The first time that my husband kissed me under a moonlit sky, I reluctantly whispered, "Let’s just be friends".
Surrounded by a warm and humid April sky, we walked along the path of the city park in Houston. My hand fit perfectly in his smooth, strong hand. He guided me onto the bridge for the children’s train which sat locked and alone in its station. Other couples walked through the park also, but none invaded our romantic space on the tracks. We stood alone. I fell under his spell.
"I want to be more than just a friend," he declared.
As we embraced in conversation, I learned that his words were as gentle as his touch. I agreed with his optimistic viewpoint that intertwined career goals with family plans. He contradicted my objections with rational strategies to engage in an active life. He offered joyous devotion and loyal affection.
"We are too young," I gently reminded him. “We need to finish college before we commit to a life-long relationship.”
"Yes, we are young, but not too young to share adventures. I already know that I love you. Let’s begin tonight," he pursued my commitment that night.
As the day dawned upon us on the train tracks, I agreed.
With detailed clarity, I recall this first time event as we begin to navigate through our third decade of marriage. We still experience first time events. Some are memorable. Some are not. Some make us cry. Some make us laugh. Approaching each “first” with thankful enthusiasm, I can choose its unique impact on my life.
The first time that I met my mother-in-law, I quietly smiled, "So nice to meet you."
I approached her with respect and kindness. We grew up in different time periods and with different cultural traditions. She cherished her traditional Catholic upbringing, while I held steadfast to my ecumenical childhood that mixed Jewish Sunday School with Christian Science studies. As we politely hugged each other, she eyed me carefully.
"Since Nancy practices her faith with a different religious affiliation, I have decided to establish a new rule in the house. No one may proselytize their faith in this house, only practice it," she announced to the family.
From that moment on, we shared a loving relationship that spanned over twenty years.
The first time that I saw each of my sons following their births, I prayed, "let each son grow to be wise and strong. Let each one be free to love and be loved."
I recognized the unique potential that existed in each life. Their little fingers and toes wiggled. Their blinking eyes surveyed the birthing room. Each child promised to test our patience, our courage and our sanity. Despite our worries, they both grew up to be responsible citizens of the community and of their families.
The first time that we went to an emergency room with our younger son’s cut finger, I cried, "will he live?"
Blood dripped from his tiny finger that had been smashed by the wheel flap of an historical train. Only a few tears stained his freckled face. With the emergency room staff circling around my 7-year-old son, the doctor stitched his tiny finger and pronounced him alive and well.
The first time that I saw my granddaughter, I stood speechless for a moment, then gratefully whispered to my husband, "I am glad that you are more than my best friend."
As we watch our granddaughter develop into a wise and strong young girl, I know that she is surrounded by family and friends who will guide her through many adventures. She speaks confidently. She runs easily. She demonstrates a natural joy.
First time events tend to establish positive or negative memories within your lifetime. When I accepted my husband’s commitment, I allowed his affections to fill my life with a variety of experiences. I cherish many events in our long life together, but none as memorable as that first kiss that was lit by the moon in the park.