I’m grateful to say I’ve been the recipient of an amazing amount of love during my life, and not just from my sweet husband. Although I was loved as a child, it was mixed with a lot of emotional unhealth.  When Keith and I first got married there were a lot of disastrous familial events as well. When I think of being loved, I think of the time since I moved to Seattle. 

When we first came we didn’t know anyone. We’d simply fallen in love with the area while interviewing for work, and decided to go ahead and move.  It was risky but such a good decision, and good timing, too. We got here in August, 2001. Had we waited another month the world would’ve already changed and we’d probably have stayed where we were. 

We found an apartment in a charming part of West Seattle, immediately painted it tangerine and magenta to offset the coming weather, and worked on getting jobs.  In the evenings we found ourselves staring at each other blankly, and outside of deciding we’d overreacted to stories of cloudy Seattle days and should probably repaint, we wondered how to get connected with a community. I was still entrenched in all the “shoulds” and “oughts” of Christianity so finding a church was automatically on our list of things to do. I have to admit, it did provide a means of meeting new people, and we were fortunate to find a faith community in which we seemed to fit.  

The church on which we settled was located in the heart of the University District, which has a slightly ragged vibe and is home to a lot of street kids. In the 60’s it was actually designated as an official area where the homeless could legally hang out.  The church leadership seemed humble and the people down-to-earth, and a lot of genuine, practical care was expressed toward those in the neighborhood. The sanctuary walls were and still are, I am sorry to say, a horrendous shade of peach, and the trim is kelly green with red accents. The building had been used as a Mongolian grill at one point, and there’s never been enough money to redo it.  

After church one Sunday there was a potluck lunch. Now, Seattle has a lot of remarkable qualities, and one of them involves the regional cuisine. We focus on fresh fish, vegetables, lovely gluten and dairy-free options, and plenty of international influences. Our specialties are coffee (of course), teas, chocolate, and artisanal breads. In general it’s quite fabulous. Our church, though, was a quirky little melting pot of hippies, students, professors and international visitors. While a Midwest potluck would consist of half a dozen casseroles, some chickens, part of a cow and the inevitable jello-based salads, we found our own potluck dishes were limited to fried rice, some chips and something that smelled profoundly of garlic and coriander. There wasn’t any soup for my shaky hands to deal with and nothing was exceptionally bad on its own, but it was a strange conglomeration. We’ve never been back to a potluck since. 

We lined up behind another couple. The  pair were engaging and affable and the wife was extremely pregnant.  We chose to sit together at a small table, and as we started to chat we began to notice unusual similarities in our stories. Linda and I were both born in small, northern towns in Illinois and majored in music for our undergraduate degrees. Keith and Jason looked like brothers and even wore the same wedding bands. Even more notably, both pairs of us went to Wisconsin on our honeymoons. Who else in the world would do that, on purpose?  I mean, there’s nothing really wrong with Wisconsin, but as far as honeymoon destinations go, it’s somewhere above Detroit but below places where you can’t drink the water.

With each revelation Jason and Keith grew increasingly animated and Linda and I began exchanging glances that said, “Oh my God!  How can there be another man who’s this energetic and expressive?!” 

Strangely enough, for the next month or so we kept seeing each other everywhere.  We’d pass on the highway. We’d bump into each other in a suburb on the other side of Lake Washington. They’d be sitting in a cafe that we’d spontaneously chosen to visit. It got to be ridiculous. It seemed divinity was determined for us to get together. 

After Linda had their first child, a baby girl, she and Jason started feeling isolated, themselves. They no longer could go out and visit with people in the evenings without getting a sitter, so they decided to try bringing visitors to them. They opened their little home to a group of friends, and we were included.  It was through this community with Jason and Linda, that for the first time I began to experience unconditional acceptance. Even when my facade was broken and people could clearly see how fucked up I was, hugs were waiting for me on the other side of our friends’ front door. 

Jason’s hugs were the best. He was always the greeter and every single time he saw my face, he was genuinely glad to see me. His put his whole body into his hugs, and wrapped me up in his acceptance. All I had to do was show up, which was sometimes quite an accomplishment. 

Often I’d be hiding in a corner, making myself as small as possible. Jason would inevitably call me out, and I always had wished someone would. I’d felt invisible and hadn’t liked it, even though I had no idea what to say or do to be different.  When I was with those friends though, I was wanted, and that was everything. I began to learn to let myself be loved, which was crucial on many levels.  It’s hard to love others on an empty tank. 

Those first few years here were some of the most dreadful, soul-shredding, family-building years of my life.  I never would’ve survived on my own, and there I was in a brand new, somewhat introverted city building some of the deepest and most rewarding relationships I’ve ever had. It may have qualified as a miracle. It’s possible that it saved my life. It’s certain that it saved my basic faith.