It's terribly ordinary, really, the way it all began. No Hollywood meet cute or struck-by-lightning moment to make you believe in love at first sight. This isn't to say our story isn't exceptional. To me, it is the most magical, faith-affirming love story there ever was. As Alma said, "from small and simple things are great things brought to pass." And for us, it all started with the smallest and simplest of things. It started with a hello and a handshake.
Ok, so I suppose an argument could be made that it started before that. When a 27-year old woman started grad school with her heart set on doing research in Cameroon.
Or before that, when a heartbroken 25-year old had her life course altered because she couldn't afford to attend the Ivy League journalism school she'd just been accepted to.
Or before that, when an eager 20-year old met a fabulous young journalist from Cameroon and the country became embedded deep within her heart.
Or before that, when a 16-year old girl wrote "Leave my heart in Africa" on her very first bucket list, without much of an idea of what that really meant.
Or, perhaps, it started in a dozen other little moments before that. All the ones that serve as signposts on that broken road the Rascal Flatts sing about.
Maybe it started in time immemorial, a promise made in the pre-existence, long before either of us walked the earth. But for all intents and purposes, we'll say it started on a muggy night in November. And it started with a hello and a handshake.
💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜 💜
I had been in Cameroon a few weeks already and I was eager to attend church. I'd been away from home for months already, having spent the better part of the fall in Europe. That, combined with the stress of managing my research projects had me running on empty and in sore need of a spiritual fill up.
The trip couldn't practically be done on a Sunday morning and I was low on cash, so I knew I'd have to find a family willing to host me. I had poked around online and found a few numbers for congregations in the Douala area before I'd even left Canada. Now, I tried them one after another, beginning with the one closest to the road to Limbe. It rang and rang incessantly. So I tried the next number. Out of service. Finally, I tried the third, and I reached someone!
The warmth and enthusiasm of the New Bell branch president flowed through the phone as he told me his family would gladly host me for the weekend. That Saturday evening, the branch president and his wife picked me up on the outskirts of the city and we chatted easily as we drove back through the congested urban streets. I was astonished when he said he had a son who had recently completed a mission. He certainly didn't look old enough to have a son who was over 21!
We stopped at a grocery store for them to buy items for a primary activity the next day, and I was pure exuberance. I danced and sang along to the music pumping through the store's speakers as I trailed the cart. Maybe it was the simple pleasure of being in an air-conditioned space for the first time in nearly a month. Maybe it was the joy of once again seeing products I recognized and knew how to cook. Then again, maybe my spirit somehow recognized that a long desired and treasured promise was about to be fulfilled.
We arrived at their apartment to stuffy darkness. A power outage prevented either light or fan from functioning. A single flashlight sent a dull bolt of light through the center of the room and cast long shadows across the far wall. Two girls, 11 and 15, came forward to meet me as I walked into the living room, then quickly disappeared into the kitchen. A teenage boy greeted me in passing.
Finally, a handsome, broad-shouldered young man with deep, dark eyes stepped forward. "Hello," Steve said and reached out to shake my hand.
Then, without any further conversation or a semblance of an idea of the significance of the meeting that had just taken place, Steve retreated to his bedroom, and I plopped my tired butt down on the couch to eat and chat with his parents.
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