Forever, or sealed with a kiss

Rather than go straight to sleep, Steve and I sat up talking until 5.a.m., then tried to catch a few winks before our ride came at 9 a.m. to take us to breakfast.

After we ate, the temple patron coordinator came over to let us know that they had reserved seats for us in the 3 p.m. endowment session, with our sealing ceremony to follow immediately afterward. As it turns out, waiting would be a theme carried over from our wedding day to our sealing day.

With time to kill, we browsed and loitered in the temple distribution centre (where I was pleasantly surprised to find a photo of a former roommate from my freshman year at BYU modeling one of the temple dresses), had some lunch and sat around on wooden benches outside the temple housing cafeteria. Steve even took a little nap.

Before the session, we met with an official who asked us a series of questions about our wedding and our relationship. He told us that they had been unable to reach Elder Hamilton, the area seventy who was supposed to officiate our sealing (his travel back from the States had been delayed) and that the only sealer available that day did not speak French. As a result, much like my parents at our wedding in Cameroon, Steve's parents would largely be unable to understand this ceremony. Fortunately, having been sealed themselves in that very temple just a few years before, they have a pretty deep understanding of the significance and substance of the ordinance. Steve, though, would have to follow along with a translation printed on a laminated piece of paper.

He and I both had heavy eyelids during the endowment session, which seemed to drag on a little more than usual because we were both so eager for what would happen afterward (settle down pervert, I'm talking about the sealing ceremony, but now that you mention it... JK JK!)

I entered the celestial room before Steve did and set myself down on a little settee facing a giant arrangement of beautiful, brilliant faux flowers. For those who don't know, the celestial room is a very sacred place within the temple, an elegant, peaceful and quiet room in which members can pray, meditate and discuss the gospel (in soft whispers, of course). Even on a so-so day, the celestial room offers a blissful calm and a comfort that I have only otherwise found on loooooong treks into nature. On that day, though, I felt a lightness and a euphoria I imagine could not be duplicated by the most potent of narcotics.

Steve came and joined me on the little couch and we sat gripping hands and staring into each others' eyes, grinning broadly, much as we had on the town hall bench on our wedding day. Joy issued from every pore, coating us in peace and happiness and quiet assurance of all the beauty our life together would hold. Contrary to the let's-get-the-show-on-the-road feeling I'd had on our wedding day, there in the celestial room, I wanted to sit exactly like that, feeling the reverence and love and righteous anticipation course between me and my husband for hours, for days, forever.

All too soon, an official came to get us and led us to the sealing room. A simple, unadorned altar with a padded top sat at the centre of the room, with padding around the base for us to kneel on, across from each other. A single row of chairs sat around the outside of the room, but just a few were occupied: the sealer, Steve's parents, another witness.

A memory flashed in my mind of being in the sealing room during the wedding of two very close friends a few years before. I'd looked around, noting that none of the groom's family were able to attend (entering the temple is restricted to members of the church who have faithfully prepared and live according to gospel standards, like not consuming alcohol). Given the nature of a sealing and the compelling reminder it evokes of the sacred importance of family, this is a heartbreaking reality for many church members on their wedding days. As the only member in my family, I had been overcome by a powerful ache and cried genuine tears of grief, knowing that on the day I was eventually sealed (if it ever came), I would not have my family in attendance either. I had done my best to prepare myself for that seemingly inevitable outcome as Steve and I planned our wedding and sealing in Calgary, trying to juggle the unavoidable hurt feelings that would engender among even the most understanding of excluded family members.

As my thoughts came back around to the present, I was glad to discover that I did not feel any of the pain and grief I had once anticipated. I suddenly realized, with a wave of incredible gratitude to my Father in Heaven that I was able to feel this way because of all the trials leading up to and during our wedding. Not being able to get married in Calgary necessitated a civil marriage in Cameroon, allowing my parents to be part of every activity on our actual wedding day. There were no sore feelings about not being able to be involved in any aspect of our wedding.

Of course, it also meant that I couldn't share the day with the rest of my family and friends, but because I felt the anger and sadness of not being able to share that moment with them on my the day of our civil ceremony, I had made it all the way to the acceptance stage before we got to Johannesburg. I wasn't carrying the emotional baggage of the active grieving process, and because of that, my experience of our sealing would not be diluted by sadness or stress or anxiety or the heavy sense of absence.

Though it would have undoubtedly been all the more incredible to have everyone I love in that sealing room with us, I felt nothing but pure joy and promise. I was able to genuinely appreciate the intimacy of the moment, focusing entirely on the eternal significance of that simple, sacred ordinance, and the incredible man I am beyond lucky to have as a permanent partner and constant companion.

As we kneeled across the altar and took each other by the hands, and I saw tears welling in Steve's eyes, a mirror of my own. We made holy covenants to each other and to God, and I saw pure, divine potential; my entire future; the realization of every hope and dream reflected in my husband's gaze. The officiator declared us sealed for time and all eternity and we kissed across the altar, the combination affecting a sort of miracle salve to justify and absolve every moment of the bitter, painful years of waiting and hoping and praying and stumbling and losing faith and finding my way back again.

The sealer led us to one side of the room and we stood, side by side, staring into the infinity mirrors, the symbolic representation of the eternal nature of our union. My smile broadened almost painfully as I thought about the peculiar fascination I'd had with three-way folding mirrors as a kid. I remember spending what was probably an inordinate amount of time peering into the never-ending repetition of my own face in the bathrooms of almost every home we ever lived in. I never consciously considered the representation of eternity, but maybe there was some stirring of recognition in my spirit that kept me going back to stare into that small infinity again and again.

I looked into the mirrors, saw the infinite replication of my husband's face and myself peripherally at his side, and thought that it might be the most magnificent thing I'd ever seen. I felt for the first time I could grasp even a shred of understanding of the immensity and sanctity and benediction of eternity. I was enveloped with profound, absolute conviction and gratitude, and confidence in the divine promise of the life and family we would build together.

What a beautiful, unspeakable blessing born of so much simple adversity! 

Interim, or prepping for a quick trip of eternal significance

We had agreed not to... ahem, consummate our union... until after the religious ceremony in the temple, which was to take place in South Africa 12 days after our wedding.

(I know, I probably should have prefaced that with a TMI warning. Weeeeeelcome to my very personal, personal life. Have a seat on my bed, make yourself at home!)

My point is, the days following our wedding were difficult in a pretty unique way.

Imagine: You have just married the love of your life. It is safe to say you are really into each other. The two of you are staying — alone, together — in an apartment with not a whole lot in the way of time-consuming distractions. For nearly two weeks. You are sharing a bed, a bathroom and life's little intimacies, like tandem tooth-brushing, for the first time. But you cannot, will not, dare not sample the goods, 'cause you made. a. commitment, dagnabit!

I clearly don't need to spell it out for my fellow hot-blooded brothers and sisters out there, but for those of you who have completely conquered the natural man: 1) Congratulations, that's impressive; 2) T-O-R-T-U-R-E, T-O-R-M-E-N-T, S-U-F-F-E-R-I-N-G. In short, T-H-I-R-S-T-Y. See also unintentional masochism.

Aaaaaanyway.

We had a calm and quiet Christmas. Steve's parents and sisters joined us to open stockings on Christmas Eve and we joined the family for a laidback gathering at my mother-in-law's mom's house on Christmas day, then capped it all off with video calls to my family back home in Canada before packing for our Boxing Day flight to Johannesburg.

We were so excited about our first big trip as a couple, and over the moon about being able to go to the temple. Knowing that we would likely be spending many months apart after our wedding as we made our way through the immigration process, it was really important for us to be "sealed" in the temple; to draw closer to God as a couple, to continue to build the foundation of our relationship on the rock of the Gospel and to have a well of hope and strength from which to draw when the inevitable challenges and pain of our involuntary separation reared their ugly heads. It would also provide a sense of hope and security knowing that if (heaven forbid) anything happened to either one of us in the meantime, our marriage was eternal.

Let me explain.

As members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe that the bonds of marriage can last much longer than "till death do us part". We believe that families can be together forever, here and in the life to come, or heaven, if you will. However, eternal marriage (or "sealing", as we call it) is an ordinance (a sacred ceremony) that can only be performed in specific locations (temples) by specific people (authorized priesthood holders).

(Check out this video, Mormon Marriages Made Simple if you are curious to know more.)

Timing is also a factor. In North America, where temples can be found in most major cities, a temple marriage doubles as a legal marriage. If couples opt to get married civilly (i.e. outside the temple), they must wait one year before they can be sealed in the temple. In other areas of the world, where temples are more sparsely located, or where local law requires civil marriage in a publicly accessible location, couples have a short window of time immediately afterward in which they may travel to a temple for their sealing ordinance, or else they, too, must wait a year.

Cameroon does not yet have a temple, so we had the option to travel to a temple after our civil ceremony. Still, getting there would require a big investment of time and resources, and it would not be easy.

Like everything else about our wedding, getting the arrangements in place for South Africa was a whole to-do. Initially we hoped to go right after the wedding, before Christmas, but the person we wanted to officiate was going to be in the States over the holidays, returning on the 26th. At the outset, we also planned to take advantage of being there to squeeze in a sort of mini-honeymoon. But things being what they were, we would not be able to fit in more than two and a half days in Joburg.

Steve and his parents (who were coming along as our witnesses) needed visas, which required an invitation letter from the temple. (Mercifully, the value of the Canadian passport kicked in, making it a breeze for me.) Cameroon falls within the boundaries of the Nigerian temple district, so since South Africa is so much further from Cameroon than neighbouring Nigeria, the South African coordinators pushed back. But since I would require a visa for Nigeria and that would be much more difficult (read: impossible) to acquire from within Cameroon on a short timeframe, they eventually acquiesced.

Still, by the time I arrived in Cameroon in December, it wasn't clear if Steve and my in-laws would be granted visas. The South African embassy had recently denied other church members vias for similar religious trips. Between that and the logistics (visas had to be picked up in person in the capital city, five hours from where Steve's family lives in Douala, and the embassy would soon be closing for the Christmas break), this provided a strong daily dose of cortisol right up until the day before our wedding. Fortunately, we were still in Yaounde when we got word that they were approved (tender mercies!!) and Steve was able to pick up the passports and visas before we returned to Douala.

Then came the fun of booking flights and accommodations on short notice. We had a pitifully small window to work within since the temple was closed until the 27th and my return flight from Cameroon to Canada was on the 30th. Steve and his parents were having their travel arrangements coordinated through temple patron assistance, but I had to make my own separate arrangements. After a lot of hunting, I had to consider myself lucky to get myself onto three out of four of the same flights as them. The temple housing was also already fully booked, so we were assigned rooms in a budget hotel offsite.

We landed in Johannesburg in the indecent hours of December 27 and were driven to our hotel by a tall, friendly man in a season-incongruous puffy yellow jacket. I was a little taken aback as we sped along the smooth freeway, lined with massive, brightly-lit billboards. I knew the infrastructure would reflect a greater degree of development than a lot of African cities, and certainly the ones I was familiar with, but I guess what really surprised me was that the vibe was much more North American than European.

Upon arrival at our hotel, Steve and I clambered up to our room, tired but wired. Steve tapped the card at the door and gestured me in ahead of him. I shuffled in, past the toilet, walled off by a tiny doored enclosure to the left of the entrance, and the glass shower stall sitting just beyond it. This was separated from the bed by just a small sink and mirror protruding in the middle of the room. The opposite side of this island had a shelf within reaching distance of the bed, a twin-sized platform jutting out from the wall with a single-wide bunk hanging perpendicular overhead. A full-length mirror was fixed to the wall, a little offset from the foot of the bed. A thick TV was mounted in the corner and a large square window looked out over the parking lot.

Hmmm, no table, no drawers, no closet, no chair... but oh, look, a hook, at least, I thought as I set my stuff down and took it all in. The only real disappointment is no tub. I could really go for a hot bath!

Not to mention a tub's other's recreational values, I joked to myself as my mind shifted to the dubious distinction this room would retain in my memories hereafter. My glance shifted automatically back to the bed. I plopped down on the institutional mattress, noting that its comfort level ranked somewhere between a hospital bed and a camping foamie, and had a vivid flashback of the vinyl pad I'd slept on in my UNBC dorm room.

Well, it's clean and functional, anyway. But romantic? Hard no, not in the slightest! Once again, not quite what I once imagined, I thought with a wry smile.

But hey, if you learned anything from our wedding story it's that we would certainly make do.

We settled in, ironed our outfits for the temple and hung them on the lonely hook, a little before 3:30 a.m. Our ride to the temple was due at 9 a.m. so we were in for another short night.

Reception, or the party starts at midnight

I was borderline dissociative by the time we got back to the apartment, near unto 8 p.m. After a busy week of limited sleep during the conference, I had slept just two solid hours out of the past 38, hadn't eaten anything in over 24 hours and was utterly overwhelmed by the extremes of emotion I had experienced throughout the day.

My wonderful parents and sweet new husband jumped into action. Steve rubbed my shoulders while my dad literally fed me pineapple from a fork, and my mom routed around to find electronics to style my hair since — surprise, surprise — the hairdresser had cancelled.

Mind you, my single biggest wedding investment (other than the flight over there) was the $600 I had spent on gorgeous, luscious extensions. (Seriously, my parents bought me my dress for almost a third of that). Pricey, yes, but ultimately worth it, I had rationalized, for the beautiful updo (my own hair is too thin) for stunning photos. Only now that I would have neither professional photos nor an updo, I had in effect paid almost a month's rent for the privilege of an extra heavy humidity heat mop on my head.

Despite the fact that neither my mom nor I are particularly skilled in what I will somewhat sexistly call the "lady arts", she was game to give my hairdo the ole college try. 'Course, there's a reason you're counseled not to use certain electronics overseas, even with adapters and the like.

Everything was fine for a couple minutes as my mom worked to straighten my hair, then were was a loud popping sound, sparks and smoke. We quickly unplugged my fancy (now destroyed) adapter, unable to do anything but laugh nervously. On the one hand, what else should we expect? The whole day had been a series of small disasters and stress strung together by little moments of the most intense joy.

On the other hand, none of us were electrocuted and we didn't burn the apartment down. Winning!

Either way, this led to one of my other favourite tender moments of the day. My amazing husband pulled me back from the metaphorical ledge, talking to me softly and stroking my head as he lovingly combed my hair and then gently pulled it all back into a ponytail. He and my mom then secured the veil overtop of it, laced up the top of my dress and we called it good.

We got the hotel where the reception was taking place a hair before 10 p.m., whereupon I was informed that we would be called to enter the room once all our guests had arrived and taken their seats. After about 20 minutes of sitting in the car out front with the sweat gathering on my forehead and other unmentionable areas, I asked if we could go wait in our room upstairs. Steve, my parents and I there resumed w-w-w-waiting once again.

Steve had to nudge me awake repeatedly as I sunk lower and lower on the bed, dress and veil and all. I had told him that if I really fell asleep, there would be no rousing me for the reception. At one point, we decided to take a walk up and down the dark hallway to help keep my eyes open.

Finally, I kid you not, at 11:58 p.m., we got word that they were ready for us downstairs. I decided to enter with my parents since the cancelled church ceremony meant they hadn't been able to walk me down the aisle. Steve entered with his parents, too. The entrance song was... not the one we had asked for, but whatevs.

Some 150 guests filled the brightly lit ballroom. The tables were laid with burgundy and royal blue napkins, and matching bows adorned the chairs (at least, those with chair covers). The elevated head table was offset by a magnificent floral and fond arrangement fixed to the wall behind it. The DJ table and a keyboard were set up to the right of the head table, while L shaped tables set up on the other side at both the front and back of the room held a spread of food enough for 400 or more. (All lovingly prepared by my mother-in-law and a small army of relief society volunteers from throughout Douala). A stream of youth wearing dresses and ties made of our wedding fabric waited on us and our guests, bringing round after round of carbonated beverages and other goodies.

After our hearty meal, the program included serenades from both my new father-in-law and husband (who adorably forgot the words less than one verse into John Legend's "All of Me" and proceeded to improvise lyrics for the remainder of his performance, while our francophone guests were none the wiser), a heartfelt song performed by our witnesses and bridesmaids, a red-spattered two-tier cake with monster sparklers and lots and lots of dancing. In fact, the music and dancing persisted until after Steve and I finally left a little after 5 a.m.

My heart swelled with gratitude for my in-laws and the many others who had helped them to prepare for this day (it still does; I appreciate it so much and always will!). They had clearly put in a lot of time and effort to try to make our day fantastic and memorable.

Objectively, the reception was a raving success. A truly fabulous party!

Subjectively, a lot about that night made me sad.

For one thing, no matter what anyone did, it was bound to hurt to celebrate without all the people who are most dear to me. It made me so happy to watch Steve smiling and dancing with his loved ones and I was so grateful we got to share that experience with everyone who was there... I just couldn't quite slough the empty feeling of celebrating without my brothers and closest friends. I mean, our guests included at least two of Steve's ex-girlfriends. One of them had about three times more family members present at our reception than I did. It's kind of funny in like, a totally sardonic way.

For another — if you'll forgive me for being a negative Nancy for just a moment — I had a really hard time seeing myself or my traditions reflected in the celebration. For the most part that was totally fine and expected. For example, I had assured my mother-in-law she need not worry about having any "Canadian" dishes at the reception. I was happy to have a full Cameroonian feast! I can appreciate how hard it is — it had required a lot of careful thought to try to incorporate elements of Steve's culture into what I'd been planning in Canada, and if we're being honest, he probably would have still felt pretty underrepresented. But there were a small number of things that were personal to me that I had anticipated that fell through or were carelessly handled, things I think would have helped me to feel like it was really our wedding, my wedding, not just a wedding.

(They do say that expectation is the thief of joy — let that be a lesson to us all).

I didn't get a chance to toss the bouquet (just one of those things that got lost in the shuffle), there was no garter belt scenario (too scandalous for local taste), I couldn't even tell you what song they played for our first dance or for the father-daughter dance. I can tell you it wasn't the songs I had picked (with the cooperation of Steve and my dad, respectively). That I felt anxious that I was disappointing and boring our guests by not having prepared an energetic choreographed first dance in the local custom. That the DJ got bored part way through the father-daughter dance and changed to the next song, which is maybe the only thing about the whole entire day that made me legitimately angry. I also found it pretty frustrating when our guests started talking, rather loudly, part way through my father's speech. I mean, I get it: it was in English and they didn't understand, but I could hardly hear him, even magnified by the microphone, over the din of their chatter.

In fact, the DJ didn't play any of the songs I had asked for (to be fair, this wasn't just the English or "western" music, it also included the local music that was meaningful to Steve and me). My father-in-law had taken care to ask me to write down a few songs that my parents and I might like to dance to, but the DJ did not comply. I know I find it to be more tiring and embarrassing than fun to try to dance to music you are not familiar with, particularly with many people staring and laughing (even good-naturedly), especially when each song apparently has a specific choreography that everyone around you knows. Usually, I love to dance and I embrace the notion that all that matters is whether you're having fun. In Cameroon, though, dancing often makes me feel deflated like somehow I'm just not doing it "right".

Certainly, I projected some of that onto my parents (though later conversations confirmed they felt somewhat the same way). As a result, I spent a large portion of my night worrying that my parents were being left out, and about their experience in general, given that they had spent an enormous sum of money to be there with me. Everything was happening in French and I was their only link to what was going on. People weren't really even approaching me unless I was with Steve, much less my parents.

After my parents left around 3:30 a.m., I felt downright lonely at moments. I was far too exhausted to spend more than a few minutes at a time on the dance floor (especially because I am more insecure when I am tired), and too brain-dead to carry on any kind of meaningful conversation in my second language. It warmed my heart to see Steve's broad smile and the fun he was having (he really is a fantastic dancer), so I didn't want to bother him or cling to him. Consequently, I floated around the room a bit aimlessly, sitting alone in my seat at the head table for small stretches and generally feeling a bit like a wallflower at my own reception.

As the clock approached 5 a.m., Steve and I did a round to thank everyone and take our leave, then stumbled upstairs, brushed our teeth and passed the f out toute suite! Poor Steve was awakened barely an hour later when the front desk called to say there was no one to escort his grandparents back to their hotel. I blearily offered to go with him, then gratefully starfished, face-down on the mattress after he urged me to go back to sleep with a kiss on the forehead.

Look at us, already killing the game on this marriage thing!


Editor's Note
I want to reiterate that I am deeply appreciative of everyone who came to celebrate with us, all those who helped make the day happen, and especially my phenomenal in-laws. They went above and beyond to make our day special and I love them dearly. The vast majority of the things that caused stress, anxiety and disappointment throughout our wedding day were entirely outside the realm of their control. Besides, as you may be able to tell, some of the issues were a simple byproduct of an overtired, overwhelmed and self-conscious bride with anxiety issues.

If I share these stories, it's absolutely not to say my wedding day was terrible. It is to tease out the humour of what was truly a bittersweet, beautiful disaster of a day/night. I have alluded to the happiness and elation I felt at various points throughout the day, but I could never adequately express the strength and poignancy of the love and joy I felt. Ultimately, even though I would be happy to never relive my wedding day, I have a multitude of precious, tender memories I will forever hold dear; many not in spite of the challenges, but because of them.

Plus, it does make for a pretty good story.

Bittersweet, or our wedding day

Like most brides, I woke full of nervous energy on my wedding day.

Pure anxiety and unadulterated joy jostled for prominence in my psyche, while utter exhaustion addled my senses and revealed itself in the dark, puffy bags under my eyes. Though I had fallen asleep instantly upon arriving back at the apartment close to 5 a.m., excitement roused me, like a child on Christmas morning, just a couple hours later.

My anxiety had nothing to do with getting married — I was gleeful about being legally bound to the love of my life. It had everything to do with the fact that I had zero control over the day's events and little more than a foggy concept of what to expect. While I had planned and unplanned every aspect of the cancelled wedding in Calgary, I had been involved peripherally at best in the planning of the wedding in Douala and found myself unable to answer even the most basic questions from my parents about the day, the ceremony, the program. The stress was also certainly amplified by the early a.m. dress debacle.

I got up to wash and tried, in vain, to focus on my morning scripture study. I dropped to my knees on the rug beside the bed, but my mind kept wandering in that ephemeral state between sleep and wakefulness: too tired to carry on a proper conversation with God, too excited to just crawl back into bed. I slunk down to my heels, my head collapsed on my folded arms on the mattress, and sat there for a good long while, trying to muster up the energy to match my racing head and heart.

The first truly bitter notes rang loud soon after my parents left to go get my mom's dress fitted across town. Though I had prepared myself mentally for how different our wedding would be from what I had always hoped for or pictured, and did my best to focus on the numerous ways things would be so much more special and unique than I had ever dared imagine, there was one crucial aspect I hadn't considered. Alone in a rented apartment on a stuffy December morning on the other side of the world, I was struck profoundly by how different the getting ready process would be. I'd imagined a morning of professional pampering with my mom and closest girlfriends, singing along to early 2000's pop and sipping on pina coladas while we laughed and reminisced.

Instead, I sat alone, in my underwear, on the edge of the bed, engulfed by silence but for the ambient noises gradually growing in the neighbourhood below. Roosters crowed, taxis honked, music blared distantly and I zoned out for what could have been three minutes or 30. Accompanied by only a stinging loneliness and sense of loss so poignant I could do nothing but channel it into irritation bordering on anger, then I berated myself for not pushing away the negativity on this long-awaited, glorious day.

I swallowed repeatedly to break up the lump forming in my throat. I blinked back the tears that threatened. Tears of melancholy, tears of rage, tears of elation. The fatigue and nerves were making me nauseous and I couldn't eat. I fought the urge to call Steve, wondering how he was and what he was doing.

Eventually, I began to absently draw my brush through my wet, tangled, extension-laden hair, then pulled it back into a heavy ponytail and sectioned it, winding the pieces over and around each other to create one thick braid down my back. I leaned over to grab the small vanity mirror and sat back against the headboard, staring critically into my dour reflection.

Wooooow, I thought, as every blemish came into stark relief. This is definitely why tired, cranky brides should not have to face their own face on their wedding day.

I tweezed the stray hairs around my eyebrows and plucked the pesky dark ones on my chin. I poked at the circles under my eyes and tried to remember techniques for hiding them. Finally, I began applying my makeup with one hand, clutching the mirror's purple plastic stand in the other. I applied my simple, every day look — the only one I know how to do, then went a little heavier on the eye shadow and bronzer to try to take it up a notch.

Well, that's as good as it's gonna get, I thought as I took one last appraising look, then leaned back and waited.

It was approaching noon by the time my parents got back, with my new dress in tow. It was simple and beautiful, almost exactly as I had pictured it. Better yet, it fit perfectly. A couple of women, close friends of my in-law's, arrived to help iron the dress and tie my headwrap. Soon, we were on our way.

My parents and I were ushered into a rented vehicle, beautifully decorated in exquisite tropical flowers and maroon ribbon. The excitement of finally being on the move initially cut through the frustration of the slow-going traffic and the anxiety of the veritable hive of activity at town hall where 16 other weddings were happening that day (yes, for real).

It was a simple waiting game from there. Since I had asked for a private ceremony and we had missed our allocated morning slot, we had no real timeline, and just had to wait for the most convenient opening. See, a civil ceremony at town hall is required by Cameroonian law, and couples typically go before the mayor (who officiates the ceremony) three or four at a time, in a sort of mass wedding ceremony. Meanwhile, all of their guests crowd into the ceremony room, each party distinguishable by their outfits, which are typically made of the couple's selected wedding fabric (pagne).

In the right situation, I don't mind being the centre of attention (hello blog!) but — shocker — I don't actually love being in the spotlight when I feel out of my element. Lived experience had taught me that I was often stared at in Cameroon, cause of my dang Nordic pale skin and blonde hair, and also that I found it deeply uncomfortable. While the social justice advocate in me feels like such discomfort is an important insight into the privilege I have as a white woman living in the "west", it was something I felt justified in trying to cap on my wedding day by limiting the staring eyes to those of our own wedding guests.

In any case, we sat there for hours, my car parked in front of Steve's (mercifully, with air conditioning), while various wedding guests (many of whom had been waiting in the humid heat since 9 a.m.) milled by the cars to see us and speak with us. My self-consciousness climbed as I imagined condemnation in their innocuous greeting and gentle ribbing about "exaggerating Black man's time".

Look at this selfish European, I imagined them thinking (because North Americans and Europeans are virtually interchangeable to most Cameroonians), inconveniencing us all with an immature hissy fit about her dress, and indulgent demands for a private ceremony!

Of course, if anyone actually thought that they certainly didn't say it to my face. Still, I was wracked by waves of guilt and anxiety. I should have just worn my ivory dress. Now everyone is going to hate me and think I'm spoiled.

Then the guilt took on a frustrated edge. I'm sorry I didn't want to wear a dress that made me look like a horror show. If I had known it would cause such a cascade of challenges, I would have worn the ivory dress!

Then a new feeling began to emerge, a sort of righteous indignation over the imagined slight. This day is just as painful for me as it is wonderful. Why does everyone keep saying that it's my day and it should be how I want it if they're going to give me a hard time for asking for one thing to make the day less anxiety-inducing? It's not like I even asked for much... a dress that doesn't make me feel like crap, a private ceremony, a few specific songs for the reception, proper wedding photos, real flowers for my bouquet. That's it. Everything else was suuuuuper flexible. I am literally the furthest thing from a bridezilla.

The wheels spun in my mind, my anxiety and frustration and sense of helplessness grew, and still, we waited.

Around 3 p.m.Steve's sister came outside to tell us we would be next.

Then she came back a moment later to tell us that one of the waiting brides had gone into labour and the administrators were pushing up their ceremony so the paperwork could be signed before the couple went to the hospital. So we waited some more.

Finally, finally, we were called inside and Steve and I were able to interact for the first time all day. We gripped each other's hands as we sat on a wooden bench outside the ceremony room, and all the other emotions faded into happiness, peace, confidence and anticipation. We said nothing but exchanged a lifetime's worth of hopes and promises through our locked eyes, interlaced fingers and ever-expanding dopey grins. I genuinely wish a camera could have adequately captured the look in his eyes just then. It was a look that could have calmed a thousand raging storms of anxiety, quelled any doubt, relieved any pain. More even than the moment we said "I do" (or, more accurately, "Oui"), this little moment of intimacy stands out as one of the most precious memories of my entire life.

Once all our guests were seated, we were lead to the ceremony room and we walked down the aisle. Music blared, our guests whooped and trilled shrilly on supposedly verboten plastic whistles. Several reached out and clapped us on the back as we passed, smiling their well-wishes on us with unrestrained joy. I felt the prickle of salt in my eyes as we passed my mom, who reached out and rubbed my shoulder, smiling with red-rimmed eyes. I spotted dad on the far end of the front row (as the head of my family, he had a designated spot), his emotions also evident in his expression.

Once at the front, we had to dance. To get around the discomfort I focused only on Steve, saw nothing but him and the tension receded. It even started to be a little bit fun. My smile grew wider still, so wide it hurt. After a while, we were invited to sit on chairs at the front of the room. Our backs were to the crowd and I realized with a pang that I was grateful I didn't have to look around the room throughout the ceremony, seeing all the faces that could not be there.

The MC began with a corny but endearing acrostic poem out of our names (or in my case, my middle name, since most people there find it much easier to pronounce. Even Steve calls me Michele more often than not). We all stood to acknowledge the mayor as he entered to officiate and I cringed internally, a little queasy at the memory of the sexist overture he had provided at our friends' wedding the previous May. Gratefully, his soliloquy was markedly less discriminatory this time around (references to the civil code identifying the husband as head of the family, with the sole right to determine domicile notwithstanding).

He completed his remarks by confirming the details for our marriage certificate, not the least of which was whether our marriage would be open to new parties in the future. (Spoiler alert: Not in this lifetime!) Yep, our marriage certificate literally has a box checked for "monogamy" because polygamy is a very real option in Cameroon. In fact, if monogamy is not specified, polygamy is essentially the legal default.

We were asked to stand and invited to accept each other as husband and wife (we did), exchange rings (we did), say a little something to each other (we did... though my elated but overwhelmed mind couldn't do more than stammer out a couple ineloquent sentences in English) and kiss (we did).

Our guests cheered, the music began to boom again and we signed nine copies of the hand-filled marriage certificate before shuffling outside to the garden for some photos. All at once, the fatigue and anxiety came rolling back. Our guests surrounded us for photos. People outside the wrought iron bars of the garden stared intently. I could see my parents off to one side, unable to get through the crowd to me and I was irked: they had just sat through a whole ceremony they didn't understand for their first child, their only daughter; they had no other family present to share this special moment with, and they were prevented from being amongst the first to congratulate us. I was also worried: my mom has hypoglycemia and the unexpectedly long day had likely made things uncomfortable for her at the very least. Frustration gripped me harder as the fading daylight alerted me to the fact that we would not be getting the proper photos I'd hoped for. There was no time anyway, we were hours behind schedule for the church ceremony and still had the reception to think about. Suddenly, I was completely overwhelmed. I just needed to go.

Steve and I climbed into the waiting car and I was simultaneously irritated by the fact that my parents were riding with us (I craved even just 30 seconds truly alone with my new husband) and overcome by a strong desire to be in their presence, not to be separated from them. I was all conflicting emotions: exhausted, stressed, anxious, frustrated, euphoric, grateful, awed... All of them collided and mingled as we crawled along through traffic, the late afternoon melting away to darkest evening around us. We were supposed to go back to the apartment to change before the church ceremony but were instead stuck in a near standstill on the road, making our guests wait on us again.

Then we got a call from Steve's parents. His father was having a medical issue. A district president who had just pulled off a district conference the weekend before our wedding, my father in law is also diabetic and likely hadn't eaten much all day, with him and my mother in law in the driver's seat on everything to do with our wedding. The call was suddenly all too easy to make: cancel the church ceremony.

Equal parts disappointment and relief flooded through me. I was sad my parents would not get to walk me down the aisle, that the beautiful flower arch my in-laws had purchased would go unused, that the part that most closely resembled what I recognized as a wedding and had the most of my own personal touches on it would be eliminated. But I was also so relieved that Steve's dad was going to be okay; that no matter what, we were really and truly married; that we had one less thing to stress about.

Honestly, at that point, I would have been totally happy to call it a day then and there.

Cancel the reception, too, I thought for a moment. Let the guests eat as much as they want, and the rest of us can all go home and just sleep off the stress of this day. 

But much like the proverbial show, the party must go on, and go on it did.

Dominoes, or prelude to a (beautiful) disaster

The troubles began a full 26 hours before the wedding was supposed to start.

Or, arguably, months beforehand, when I had to cancel and undo arrangements for a fastidiously planned (seriously, ask my mom someday about the spreadsheets. plural.) October wedding in Calgary due to one minor detail: the Canadian government would not allow the groom to attend.

I had left Cameroon at the end of May, naively believing it would be just a few months before Steve would be getting situated in Ottawa and kicking off his studies. Instead, it was more than six months before I was back in Africa, come to recuperate something I couldn't fit in my suitcase: his last name. (And as you likely well know, we're still waiting on that settling in Ottawa bit).

It certainly didn't help matters that I had a leadership role in a large international conference in the capital of Cameroon in the days leading up to the wedding. Seriously, thank goodness for my in-laws, who spent a great deal of time and money to plan and execute our big day. Let's be real, they're the real MVPs! Other than offering my opinion and preferences on things like colours and cake flavours, I didn't lift a finger in preparation for my nuptials.

It also didn't help that December is such a busy wedding month in Cameroon. By the time anyone had been able to go looking for reception locations in Douala, nothing was available on the Saturday of our chosen weekend. This meant that our ceremony ended up being scheduled on a Friday morning, just 16 hours after the conference ended... in a city five hours away.

So, the cards were a little stacked against us, but I didn't really notice the dominoes tumbling until around 7 a.m. on Thursday, the day before the wedding.

The night before I'd opted to avail myself of the hotel's laundry service so that I enjoy clean underwear for the last day of the conference and on my wedding day (without making my fingers bleed by washing them myself... I know, total indulgence, right?!) I was leery, confirming several times with the front desk staff that they would be done by Thursday morning. I had a long day to get through and Steve and I were hoping to leave in good time because there were still lots of things to do before the ceremony the next day.

Spoiler alert: the underwear was not ready on time.

In fact, it took nearly two hours of repeated calls to the laundry staff — during which time the front desk person kept me standing right there, telling me the person they spoke to would be "right up" — before one of the laundry personnel came up and reunited me with my long-lost undergarments... which were still unwashed.

So, not only was I incredibly late in getting to the conference centre for the day's proceedings, I was also going commando. Just casual like, while at a professional event with representatives of the Cameroonian government and UN Habitat, and the former premier of British Columbia. Grand!

As you can imagine, this delay (and the stress it elicited) cascaded on down through the rest of my day.

By the time I was able to go meet Steve to take the bus back to Douala, we were already hours behind schedule. I thought the Yaounde-based family had traveled ahead but as it turns out, eight of us, including his grandparents, were stuck traipsing from one bus company to another trying to find a VIP bus for the five hour ride. See, VIP busses are pretty swanky. They have air conditioning and WiFi and toilets on board. Non-VIP busses do not. But they do have a smattering of bugs for your enjoyment. Also, five seats across, instead of the standard four, for your ultimate comfort. And they aren't direct, for those who really enjoy the scenic route.

As you might have gathered, we were not able to secure tickets on a VIP bus. The other bus, not having a specific departure time, would not leave until all the seats were full, so we sat in the little sweatbox until about 10 p.m. before the driver finally hit the road.

Upon arriving in Douala shortly after 3 a.m., it became clear that there had been a miscommunication about accommodations for various family members. So Steve and his dad went off to find a hotel. Meanwhile, I went to my in-laws to get fitted for my dress. I'd brought an ivory occidental-style dress I'd had made for the church ceremony and reception that was all fitted and ready, but for the actual ceremony at city hall (civil ceremony as required by Cameroonian law and custom), my in-laws had had a local seamstress make a traditional style dress to make Steve's wedding outfit, from the fabric we had selected. I had picked out the style and was excited to see it and try it on.

As my mother-in-law pulled garments out of the bag, I grew more excited as I identified the matching shirts for my dad and my father-in-law, the dress for my mom, a smaller dress I assumed was for one of the girls. Then, with a racing heart and a sinking feeling, I looked at the last dress that emerged from the bag.

"Whose is that?" I asked my mother-in-law, though I already knew the disappointing answer.

"Yours," she said with surety, then saw the look on my face. With waning confidence, she asked, "Isn't it?"

Certainly, it was the dress that had been made for me, but it was not the dress that I had chosen. Best I can tell, the seamstress had decided the dress I'd chosen was too plain and wanted to do something nice for me by making another style, more flashy and exciting. Exhausted and overwhelmed by the events of the past few days, it was all I could do not to cry. I picked up the dress and went to the bathroom to try it on.

Our beautiful bold blue wedding fabric looked gaudy and overwhelming in the abbreviated mermaid cut, which hit midcalf, visually stunting my legs. The stiff, body-hugging fabric gathered my belly, emphasizing my paunch and the cap sleeves dug into my upper arm flab. I tried to zip myself in, like so much meat stuffed into a casing and felt tears sting at the back of my eyes. As I lifted my head to look at myself in the mirror, I saw the final straw: the giant yellow embroidery across the chest. If there is any colour I hate, it's yellow. I couldn't hold it in anymore. The sobs came out, rough and hysterical.

After calming down some, I suggested that I would simply wear my ivory dress, but my mother-in-law insisted that we rectify the situation. The seamstress would have to make a new dress from scratch — the dress that I had chosen. Though skeptical about the timing, I agreed, and my mother-in-law sent me off at 4 a.m. to get some rest, while she made for the market to get some fabric and rouse the seamstress to make a new dress.

At this point, it was pretty clear that the 9 a.m. ceremony wasn't going to happen at 9 a.m., but I still didn't know how far the dominoes had yet to fall.

On bended knee, or a proposal at an engagement party

After four years in Utah, I was convinced of one thing for sure: I could never say yes to someone who proposed to me in front of a temple.

Call it a hazard of living in Utah: I had seen exactly 5.2 trillion people live that magical moment in front of a temple (not to mention dozens, and sometimes hundreds of well-intentioned but nosy onlookers who inevitably aww'd and clapped when she said the magic word). One time, near the reflection pond at the Salt Lake Temple, I literally saw two couples simultaneously get engaged within 15 feet of each other.

Ugh, no offence to any of you temple-proposal-story-havers (I'm sure you have nothing but good memories of the time your SO popped the question or said the very best "yes" you have ever heard), it was just a Mormon cliché I could happily live without.

If we're being real honest, maybe the biggest part of the temple proposal turn off for me was the crowd. As much as I might enjoy being the centre of attention at times, and despite my open-book tendency of sharing intimate life stories with friends (or you know, complete strangers on the internet), I prefer to actually live my private moments... well, privately.

Suffice it to say that I had never been keen on the idea of being proposed to in a public setting with lots of people present.

I had maybe pictured a low-key romantic proposal out in nature somewhere. Maybe a spectacular vantage point on a pretty hike (but like, not too intense because I wouldn't want to be too flushed or sweaty or disheveled). Maybe my adorable and well-trained dog would have had the ring fastened to his collar the whole time, stressing my fiancé-to-be each time I bent down to pet Scruffy along the hike. Maybe my Sweetie would pluck a spontaneous bouquet of wildflowers before dropping on one knee and delivering a none-too-rehearsed, but perfectly saccharine declaration of love and devotion culminating in the best question a woman who is pushing 30 and wants children (but not on her own) could ever be asked. Maybe I would cry because it would be so out of the blue, such a surprise! Oh, and maybe a very close and talented friend would be hiding in the bushes to be the big moment's DJ-slash-confetti thrower-slash-photographer-slash-sparkling-apple-juice-and-chocolate-sherpa.

I don't know, I never gave it much thought.

Fortunately, I guess, a temple proposal was out of the question for Steve, given the circumstances. A densely-populated proposal, however, was not.

By the time the sun came up on the day of our engagement party, halfway through my six-week visit, Steve still hadn't taken a knee. (Yes, it was such a given, a fait accomplit that we were getting married that his parents— and his grandparents, on the other side the family, the following weekend— planned a party in our honour before he even put a ring on it). So, as you can imagine, I had my suspicions about how things might go down that night.

And I can't say I wasn't at least a little grumpy about it.

For one thing, I felt roughly the size of an industrial warehouse in the dress that my sweet mother-in-law had purchased for me to wear that evening.

(Objectively beautiful and culturally significant, the brilliant blue and white oversized full-length kaba extended from the base of my neck and billowed out in every direction. Now, I have more or less tried to avoid flared and flowing floor-length garments since the first time my grandfather pinched my stomach pudge and called me Mama Cass (yes, I said "first time"). When you are already a person of girth, you don't really want to wear anything that adds to the illusion of a bulky frame.

Though fashion advice holds that it's smart to emphasize your thinnest part, I don't think they are talking about your neck. Anyways, I didn't want to be ungrateful and I was trying to have a good attitude about it, but, beholden as I am to Western beauty ideals, I felt super self-conscious the way the dress swung around me, vaguely like a grounded parachute.)

For another, I had been told that I would be expected to dance. Alone. In front of a crowd. Of people I largely didn't know. In a dress that already made me feel self-conscious. Awesome!

For a third, I had stupidly gotten ready on white man's time, meaning I was pumped-to-be-no-longer single and ready to mingle by the time the party was "supposed" to start.

And I was still waiting, mostly alone, anxious and bored out of my skull in the girls' bedroom, more than two hours later. Cameroonians like a good reveal, a grand entrance if you will, so I was to stay hidden until I was properly announced. Music and chatter had started somewhere along the line as guests started to arrive, but the wait dragged on and my anxiety grew. I just wanted to see my man and get on with the show.

Finally, finally, my father in law quieted the music and welcomed everyone, expressing his excitement to be able to share this celebration with our assembled guests. Then, after little preamble, the music was cued back up and I was introduced as Steve's fiancée. The idea was, I was supposed to emerge from behind the curtain that separated the lime green living room from the hallway to the back bedrooms, dance my way to the love seat that had been set up  as the focal point of the room (where Steve was already seated and waiting), and continue to shake a tail feather until such time as whoever was in control of the music decided to turn it off.

As I stepped into the living room, my anxiety ratcheted up to 1000. Except for a small square of open space in front of the love seat, every spare inch of floor was charged with white plastic chairs borrowed from the church. The chairs, in turn, were filled with dozens of people— many more than I had thought possible for one apartment. I recognized some as church members or family members I'd briefly met, but many I could swear I'd never seen a day in my life. The dining table, normally centered between the balconies, in front of the windows opposite where the love seat was now sitting, was shoved up against the wall to my left and absolutely brimming with dishes lovingly prepared by my mother-in-law and several women from the local branch over the previous two days. Despite the open doors and oscillating fans, the added body the in the room, on top of the already 30-plus day and 100% humidity, broached on overwhelming.

I'd barely danced 10 seconds before I had rivulets of sweat making their way down my forehead and lower back. Mercifully, Steve jumped up and joined me, his joyful expression and exuberance melting away my anxiety. I looked into his eyes and remarked that he had never looked at me more tenderly. He told me over and over again how amazing I looked. Later, he would explain to me how a traditional kaba emphasizes a woman's natural and inner beauty by concealing the form of her body. Whereas I looked in the mirror and saw the broad side of a barn, he looked at me and saw tradition, nobility, modesty, elegance and beauty.

The music was again silenced as Steve's uncle, the head of his father's family, stood to say his piece. He kissed my cheeks and offered me a warm welcome to the family, taught the gathered crowd how to "properly" pronounce my name, then proceeded to speak eloquently for 10 minutes about the joy and trials of marriage, the commitment we were entering into and what that would mean for us and our families. Steve's uncle finished by offering us hearty congratulations and was about to move onto blessing the food when Steve piped up.

"You've heard here today that Brooke is my fiancée," he said, standing. "But that is not technically true. There is still one thing I've neglected to do."

He fished a small, red, plush heart-shaped box out of his pocket, and some of the guests whooped and tittered. He started into a little speech which TBH, I don't 100% remember (though we definitely have the whole thing on video somewhere, from at least four different angles, because smartphones). The gist of it was that his heart had searched. His heart had found. His heart had chosen.

Then, before lowering onto one knee, he slipped me a little rectangle of glossy paper and asked me to read it out loud. It was one of those cheesy love "coupons" I had half-jokingly slipped into a gift I'd given him. It said "Grant me this wish:" and left a big blank space for your lover to write down their's heart's desire.

There, in English, he'd scrawled "Be my wife."

D'oh! For cute right?

Wait a second. I've just realized that he still technically never asked me to marry him. Like, with his own mouth and voice. Oh well, that ship's sailed I guess. Plus, in fairness, I'm not sure I ever actually said yes (let's call in a video replay on that one). All I can be sure of is that I nodded repeatedly, tugged on his outstretched hand for him to stand and planted one on him before he had stood up the whole way. Regrettably, there are copious photos of my rather ample arm lifted to wipe the pale makeup off his face. *Cringe*

So, it wasn't exactly the proposal I'd once conjured in my head. As you've probably gathered by now, not much about our relationship has gone much according to fantasy (just wait until I tell you about our wedding!) but I'm finding more and more that fact can be so much better than fiction.

Now, I can appreciate that Steve wanted to share that joyful moment, and have it magnified by an audience of most of the people he cares about most. Looking back I also find it adorably fitting that we got engaged just steps away from where we first laid eyes on one another, in the same room where his dad had given me so much hope about our future, where his mom had played matchmaker between us, adjacent to the room where we had shared our very first kiss.

Now there's some low-key romance that no trail proposal à deux could ever top.

Still waiting on those flowers, though.

Back to Africa, or six weeks together

By mid-April, the school year was coming to a close, and I was conveniently unemployed. So, I made my way back to Cameroon as soon as the last of my MA classes ended. Knowing I couldn't bank on the currencies of hope and faith for long, I allocated six weeks to love and lollygagging before I had to get real serious about finding work. The trip wasn't the soundest decision from a purely financial standpoint, but I took it on faith that it just might be of some kind of eternal significance. We needed the face time to allow our relationship to progress away from the technology that had enabled it up that point, and even more so as we tried to put the rough waters behind us.

Getting through the Douala airport was a breeze the second time around. I was ready for the thick, wet air to hit me when I walked off the plane; ready to flash my yellow fever card when I had to pass the "health customs" desk; ready for the onslaught of baggage handlers and taxi drivers yelling out to me, proffering their services. And I was so, so beyond ready to be face to face with the man I loved.

I nearly tripped over my cobalt maxi dress as I bounded down the last of the slope to meet him at the gate to the parking lot. There he stood, front and center, looking just as expectantly as anyone in the large crowd of people waiting to welcome their loved ones and guests. He couldn't quite wait until I got all the way, taking a couple steps beyond the gated area to meet me. This was no small relief, given that we hadn't been talking much in the weeks leading up to the trip. Steve had sent me a photo of his hand holding a conspicuous little box, but I still wasn't entirely sure where we stood.

It felt a little weird to throw my arms around him- for one thing, we had a fairly sizeable audience; for another, well, we had been near strangers the last time we'd been face-to-face a few months prior. But it also felt dang good. Like coming home after an extended and difficult trip.

Steve kissed me for the first time that evening, perched on the end of his sisters' bed, his ex-girlfriend in the adjacent room. She'd shown up to be taught by the missionaries some 15 minutes after my arrival (creating not a little bit of awkwardness for the three of us, even as we stood there with plastered on smiles and greeted each other politely) and Steve and I had absconded to the privacy of the girls' room to wait it out.

A few days later we had our first date. Returning from work early one day, Steve led me out to a taxi, paid for the hour and chattered with me in the backseat as the car wound its way through the crowded streets of the city. After a few false turns and some discussion between Steve and the taxi driver, Steve told me he'd intended to surprise me with a waterside walk, but it seems industrial interests had eliminated public access. I could tell he was disappointed and wondered (not for the last time over the next few weeks) if he had intended to propose.

Instead the taxi left us at a wonderfully air-conditioned ice cream shop, where we spent the next couple of hours talking about different goals and aspirations, laying out a dreamers' blueprint for our life together. A photo vendor managed to get Steve to buy a photo of the two of us- our first together as a couple- and it wasn't until we got back to the house that evening that we realized that we were both wearing the exact same outfits we'd been wearing in our very first photo together; the one we'd taken with his family the night I left Cameroon the first time. I smiled at the memory of him quickly snatching his hand away that night as if stung when he realized he'd grabbed my arm behind his mother's back while posing for the photo.

Our second "date" was a weekend away at his aunt's place outside the city (where I again thought he might propose, this time on a walk through the woods) that mostly consisted of long naps and African soap operas on TV. We made a day trip out to Limbe, I so I could introduce Steve to the home I'd stayed in and some of the people I'd known while I was doing my research and go to the wildlife park. Small, but well kept, the park is home to a number of primates that can no longer live in the wild for one reason or another. While I'm told monkeys and snakes used to be abundant in that area of Cameroon, I had never seen any during my time there. Urban sprawl and the animals' value as bushmeat made them scarce, even though I spotted warnings in many locations noting that consuming monkeys puts you at risk of contracting Ebola.

Our guide pandered to my white tourist sensibilities and gave me a banana to feed to one of the few monkeys that was wandering free of any enclosure. The cheeky little rascal sauntered over and plucked the banana from my hand, then scampered away as though he'd just gotten away with the world's greatest heist.

We didn't have a third date until the day-long double-decker bus tour in Johannesburg that constituted our "honeymoon"[spoiler alert!!], but we did enjoy a lot of the little moments that living under the same roof afford us. Cue the sweet and sappy movie montage (you know, the one I was lamenting in the last post that we didn't have yet):

• A series of mornings of Steve shuffling into the small, square kitchen and giving me a good morning kiss or squeeze on his way to the bathroom as I did the previous day's dishes in the early morning quiet, before everyone else woke up.
• The one morning Steve dissolved into laughter when I just about jumped out of my skin because I'd seen something move out of the corner of my eye (just the rag falling, it turns out) and was still not used to sharing the kitchen space with the rather large rat I saw come through the window most mornings while I was working in the kitchen.
• That time the hours flew by and night crept in, unnoticed, as we talked about subjects big and small, like all the places we'll travel someday and the tender mercies we've received from our Heavenly Father.
• The night Steve performed for me, singing with gusto and flair, all the African love songs I've come to know and love; happy and uninhibited as he interspersed the verses with kisses to my forehead and cheeks and nose and I stared up at him with bemusement and adoration, both of us heedless of the watching eyes of his sisters and friends.
• The day we were readying the new church building, cleaning and decorating it for a wedding, when Steve came over and pulled me into a dance, no music but the song on his lips.
• The way he held me to him as we stood in the back of the crowded room on the day his friends got married; the way he squeezed my hand as they exchanged vows and the way he smiled broadly that night, despite his fatigue, between dances with me and his friends.
• The nervous, excited energy coursing between us the night we called the temple in Calgary and went through all the questions to book our sealing ceremony.
• His hands folded around mine as we kneeled together in prayer.

Of course, it wasn't all sprinkles and unicorns. The first couple weeks I wondered if he even actually wanted me there. 

He would work all day, then come home and sequester himself in his room, the threshold of which I did not cross until near unto the last week of the trip (a "chastity line" I regarded with much less ridicule than the imaginary boundary we were warned about in my student apartment at BYU). The fact that I saw little of Steve made me long for home and question the logic in spending so much money to come and see him. 

Fiercely protective of our privacy, Steve wasn't sharing our relationship status with friends or at church, so at first we didn't sit together or hold hands. We barely ever left the house, which meant we barely got any time alone together. With so many eyes and ears in the shared spaces of the family home, affection was limited. (Big problem for a girl whose primary love language is 100% physical touch, but don't worry! By the end of the trip, his mother and several others had remarked to me that they had never seen Steve so lit up and affectionate). It took a few tearful conversations to land on some mutual understanding of needs, expectations and cultural limitations.

Compounding the difficulty of the situation for me was what felt like an utter loss of independence. Steve and his father, especially, were very protective of me (at one point my father in law sweetly banished me from washing my own clothes because he hated to see my fingers cracked and bleeding from hand scrubbing). Despite my previous experiences in the country, they were concerned for my safety in the city so I didn't ever go out without an escort of some kind. As a result, I spent most of my days inside, but for the trips to the market with Steve's mom or going to church with the family. 

Having little autonomy over myself, my schedule, my movements or even my own tasks made me feel like the walls were closing in on me. Going from the frantic pace of grad school to the peaceful pace of life a life where mid afternoon naps are basically the highlight of the day was not as relaxing as you might think. It was stifling and monotonous. I felt bored and isolated. (I know, I know... this is almost the very definition of a First World problem. I hate my ungrateful self right now, too). 

I truly enjoyed spending time with my mother in law and the girls, but I would often get overwhelmed by the all-French atmosphere, and the many ways in which I was seemingly unfit to take care of myself or anyone else in this environment. I couldn't always keep up with the speed of their chatter or understand their jokes that brightened their days with laughter. I envied the carefree, unashamed way the girls sang and danced, regardless of who was watching. When a close family friend teased me about the way I hand washed clothes, or the girls chuckled about the odd way I diced vegetables, I could feel the sting of frustrated tears come on. For someone who has always derived her greatest sense of personal worth from her competence, it is a shockingly self-shattering experience to feel as though your competence is being called into question at every turn. 

While I continued to struggle with some of those same insecurities and feelings of incompetency and wall-crawling boredom-- and honestly, still do, each time I go back to Cameroon (I'm not good at being cooped up and dependent, it turns out), things between us improved substantially over the course of that trip (obviously!) and I am truly thankful I got to spend such treasured time with my in-laws. I'm grateful for their example of family scripture study in the mornings, family prayer in the evening and "the more the merrier" approach to Family Home Evenings on Monday nights. I'm grateful for the way they accepted me, looked out for me and tried to teach me, even when I was not at my most teachable. I hit the in-law jackpot, and my kiddos will be so lucky to have amazing, loving grandparents and aunts and uncles on both sides.

Anyways, after our engagement party (wait, what? you're right I did skip over something... guess you'll have to come back next time to hear how he proposed), Steve became much more open about our relationship. We held hands at church, spent more time alone together, got more comfortable and just generally progressed by leaps and bounds. To this day, those six weeks remain the longest sustained stretch of time that we have spent in one another's company.

And thank goodness we did, because man did they teach us a lot about how to be a couple IRL.