knee in the back of the limo and asked the most beautiful woman I’d ever known if she would marry me.

Given how many times I asked her out before she said yes, I was a little nervous. But before I could even finish, she was crying and screamed, “Yes!” By the time we arrived at Michael Jordan’s restaurant, we were engaged. It wasn’t exactly storybook, but it was our story and we loved writing it together.

We were married in July 1995. After all that God had done and the plans that we knew God had for us, how could our marriage be anything but extraordinary?

TRISHA:

All girls dream of their wedding day from the time they know how to dream. One day they dream about the ceremony being inside at
night with candles ablaze, the bride wearing a simple gown. Maybe the next day, month, or year they decide that an afternoon garden wedding with an elaborate, over-the-top dress is more fitting. By the time they grow into young women, they pretty much have the wedding planned before they ever meet the groom.

As soon as Justin and I were engaged, I put my plan for our wedding into place. I knew exactly what I wanted. I had envisioned every detail, from the ceremony to the reception, and as far as I was concerned, I had an amazing vision for my—I mean
our
—wedding day.

I am Hispanic. My father is Mexican, and my mother is German and Irish. Even though my immediate family celebrated only a few Mexican traditions, friends whose families celebrated all of them surrounded me.

One of my favorite Mexican traditions is a Quinceañera, the celebration of a girl turning fifteen. Traditionally, it’s a ceremony that has many of the same customs typically found in a wedding reception, including a big, pretty dress. I love big, pretty dresses, and although I never expected to have a Quinceañera, I knew I would get an opportunity to wear a big, pretty dress for my wedding!

I envisioned marrying a handsome, tall man, and I never really cared what color skin God gave him because Alex P. Keaton, Ponch, and Theo Huxtable were all cute. I just knew he needed to be
tall
. My mom was about the same height as my dad, and she rarely wore heels. My man needed to be tall because wearing heels on my wedding day was a must. My tall groom and I would get married at the church I grew up in with flowers cascading over every nook and cranny. My dad would have to take one for the team and wear some type of shoes to make him taller so I wouldn’t look like bridezilla next to him as he walked me down the aisle. My husband and I would drive off into the sunset in a convertible or maybe on horseback—as long as the groom was tall, this detail didn’t matter.

Without realizing it, I did get the tall man of my dreams and
the big, pretty dress to go with him. Imagine Cinderella meets ’90s pop culture: the puffiest, most bedazzled dress ever created. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just my dress that was over the top. My veil was so grand that at first glance, it looked like a bearded dragon. The man of my dreams could barely get close enough to kiss me without poking himself in the eye!

It was 1995, and that year the Chicagoland area experienced one of the worst heat waves on record. Still, despite the heat, Justin and I were set to get married on July 15 in Joliet, Illinois, at First Baptist Church, the church where I grew up. We were too broke for cascading flowers, so we cascaded cheap tulle instead. Our mentor, pastor, and friend Lynn Laughlin officiated for next to nothing, and my brother and two friends sang for free. Our wedding wouldn’t be complete without Team Justin, who tearfully read Scripture and who ironically all wore black in protest that I was leaving them.

Even with the heat, I insisted on wearing my big, beautiful, and long-sleeved wedding dress and bearded-dragon veil. That would have been a very normal and appropriate desire for a bride had my church been air-conditioned. But it wasn’t. A bride in a huge, long-sleeved dress in a non-air-conditioned church sanctuary with groomsmen wearing tuxedos and grandmothers on the verge of passing out didn’t exactly live up to the vision I’d had as a little girl.

Thankfully, the reception venue had air-conditioning. During the reception, our moms spent most of the evening opening the cards we received, counting each check and ten-dollar bill in hopes that we’d have enough money to leave for our honeymoon. While they counted, I excitedly anticipated the very last detail I had dreamed of—the dance of the bride and groom and the father-daughter dance. Everything happened just as I’d imagined. Justin wasn’t just tall; he was gorgeous inside and out. He took my hand, held me close, and danced me in a circle over and over and over again in the only way he knew how. It was endearing (and a little nauseating).

When it was time to dance with my dad, I realized I had never taken the time to think through what this dance would mean.
This would be the last time my dad would take me into his arms and dance with his baby girl. I had been so busy planning that I wasn’t ready to say good-bye. I was barely twenty, and my heart ached for how I would miss not only him but my mom; my sister, Julie; my brother, Frankie; and my four-month-old niece, Kylie. Dad buried his head into my cheek and shoulder, and I cherished every second he danced with me—a moment in time that this girl had never thought to dream up.

As the dance ended, our moms were in a puddle of tears, not crying just at the scene before them but that we were given enough money to leave on our honeymoon. Justin and I were college students—broke ones—and we’d put every dime we made into our big wedding. Being told we had enough money to leave on our honeymoon allowed the sorrow of leaving my family to be replaced with gratitude that we were able to go.

We left the reception in a brand-new 1995 Astro minivan. Justin’s parents graciously allowed us to borrow it. We had hoped for something a little sportier, but it was nice. As we drove onto the interstate, horns blared congratulations all around us. Exactly forty-five minutes later, we came to a standstill—one that lasted three hours.

Six hours after leaving our reception, we finally arrived at our hotel. We were simply exhausted. The carry-me-over-the-threshold tradition was abandoned, and all I wanted was to be carried to bed. As soon as we arrived at the hotel, “that time of the month” arrived too. This was definitely not what Justin expected! Instead of romance, he found himself making a trip to Walmart to purchase feminine products he had never purchased before. I was asleep when he returned, and being the gentleman that he is, he climbed into bed, kissed my forehead, and passed out.

We woke up the next morning believing that things would be better. Justin and I both grew up in lower- to middle-income families. Going on vacation seemed to us a once-in-a-lifetime experience. So getting to go to Holden Beach, North Carolina—
even though it took twenty-five hours to get there—was a dream come true. We’d finally arrived.

Although we needed a redo of our first night together, we thought we’d hit the beach first. The beauty of the ocean was overwhelming, and even more enjoyable was watching my newly married husband. Justin spent hours pretending he was dead in the water, allowing the waves to push him onto the shore like a beached whale. It was hilarious watching people freak out for a split second thinking that he was dead, only to have him pop up like a kid playing a trick.

We were so excited to be at the beach that neither one of us thought about sunscreen, nor did we, in the midst of having so much fun, think to keep track of the time. I was officially sunburned. Not just sunburned,
blistered
. We were on track to have the worst honeymoon ever.