Kevin

I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard "you're too picky" when I was single. I could have paid for my eventual wedding. My standard response became, "I'd rather be single forever than be married to the wrong person." I can understand settling when you're shopping for a new outfit, but choosing someone to spend the rest of your life with? Yeah. I was picky. And I don't think that was a bad choice on my part.

"Shared faith" was on the top of the list of qualities I was looking for in a future husband. Being in youth ministry for ten years, I had a type in mind. Someone who played guitar and led songs around the campfire. Someone who liked speaking and teaching. Someone who loved going on mission trips. Someone who maybe got a little overly competitive during games. Basically a male version of me.

Kevin's not exactly what I pictured. Half the time when I look at him during church, his mouth isn't even moving during the songs; he's lost in his own thoughts. He gets really nervous when he has to speak in front of people, but he's taught our little guy to hold hands and pray before we eat. He's not a wild and crazy youth ministry kind of Christian. He's a quiet, deep, introspective Christian. Not the male version of me at all.

Have you ever met someone who reads C.S. Lewis, Dallas Willard, and G.K. Chesterton for fun? I hadn't either. And while some guys look forward to their mailman bringing the latest issue of Sports Illustrated or Popular Mechanics, my guy looks like a kid on Christmas morning when his monthly theological journal arrives in the mail. An uncle picked up an issue from an end table a few years ago on Easter, flipped through it, and remarked, "There's no pictures in this magazine." Nope. Just text and text and text about the church and the world and what it means to be a Christian today. Not really what I was picturing when I prayed for a guy who shared my faith.

But as we walk this journey with Maren, I am so, so thankful for Kevin. His house is built on a rock. I'm not saying my house is built on sand, but some days when the storm is really thrashing, my house seems more like the houses I used to build in Mexico with the youth group: they serve the purpose, but probably wouldn't pass inspections in the U.S. It's reassuring to be able to run next door to Kevin's up-to-code, not-constructed-by-teenagers house. He's a good neighbor on this rock.

The other night I had to go to the bathroom at 3:30 in the morning -- the plague of pregnant women. I couldn't get back to sleep when I returned to bed. I checked email and Facebook on my phone for a while, then tried to fall asleep again. It wasn't happening. I started thinking about Maren, and what we'll have to face soon. I started crying . . . quietly, I thought, but Kevin heard me and wrapped me up in his arms. He didn't say anything or make me say anything, just stroked my hair and rubbed my back while my silent cries turned into sobs and then quieted down again. My thoughts changed from being devastated about Maren to being so, so thankful that God brought Kevin and I together. I don't know how I would get through this without him. I was right to be picky.