The Best Part of You

I tried writing outside, but the sun beat me to my seat.  I landed in our room, on our bed, on my side of the bed, of course.  I’m just here to wish you a happy 40th birthday.  

I really didn’t want to dive into our love story on your birthday because this is about you, but your life has impacted mine in such a meaningful way that I can’t separate that story from the way you lived in front of me for the past 18 years, from how I came to understand the character of Jesus.

I think the kids will like this one when they’re older.

Summer 2008:

I had recently moved back home from attending college in Florida.  I had a tough year in Florida and got in way too deep in a relationship.  I left mid-semester, and I was trying to start over.  A new romantic relationship was not on my radar.  

I knew of your dad from his regular Sunday evening visits to Outback with Phil.  He always sat in another person’s section so I never served him, but I did occasionally say hello.  

When you came to Outback with him during your summer break, Susan went back to the kitchen and said that Tommy’s youngest son was eating with him.  Ironically, she wasn’t trying to set you up with me at all. She was talking you up to the girl your dad had actually brought you there to meet. She said that you were in college, had straight As, were thinking of attending UT for your master’s, and you were a real catch.  I was curious, so I came over and said hi. Then I didn’t see you again until the end of the summer.

She was right. You looked like a good catch. I just didn’t know then that the best part of you had nothing to do with the résumé she was sharing.

In the meantime, I was working on myself.  My family traveled a lot and didn’t go to church, but I felt a tug I couldn’t explain that drew me closer to God.  I asked the only person I knew who went to church similar to the one I went to as a little girl, and I started driving 45 minutes on Sundays to go to church with her.  

Then you came back to Outback, and I told you and your dad how I got kicked out of this super snobby private school because I wouldn’t go to chapel.  

Then you asked what school it was…and we both laughed because we realized we had not been that far apart in this world after all.  You were there at the same time as me, but you were just older.

I told you how I was going to church with Bethany, and you invited me to church with you.

That was the church you grew up in.

That was the church I started attending alone even when you went back to college in the Fall.

That became the church where we got married.

Then we moved, and it became the church we later brought our kids back to visit.

I still love that church.

But to tell you the complete truth, the church was only the backdrop to what I was witnessing right in front of me.  

You changed my life and my view of Jesus.  

I met a lot of people in that Baptist private school, but, Robert, there is no one like you.

I was amused from the start.

It wasn’t because you were Hit Man Jacks and Captain on the football field in high school.

It wasn’t your conviction for the Lord.

Or the 3.98 GPA.

Or that you knew a lot about the Bible.

It wasn’t that you’d spent your life quietly honoring your convictions about purity.

Or even your confidence about heaven.

Those things were admirable.
They just weren’t what changed me.

The world might label you a believer based on those merits.  

What impacted me was much deeper, though.

The simple truth is this: seeing Jesus in you never came from what you said about yourself.

I had to ask, and you responded as if it were no big deal.

That is just who you are.

The humility of it all is exactly the fertile ground where my faith could grow taller than the surrounding weeds.

You’ve never made me feel like you were leading me to Jesus.  You’ve always said you chose me because of my heart.  You wouldn’t have chosen someone to save.

You’ve always made me feel like we were growing closer to Him together.

And I never learned much from what anyone has said, but I came to know Jesus even more because of what you did to teach me.

You’ve admitted when you were wrong without needing me to admit my part in return.

Which, in the end, made me want to admit my part.

I know you know more about the Bible than I do, but every time I remind you of that, you shake your head no before I can finish my sentence.

I’ve seen you take the blame for things that aren’t your fault at work.

You aren’t a gatekeeper to heaven with a scorecard.

People call you when they are struggling.

Not because they think you are perfect.

But because they know you know you aren’t, and you’re not afraid to admit that.

I may slip a curse word every now and then.

I like an occasional glass of wine.

Even still, I know you aren’t looking at me through the lens of a religious leader in the church, but rather through the loving eyes of Jesus who wants me to sit with him comfortably, even if I bring my sin and all.

I remember when we were dating, we would lie around your apartment, and I would ask you questions about the Bible, and you would say you didn’t know the answer when you were unsure.

You could have fooled me.

You grew up in a Baptist school.

You attended church every Sunday.

You went on a Mission trip.

You could have answered to the best of your knowledge to impress me.

But that isn’t you.

You are the one in the room not talking,

while quietly carrying more wisdom than the people doing all the talking.

That is the person who taught me how much Jesus really loves me.

Not because we attended church.

Not because you knew every verse in the Bible about God’s love and told me about it.

Not because when the world was being worldly in the years before we met, you were keeping your values and convictions.

None of that makes you the man who taught me about Jesus.

Growing closer to Jesus with you looks like, “Let’s look that up together,” instead of “I know the answer.”

And, “Felecia, you’ve been reading your Bible so much that you’ve encouraged me to read it more,” instead of, “This is what a holy woman does.”

It’s that you never once—and I mean not even once—reminded me of who I was at my worst.  

You had a lot of high horses to ride on, but for the last forty years you’ve chosen to put other people in the saddle while you quietly steer them around.

That’s why people who are struggling call you.

But it makes me smile too, because a lot of them don’t know you as I do, and some of them might be more nervous than I was about showing you their broken pieces if they knew the truth I knew.

You’ll probably be uncomfortable with every word I’ve written here.

You’ll tell me I’ve exaggerated.

I don’t think I have.

Happy 40th Birthday.

Thank you for showing me what following Jesus is like more than any sermon ever could.

I love you.