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As Thanksgiving drew nigh this year, I couldn't help but think about that momentous Thanksgiving two years ago when Steve came to my house for the first time. He wasn't scared away by spending the night in the Omaha Children's Hospital with my dad and whining post-surgery sibling since that was as far as his carpool would take him. He wasn't scared by being surrounded by talkative girls.
He wasn't phased by the general chaos of Thanksgiving day and making a billion mini cornucopias with me.
Nor was he turned off by the day of cookie baking, the double-date with my parents, a horrible dinner and seeing Fireproof.
Meanwhile, I was a complete basket case who, after each late nigh...er, early morning talk would bang my head on the bathroom wall wondering how in the world I was going to survive if this guy didn't like me back. (My sister is my witness here.) Like, DUH, Amelia. Not too many guys would endure all of that and still be pining on the car ride home.
I'm really glad I don't have to worry about that any more.
Now, two years later, we are splendidly married and have this little muchkin:
Who helped me bake lots and lots of pies:
We certainly didn't stay up late this year, nor did we make lots of cookies together, but we did enjoy having Steve's mom and dad here for the entire week:
And eating a wonderful meal with 23 other folks at my grandparents' house. And playing Risk without having to substitute my stuffed kitty as one of the players. And just chilling for the first time in weeks.
God is so very, very good.
