Speaking of Zebras…

Speaking of Zebras…

With a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes, my husband said, “Come here–I have to show you something.” Always susceptible to intrigue, I followed him into our bedroom. The lights were dimmed, and I could see an odd flickering coming from our pedestal table. I stepped closer. It was a child’s nightlight with images of an African safari strolling across the screen: lions with tasseled, tawny manes, slate-colored hippos with curves that could give Beyonce a run for a Hershey’s bar, giraffes with necks as long and malleable as the branches of a weeping willow. But these animals were not the ones I was focused on. For there, drinking from a shallow pool, was a herd of zebras.

“You remember?” my husband asked.

I touched the screen as the comically striped creatures shuffled by. “Yes” was all I could reply before my laughter bubbled up and engulfed us completely.

My husband, Randy, and I began dating in the summer of 2006 when I was 19 and he was 26. Because of the age difference, I assumed he’d want to get married and begin planning a family immediately. At the time I had just completed my sophomore year in college and — along with a slew of journalism dreams Diane Sawyers hadn’t even attained — I wanted to join the Peace Corps where I’d teach English to French-speaking students in Africa, grow a coffee bean plantation, backpack across Ireland’s highlands with my best friend, write a Southern novel, run a full marathon…You get the picture. I knew that eventually I would succumb to domesticity, but I was not going down without a fight.

In August, the weekend before I was heading back to college, Randy and I were on a date when he pointed out a flamboyant, zebra-print purse a woman had slung over her shoulder. Seeing an opening, I smiled and reached across the restaurant’s table to touch his hand. I began with “Speaking of zebras…” and then promptly expounded upon my desire to go to Africa for a few years–fleeing Randy and the commitment he represented (I didn’t say this exactly, but he understood more clearly than if I had).

Randy didn’t speak much after that–what could’ve he possibly said? But as the weeks passed and my junior year commenced, he continued to love and support me even though my dreams did not coincide with his own. And when I was faced with tragedy, he walked through my grief every step of the way. He cried when I had no tears left to shed. He prayed when I had no words left to utter. He sent flowers, care packages, emails of encouragement. After his display of unwavering faithfulness my perspective shifted. I realized that I could not move to the “Dark Continent” if Randy could not go there with me. I could not hack my life from the sun-scorched land (I know I’m borrowing from Out of Africa, here) if he was not there to labor beside me. I could not pour my heart into people if, at the end of the day, I could not go home and open my heart to him. In short, there could be no adventures in my life if he was not part of them.

Now, four years later, I am not writing this from my straw-thatched hut. I have not taught English to French-speaking African students. I do not own a coffee bean plantation. My best friend and I have not traipsed the highlands of Ireland. I have not written a novel (one that’s publishing worthy, anyway) or ran in a marathon. But you know what? I am married to the love of my life, and every adventure we experience is more exciting than the last. And let me just tell you that it sure beats viewing a herd of zebras any day.