It was a stunning May day, one of those with the heat of summer but still the fresh smell of spring. I left the small dark church with its pews and stained glass into the freedom of this glorious day and walked down the long hill to the Sunday market. There I found the stall with the freshly baked quiches and ordered one in my stuttering French.
I was heading for the park, where my roommate and her church friends were gathering for a picnic lunch, friends who I’d been getting to know the last couple of months, who were becoming my friends.
I attended this traditional Presbyterian church across the city, but she’d been pestering me for months to come to hers – the way they spoke of church was exactly what I was espousing in some of our late-night, wine-fueled rants, she would tell me. And I’d shrug and say, maybe, but it’s a scary thing to start trying to practise what you preach.
That Sunday, wearing my prettiest sundress because the day seemed to call for it, I was really looking forward to the picnic. I wandered across the large park, the triumphant arches towering over it all, and found the group already spread out across rugs and blankets – a beautiful mix of Belgian, Lebanese, American, Bosnian, Icelandic…
And one Danish man…
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Today I’m guest posting over at Leigh Kramer’s blog Hopeful Leigh to tell you the story of how I met my for-nearly-three-and-a-half-years-already husband. Click over there to read the rest of the story…!
