It was a dark and stormy night.

Really.

Twenty years and about six months ago, I rented a sound studio in a converted church.  I set a table with candlelight, flowers, and a mediocre meal—made with my own hands, for better or for worse.  I waited patiently for a knock on the church door.

Knock.

There at the door, in the wind and rain, was my best friend Michael (I know—same name—it’s always been confusing).  Beside him was the lovely Catherine, picked up by Michael in my stead, so that I could finish the mediocre food and create stunning ambiance.  With a flourish and a cheesy grin, Michael presented Cathy and retreated into the night.  Wet and tousled from the storm, puzzled by the escort and the location, Catherine stood in the doorway and blinked into the dark room.  She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I stood trembling before her, a ring in my pocket and a lump in my throat.

So here’s the scene: a huge, empty, pitch dark room.   The only thing visible in the sea of inkiosity was a candlelit table, set with flowers and finery for a romantic Valentine dinner.

I led Cathy to the table, seated her, and served.  All went smoothly until dessert, when I threw in a wrinkle.  I handed her a note which read, “We will spend the next several minutes quietly.  I will break the silence when the time is right.”  She didn’t know it, but my plan was to spend those several minutes gazing gently into each other’s eyes as we ate dessert.  Then I would break that powerful silence by asking Catherine to be my wife.  Way romantic.  Awesome plan.  But I failed to factor in the Pie of Steel.

It should be mentioned at this point that I am not, in the strictest sense, a chef.  Nor in the loosest sense.  However, I do have a signature dessert.  Two years earlier, on our very first Valentine’s Day together, I had made dinner for Cathy, featuring a chocolate raspberry cheesecake for dessert.  It included a crust lined in chocolate, and it was a big hit.  Now, two years later, I needed a big hit to finish off this very important meal.  I pulled out the big guns, and went for the cheesecake.

It’s difficult for even a novice cook to mess up a graham cracker crust lined in chocolate.  Difficult, but not impossible.  On this particular evening, I couldn’t seem to get the chocolate to spread evenly across the crust.  The solution was simple—add chocolate.

*note:  I have found through the years that many problems can be fixed by simply adding more chocolate.

I kept adding chocolate until the pie crust was evenly coated.  Thickly, too.  That thick, chocolate crust then went into the refrigerator to cool.  Then came the cheesecakey part and the raspberries on top.  It was beautiful, and I served it to my love, that we might eat in silence and gaze lovingly upon each other.

Melted chocolate does this thing when it goes into a refrigerator.  It unmelts.  And thick chocolate—say ¾ of an inch spread into the bottom of a pie crust—takes on several of the characteristics of titanium, not the least of which is its strength.  Cathy and I sat gazing lovingly at each other, trying to eat a cheesecake with forks when what we needed were power tools.

Loving gazes were replaced by laughs and giggles.

It wasn’t as painful as the dump date, but it did kind of spoil the effect I was going for.  Cathy filled the moment with grace and quiet laughter.  I adored her.

The silence was broken.

I asked.

She answered. (She said, “Yes,” as I’m sure you figured out by now.  You are so quick!)

And for twenty years, I have made big plans that have been laced with crunchy crusts.  My Catherine has responded with grace, laughing with me or at me, as the case required.  You know, I think God brought her into my life partly to show me just what grace looks like on a day-to-day basis.  On the flip side, he may have put me into her life to teach her that grace—she’s certainly had enough practice.

Twenty years.

Catherine, your husband loves you.