For Amy's 50th

We were both sixteen years old. It was October, after the Coronado High School Homecoming dance, and Mr. Feighery (John's Dad) was driving all of us home, squeezed into the back seat of his sedan. You were wearing a baby blue dress with white lace. On the radio, the opening chords of "Eternal Flame" by the Bangles began to play. As they sang the words, "close your eyes, give me your hand..." you quietly slipped your hand into mine and with that one small gesture changed both of our lives forever. From that one moment flowed hundreds of thousands of memories, each one deeper and more profound than the ones that came before. I remember going to church with you, and then you with me. Sunday afternoon dinners at both of our houses. Superbowl Sunday at St. Mark's in the sanctuary at the piano. I remember going to your piano recital at White's music box, and how you came to my Academic Decathlon ceremony with my dad. I remember my Senior year, standing outside in the cold parking lot in front of "A" building, the joy and butterflies of getting back together again. I remember the two of us dreaming about what our life together could look like, and clipping pictures from a catalogue. I remember surprising you driving home from college my freshman year to take you to homecoming. I remember years later, you returned the favor, driving all the way up to Tulsa and ringing my doorbell, taking me completely by surprise. I remember Roma's restaurant in Carrollton, and the day I stood in the doorstep of your apartment getting ready to leave, and you called me "Ira." I remember watching you teach choir at Janie Stark, seeing something new in you--doing the thing you loved, being "Ms. Singer"--that inspired me to want to teach, too. I remember you in a white dress, walking down the aisle with your dad, and thinking about how I couldn't possibly deserve to be this happy. I remember board games, movies, TV shows, and the permanent slumber party of our first years in marriage. I remember watching you hold Grady for the first time, seeing another lifelong dream come true. I remember telling you I wanted to go to Seminary...in New Jersey...how you were always afraid of change, but you always found the courage to try, and with quiet determination and strength, you always made the change work out even better than either of us could have imagined. I remember watching you hold Abby for the first time, and then Jonah--and how hard you worked and fought for all three of our children to have everything they needed, and most of all to have your undivided time and attention. I remember you playing with all three of them, singing, dancing, laughing, how happy they made you and how happy you made them, and me. I remember you sitting on the stairs in the plaza of downtown Armagh, Ireland--another lifelong dream come true--and thinking that time had only made you more beautiful, more wonderful than I could have ever imagined at 16. I remember chasing castles, signs, and headstones with you this summer in Scotland, amazed at how you couldn't get enough of every single flower, every beautiful view. And I remember how throughout the past four decades, everything has been woven together with a song--from "Leaving on a Jet Plane" in the basement of First Baptist, to folk songs at your parent's piano, to Sunday mornings at Faithbridge, Middlesex, and First Pres. First it was a duet, then somehow it became a quintet, singing "In the Bleak Midwinter" and the "Holly and the Ivy" with our kids at Christmastime. When all is said and done, I think I'll remember singing with you the most. And what a beautiful, amazing, life-song it has been. Thank you for being my melody, my harmony, all the notes and every word that still brings meaning and music into all of my days.