22 is a special number for me. It is the date of my birth. It is the date my first two children were born. It is a palindrome. It was Emmitt Smith’s jersey number. Psalm 22 is one of my favorites. The two digits add to four and the product of them is also 4. In my book, that makes this a special number. I bet I could write for hours about the special place in my mind and heart the number twenty-two occupies. It not only occupies (sounds temporary). The number has permanently taken up residence.
If there were such thing as mental or emotional cattle-branding, my brain would be seared with this number, but it has less to do with the info above, and more to do with what happened exactly twenty-two years ago today, on October 22, 1988.
I met her that day.
And she met me. She met me where I was, and accepted all the baggage, and took my hand. I’m thankful.
These 22 years have been full of sickness and health. They have dished out their fair share of “better and worse”. For some reason, though, the joy I’ve had surfaces in my thinking, while the pain and frustration with life seem to sink to the bottom of my thoughts. She has a way of putting a fragrance in my life. She challenges me to step up and do the right thing. She moves me to be moved for others. She is slowly helping me to smooth down all of my rough corners. She causes me to be thankful on my knees.
She is my wife.
She is my love.
She is my friend.