Paean to the men I’ve loved

I’ve reached that time in life for reflection. And a recent cancer diagnosis (see prior post) has me thinking: Write while you can! If only for the sake of my two sons, I create this record.

The first man I loved was my father. Because he was so wonderful—nurturing, kind, affirming—I have found it easy to love men! I’ve had my share of sorrow in the process, but that’s life.

There were numerous heartthrobs during my teen years but no serious romantic interest until my 20s. Steve and I met at university: his law school years and my nursing studies overlapped. He sharpened my questioning/debating skills and—per his Swedish heritage—introduced me to Ingmar Bergman and a well-made cup of coffee. I ended our six-year, on-and-off relationship soon arriving in Africa to teach nursing; we’d spent long enough trying to make it work.

A dashing doctor, brother of my best friend during

the Zambia years (British midwife, later curate

in the Church of England), seemed a more ideal match. John was emotionally warmer than Steve, equally intelligent, plus he planned to work in Africa. “It would have a lot going for it,” he said, when I suggested a possible relationship while in England for the wedding of his sister, my friend. A few months later an engagement! But not with me. 

No man has matched the one I married at 33. I’d recently returned from Africa and Bill from U.S. army intelligence work in Germany. Our families had been friends for more than a decade via church connections. Early on he dated my younger sister…but “You have the wrong sister” said his favorite aunt after meeting me just prior to my exit to Zambia in 1976, aged 24. Bill and my sister were then 21; he soon joined the army and she married someone else.

Bill embraced and honored my strengths. He was my cheerleader and I his. Confidence in ourselves, in our work, and in our parenting grew as we supported one another. Together we did good things in our church and wider community. Witty and wise, urbane and unpretentious, he nurtured a love of learning in our sons and—with his Russian language skills—shepherded us through an unforgettable visit to Russia and Ukraine, funded in part by his teacher-of-the-year award at the college where we both worked.

His love language was gift-giving: beautiful, unique earrings from every work-related trip he made, always fine chocolates and roses on my birthday and Valentine’s. A talented wordsmith with a poet’s heart, he co-published a popular textbook on writing. I treasure lovely things he wrote or said to and about me. 

We made music together—first with recorders, later him on guitar, then cello and me on the piano. For fifteen years we hosted annual holiday musical evenings with dinner for all ages. Bill was a creative chef and an unfailingly generous host.

Bill and sons accompanied by their cello teacher

Our challenges were linked to his struggles with

depression, anxiety, and alcohol use. He dealt bravely

with all! Medication helped somewhat but cumulative stressors related to medication side effects, retirement, relocation to Ecuador, and disagreement over a son’s crisis were all too much. He departed a year before our 30th anniversary. Photo to right was taken at our goddaughter’s wedding, just months before things fell apart.

“Free drinks for this woman the rest of her life” quipped a young cousin after my update at a 2018 family reunion—something like “Since we last gathered (four years earlier) I’ve experienced legal separation, divorce, marriage, and annulment of marriage. What next?”

My four-month marriage to Steve (not the lawyer) took nine months to annul: lots of paperwork, money, and multiple trips from Mexico to California. Divorce would have been easier and cheaper! I took a firm stand, however, on the grounds of fraud.

The praise for this man? Picture me 40 years earlier—a young volunteer in Africa overwhelmed by new duties as “sister tutor” in a rural mission hospital/nurse training school. Along came Steve (with nurse wife Ruth)—too charismatic for the staid Brethren with whom they had worked for awhile but maintaining ties through periodic visits. A shared dinner, their compassionate ears, a prayer from Steve that strengthened me all served to create a bond.

We met again from time to time in Zambia. And then a grand adventure to visit them in Zaire (now Democratic Republic of the Congo). A nurse friend and I floated down the Luapula River on a ferry—hoisted up the sides from a dugout canoe launched at a riverside village where the headman covered my vehicle with palm fronds to hide it from would-be thieves. Steve met the ferry in a small boat, took us for a delightful week’s visit at the mission he and Ruth had founded.

The couple spent half a century in Africa—building, educating, healing, caring for orphans and refugees,

Steve & family at time of my visit

inspiring others to serve. From them I learned more about sacrifice and perseverance. But as would become evident later, their remoteness and independence from supportive oversight and accountability were liabilities. They visited Bill and me several times during fundraising furloughs but we lost touch when our email address changed upon the move to Ecuador.

What a surprise, then, to hear from Steve on the one-year anniversary of Ruth‘s death (I think he’d learned Bill was gone). He pursued me. I was intrigued. Then a bombshell—a hint of infidelities in Africa from a person outside the circle of our many mutual acquaintances. Ensued numerous consultations (all were positive about him), gentle confrontation, denial of wrong. I chose to believe him. But within a month of the marriage, boundary issues with women emerged. Gently pressed, he confessed his history. “Had you been honest, Steve, I’d have remained your friend, but I’d not have married you.”

My next romance began a year later at church coffee hour. John and his wife/Bill and I were members of a small Episcopal fellowship for years, their grandchildren and our children peers. John’s opening line:“What happened with Bill?” I briefly summarized the complex situation I was still sorting out myself (see post of January 2019).

Like Steve—widowed for about a year—John was eager for a new relationship. So we had a date…and then another. “If I were younger (he was 83, I was 67) I’d marry you in a heartbeat,” he enthused. “But you don’t really know me yet,” I cautioned.

So we got to know one another, enjoying our mutual interests in jazz, growing flowers, and good food and wine. He was generous, kind, affirming. His extended family welcomed me. We did consider marriage: “You would have a house and some benefits when I die,” but I was ambivalent about taking on a caregiver role in the probable near future. I missed him when I moved several states away for family reasons. We Skyped weekly and tentatively planned a cruise together. He died of a respiratory illness the morning after I arrived back in Colorado for a family Christmas.

Dave and I met via eHarmony—touted as the safest (though most expensive) online matching agency. Having returned to Colorado after a romantically dry but otherwise delightful fifteen months in Kentucky, the chances of meeting someone in the small mountain town where I resettled near my mother and two youngest sisters seemed slim.

Another widower, Dave—three years my senior—had been active on multiple dating sites and party to a couple longer-term relationships that fizzled. “It’s a numbers game,” he explained. “I don’t have the energy for such an effort,” I replied, “so lucky I met you right off the bat.”

We took turns spending weekends at his place and mine—an 85-mile drive. What delightful times together

in our kitchens, watching good movies, talking history (his interest in addition to computer programming), going to his gym! He endeared himself to my family at Thanksgiving with his fabulous homemade pumpkin cheesecake. I helped decorate his lovely home for Christmas and met his friendly neighbors. He was grateful for my help in creating a family portrait wall (his son and daughter with their spouses and children lived in other states).

Dave was involved at the large Presbyterian church where Bill and I had married 37 years earlier…and my youngest sister two years later. It was somehow comforting to return there, albeit for a memorial service (for wife of Dave’s acquaintance)—a poignant reminder of our mortality…and why we should love while we have breath! Family concerns generated my return to Mexico but Dave and I have kept in touch and expressed gratitude for what we shared. I’ve invited him to visit me here. 

We’ve been made for love, for the delights and character-building challenges of intimacy. Sad that many are reluctant to engage due to unhealed wounds, that others can’t seem to find what they desire. Some choose not to make the effort. I’m deeply grateful for the men who did make the effort—three of them bravely so, after long, reasonably successful marriages—with me, a divorcee (a bit of a risk…did she do something to deserve it?). As happened with Bill, all at some point encountered my strongly held convictions about truth (including emotional honesty) and justice. The widowers and I worked through conflicts; they all had more experience than I (or Bill) at doing so. In the process I learned more about patience…and humility.