30 Days of Gratitude Challenge, Day 3: Homemade

For the first time in seven months, I put on a dress last month. Curled my hair—makeup, too. I even wore heels.

I did it for a funeral.

The easiest answer to the question “who died?” is that he was an old family friend. The longer answer is the better story though.

(It almost always is.)

You know the people in your life who are immovable fixtures? The ones who’ve been there from the beginning—not necessarily front and center, like your family, but early on something in you recognized something kindred in them.

That’s who Mr. Doug was.

I’m a poor fit for most people. Too sarcastic and salty and direct for some. Too reserved and cautious for others.

Mr. Doug wasn’t the only person who ever made me feel completely okay when operating at my factory default settings, but he was the first. He was a little gruff and opinionated sometimes, but so am I. He was also softer than he seemed … and so am I. He could dish out a good round of teasing, but his eyes really lit up when you were able to volley back.

There are few things in life I love more than a good verbal volley.

We also shared a love of homemade baked goods. He brought me a cinnamon swirl coffee cake when my grandmother died. I made him a chocolate meringue pie (his granddaughter’s recipe) on his birthday.

We exchanged handwritten thank you notes for the baked goods.

When I heard he was dying, I was sad for his family, whom I’ve loved like my own my whole life. I was sad for my grandfather, who was losing his best friend of 60 years.

But it took me days to be sad for me, and when it finally hit, I crumpled with a sob.

He was one of the ones who lets me be all the things I am.

The weekend before Mr. Doug passed, it was my grandfather’s 88th birthday. I had made a chocolate meringue pie for the celebration, and my granddad said he would take a leftover slice to Mr. Doug the next day.

At the funeral visitation a week later, I hugged Mr. Doug’s daughter and told her how sorry I was for her family’s loss and how much I would miss him.

“He was able to enjoy a bite of your pie,” she told me. “It made him smile.”

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This post was inspired by Callie Feyen’s 30 Days of Grateful Writing Challenge. Learn more here.

30 Days of Gratitude Challenge, Day 2: A Mistake

“Take the kayak out,” she said. “It’s a one seater, but you’ll both definitely fit.”

She was mistaken. Two grown women definitely do not fit in a one-seat blow up kayak. But we rowed around the little lagoon of the AirBnB anyway, playing Katy Perry on a waterproof iPhone, soaked from the waist down and laughing our heads off the whole time.

It was a disaster from start to finish, and it ended up being one of the best moments in my last eight months.

In summary:

• things that are a mistake: expecting to stay dry when you exceed the seating capacity of a kayak.

• things that are not: flying across the country for time spent carving a few more laugh lines with a good friend in golden light.

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This post was inspired by Callie Feyen’s 30 Days of Grateful Writing Challenge. Learn more here.

For Jon, On His Birthday

We met in 1995, when you were 14. I decided—quietly and from a distance—you were the most effortlessly cool person I’d ever been around and all kinds of cute. I wasn’t the only one with this revelation; Jon Batchelor was a hot commodity at City Road UMC’s youth group gatherings. I was shy and awkward though so I just ... watched.

You were my brother’s friend. For years, I saw you at swim parties and movie nights and playing video games. It was the best part of those nights for me, seeing you. I told no one. Because you’ve always been braver than me, I’d learn later that you started asking “so, will Jennifer be there?” somewhere around 1999.

We didn’t see each other for awhile. I met another boy and planned to move to Michigan and you came to my farewell party. I found myself standing next to you at the food table and, as you leaned over me to grab some chips, you said, “I don’t think you should go.” I brushed you off because I didn’t think you meant it the way I wanted you to mean it.

I would’ve stayed if I’d known how you meant it, I think.

Six months later, I was back home. Alone. On a Saturday night in February, you called my parents’ landline and invited me to come over and watch a movie with you and a couple friends. It was the first time you ever called that number and asked for me. I sat next to you on the couch watching Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and you held my hand all night long and all I could think was, “Jon Batchelor is touching me.”

Two and a half months later, we all went dancing for a friend’s birthday. I danced with you for hours that night. You’re a really great dancer and I’m not, but it didn’t matter. You walked me to my car at 2 a.m., and kissed me goodnight. And all I could think was, “Jon Batchelor is kissing me.”

Falling in love with you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Staying in love with you is my most enjoyable work. Building a life with you feels like coming home, over and over.

We’ve celebrated your birthday in bars and at home with new babies. But whether we are dressed up in a nice restaurant or in our sweats, on a porch swing at the lake, sipping coffee because everything is canceled in the midst of the most unexpected year, it doesn’t matter.

Because 25 years worth of road led to this moment. And whether there are presents or not or parties or not, there is always this: me beside you.

Happy birthday, my love. You are my favorite and my best yes. 39 looks good on you.

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This post was inspired in part by the 30 Days of Grateful Writing Challenge by Callie Feyen through Exhale Creativity. Learn more here.