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The inspiring story of how her husband's project made her dream come true
Old married couples like Rick and me can get settled in their routines. Take weeknights at our house. Rick's pickup would rumble up the drive around 7:30 p.m. Another long day at his auto shop, and late enough that our 12-year-old, Thomas, the only one of our three kids still at home, and I would've eaten already. I'd zap Rick's dinner in the microwave. He'd come in, give me a kiss, wash up. I'd put his plate on the table. A quick blessing, and he'd dig in. Then it was dishes for me and ESPN for him.
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We might chat about Thomas and his upcoming ball game. Otherwise we didn't talk much. Didn't have to, I told myself.
My husband was the strong, silent type, and besides, after 25 years, I should be able to read him like the books I was constantly taking out of the library. Right? Not quite.
"This guy I know has a piece of property out in the woods," Rick said one November night between bites. "You've got to take a look at it. It's perfect."
"For what?" I asked. My hands were busy filling the sink, my mind was on the novel I'd been reading. Maybe now that the kids didn't need me as much, I could start writing a novel of my own.Writing was a dream of mine.
"Our log cabin."
That got my attention. "Rick, what are you talking about?"
"Since we've got some money now, we can build—"
"We've got a great place already." Close to our son's school, our church, Rick's shop. "Anyway, we decided what we're going to do with the money."
It was a small legacy from my grandparents. "We're saving it. College tuition, remember?" Our daughters were still in college, and there was Thomas to consider.
"A creek runs through the land. Thomas would love it," Rick went on as if he hadn't heard a word. "Just think, Julie, our own cabin in the woods...like we've always dreamed."
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"C'mon, Rick." Sure, he used to buy those log-home magazines, but all they did was gather dust until I finally tossed them. "We haven't talked about this log cabin thing in years. I didn't even know you were still thinking about it."
"That's why I'm telling you now, Honey," Rick said. He glanced at his watch. "Shoot, the Braves are on already." He stuck his plate in the sink. "Dinner was great. Thanks." He disappeared into the den.
Our log cabin, I thought as I scrubbed the dishes. Just like we've always dreamed.
My mind went back to a brilliant autumn day when I was 15 and Rick, my high school sweetheart, just a year older. He zipped his lime-green Kawasaki motorcycle into the woods. I hung on tight, half scared, half thrilled.
We came across a rustic cabin. We stopped, took in the wraparound porch, the antler railings. "Now this is a home," Rick said. He reached for my hand. "One day we'll have a place like this..."
"...where we can sit on the porch and drink in the beauty all around us," I finished. Rick was fearless in his dreaming, in his faith that God meant for us to have a future together.
And with my hand in his, I felt as sure about our future as he did. Back then it seemed like we knew everything there was to know about each other. Now I had no idea what was on my husband's mind. And he wouldn't know what was on mine because he never asked.
Two horses were trapped on an icy mountain. Would help arrive in time?
What happened, Lord? Why don't Rick and I connect like we used to? I wondered. With our blessings had come responsibilities. Did our love get dragged down to earth by everyday things? Like the dishes. Bills. Church committees. The kids sports practices.
To connect, we had to talk. Rick wasn't the communicative type, so it was up to me. I finished the dishes and went into the den. Rick looked up from the TV. "About this log cabin," I said. "It's not like you've built a house before."
"Hey, I'm good with tools," he said.
"You are," I conceded. "But—"
"Just come with me, Julie, and check this spot out. You'll see."
"All right." I owed him that.