Marriage Monday: The Proposal

It’s Marriage Monday over at Chrysalis, and today we’re telling our engagement stories!

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Now, I know you’re asking yourself: How on earth did she get so lucky?

I pinch myself regularly and wonder How did I get so lucky?

And then I recall October 11, 1987…

Daniel and I started dating on February 11, 1986, three weeks after meeting in the A-G registration line, winter quarter our freshman year of college. We knew that we were — as one observer put it — “playing for keeps” immediately.

He insists he was attracted to my intelligence. All I know is that when I turned around in that line to see who was cracking such funny jokes, I gazed into the most amazing blue eyes and…and…and…

By our junior year, we sought Godly council regarding marrying before graduating. When I met with our pastor’s wife, she said, “Before we talk about whatever you came to discuss with me, may I ask how soon you and Daniel are going to get married?” The pastors, deans, and teachers we spoke with were cautiously supportive.

So when Daniel invited me to dinner on October 11 — 11 months before our ideal wedding date of September 11, 1988 — and suggested that I wear the new blue dress I’d made, I suspected he had more on his mind than the Killer [garlic] Bread at Swan’s Court Cafe in Napa.

After more-awkward-than-usual small talk during appetizers, I excused myself to the restroom. When I returned, a scroll was waiting on my clean plate.

“What is this?” I asked.

“You’ll have to read it and find out,” Daniel replied.

Daniel watched intently as I read the scroll and mentally connected the illuminated letters to spell the words WILL YOU MARRY ME?

I whispered my tearful reply, at which my shy, introverted, Melancholy boyfriend…er…fiance stood up, raised both arms in “field goal” position, and shouted, “She said YES!”

The entire restaurant broke out in applause, as I, ever the Sanguine, basked in the attention, dazzled by Daniel’s willingness to leap so far out of his comfort zone for me.

The matre d’ came by with a complementary bottle of wine, which we exchanged for Martinelli’s and toasted to eternity together.

Later that night, as I shared my exciting news with all my girlfriends, we heard the rumble of male voices shouting.

“They’ve got him!” I squealed, and bolted for the dorm front door. Dashing down the amphitheater stairs, across the parking lot, down the gym stairs, I made it to the perfect observation point looking down on the swimming pool.

Eager to observe the Men of Grainger engagement ritual “baptism” of my doomed groom-to-be, I failed to notice that I’d been seen. Five minutes later — after giving the dean our “begrudging” consent — Daniel and I were ceremonially tossed into the pool together.

A week later, we drove to Southern California so Daniel could have a formal man-to-man conversation with my father. After a weekend of painful silences — and when he could stall no longer because of the imminent nine hour drive back to school — Daniel blurted out, “So, what would you say if I asked for the hand of your daughter in marriage?”

To which my father replied, with a straight face and a twinkle in his eye, “If you want to know, you’ll have to ask me!”

Here we are during our wedding-planning year. Impossible to believe they let such babies get married, isn’t it?

Our official engagement photo, which we had printed on the tissues inserted in our wedding invitations:

And this is the handsome face I see whenever I look at my husband of 23+ years and ask myself, once again, How did I get so lucky?

And I thank God that I am so blessed.