I will start with two unrelated observations:
1. It is very windy outside (seriously).
2. My wife comments from time to time that I have never blogged about her.
Now I will craftily, yet subtly, intertwine these two ideas. Try to keep up.
It is a howling night out tonight, and my wife is gone to Bible Study. I am at home recuperating after a day of teaching. Because Courtney does not share my love for certain types of classical music, I am now blaring Nimrod from Elgar. She would be plugging her ears right now if she were here.
It is a cozy night for writing. Beautiful music is playing, soft lamp light fills the room, and the wind beats against this house. My memory takes me back to another windy occasion. (Here’s where I phenomenally connect point one and two).
Courtney and I are in Ottawa. We are dating and we are in love. It is spring. Before you get the idea that we are running hand in hand together in slow motion through daisy fields, let me fill you in on the scene. We are there with 15,000 other people to protest abortion. It is a very windy, rainy day, much like today.
I notice that Courtney does not like getting the bottom of her pants wet and furthermore she does not like to step on the wet hem of her pants either as we walk through the streets of Ottawa. I slowly get used to stopping every twenty steps to re-roll her wet pant legs so that she does not step on them. We join the protest on Parliament Hill and join the throngs as we begin to parade through the streets of downtown Ottawa. Courtney and I are walking hand in hand. We each have an umbrella, and Courtney is particularly proud of hers because it is full of polka dots. The umbrella is useless, we realize, as the wind turns the umbrella into something a newly neutered dog would wear around its neck.
We are about half way through the march. We are falling behind because of those wet pant legs of Courtneys’ and the need to roll them up. I notice with alarm that we are in front of a large group of people that are carrying a banner that stretches across the street. They are walking in perfect unison and their street-wide banner is perfectly straight. We are in the middle of the road and Courtney decides that it is time to roll up her pant legs once again. The banner is suddenly upon us. The banner then surrounds us. The middle banner people half to stop so that Courtney is not trampled, but the people who are holding the ends of the banner missed the memo saying that they are stopping for a girl who has to roll up her wet pant legs.
We make it back to Parliament Hill. We are being pelted by the driving rain, but that doesn’t really matter. We are not there for our enjoyment – we are simply there to remind our Government that we have not forgotten about those little babies in the womb who have no voice or no protection.
It is good to be there on that windy day. It is good to be there with Courtney and to know that she is the one for me. We like to laugh about her holding up the march and almost getting trampled by a giant banner.
Now as the wind blows, and as Adagio in G blasts through my speakers, I look forward to Courtney coming home and telling me about her day.