Another character introduction.

Actually, this is less about her, and more what she means to me. To understand this, you need to already know: I am kind of a screw-up.

When I think about it, there has not been one area of my life that has been free from failure.

I carry this around. Sometimes, it feels as though I am trying to put on a good face over it, hoping no one will notice. I am hopeless at pretending. I would say that I am the WYSIWYG of all women, except that God made women so incredibly layered and complicated that I am pretty sure you could be married to one for ten years and still not know all of her. So, there are too many layers for me to be showing all of them at the same time, but there are only about two shades I can offer that are not entirely true, and even then they are just a diversion, not a decent cover. With a limited time to work with, I usually shrug and figure that I will not have time to offer anything but the truth.

Most of the time, it doesn't bother me. The places where I failed exist, just like the places where I like to hang around with kids, and relax by playing the piano, and come home from a run and eat peanut butter by the spoonful. And all of that comes together and shows up at different points.

It always feels as though there are two kinds of moms that I meet. Or that moms have two different responses to me. My girlfriend's moms all seem to be thinking that I am not quite good enough to be friends with their daughter, but I am bright and cheerful and helpful, so they will accept my presence in their house for a few hours. I have friends who are of a mom-age, but they usually have no daughters my age. The only time I am friends with both a mom and a daughter is when I met one or both of them at Camp. I think this is because Camp is family.

This is another matter with the guys' moms. They all seem to see me as a potential girlfriend for their son, but the split is over whether they are happy about this idea. Half of the guys I know have absolutely terrible taste in women, and their moms are always evaluating me in comparison to the last relationship disaster. These moms like me, and hope that the son in question will soon express a romantic interest in me.

The other moms are rather guarded. They are kind and polite and pretending. Or so it feels. They seem to be in a club with the moms to my girlfriends. If these guys' moms and my girlfriends' moms all got together, the first thing that they would have in common would be finding that they all know me, and try to pinpoint what it is about me that sets them off. And then they would all make matches between their offspring.

One day I met a different mom. We'll call her Bonnie, because someday I will slip and mention her real name here and then you will all know why I think that she is the most beautiful mom I've ever met.

I was giving a friend a ride home. One of the quirks of our culture is that when you say goodbye, it has to take about half an hour. I hypothesize that this is because of how cold our weather can be - it's warm in the house, and you are with friends who love you, and you do not want to go out just yet. Outside, it is cold, and windy, and dark, and the snow is blowing, and you are suddenly alone. Your friends will not want you to leave and be cold and alone either. Minnesota.

So we are standing on the driveway, talking of all the things that you say when you know you have to go but you do not want to just yet, and he remembered that there was a book that he was planning to lend me, just as his dad came out to help carry some stuff in and give me a hug. My friend's dad is a very solid guy with a great sense of humor, and teaches me about God when we talk. I have incredible respect for him, and he likes me. So, at the mention of the book, he said to come in.

As soon as I came in, his mom assumed that I was staying for dinner. This was a surprise to me, because usually parents are kind of relieved when I finally appear to be leaving. I think I shake things up a little with the things I say, to be honest. I kind of wish I knew why. But at a moment when the rest of the offspring were scattered elsewhere, I went and asked her if she was sure it was okay if I stayed, because I hadn't been planning on it, and was this an imposition. That sort of thing.

She took my hands in hers, and made the most direct eye contact I have ever gotten from a friend's parent, and assured me that it was good, that they did want me here. This amazed me. Still amazes me. I am accustomed to people being nice and forgiving the intrusion I make on their lives, and possibly even being entertained by the intrusion.

I am very big on touch. Physical contact speaks to me on a deeper level than anything else. I sometimes think that this is why I have trouble wrestling with God - He can give the other four love languages, but I can't physically feel Him hug me. This might be why I crave it so much in the relationships with people I love. I love God so much, and want to be so close to Him, and I can't physically feel His arms around me or Him stroking my hair, so I look for it from other people.

Or it could just be a family thing. Joe speculates that this is the part of the Navy that will actually kill me. It won't be the lack of privacy, because I've learned how to thrive in that from Camp. It won't be the intense physical training, because I've gone through Camp, Track, Cross-Country, and a brief stint of cheerleading (they train harder than the football team). It won't be the loneliness, because I moved out to Sheridan and didn't know a single person. It won't be the lack of control over my life, because I gave that up a long time ago. It will be that no one touches each other in the military. And that will be what makes me break.

I don't have an answer for him. I think he might be right.

Bonnie is happy, and welcoming, and always glad to see me. If I was living in the area for the next year, I would have dinner with them every week. Last week, I sat between her and my friend, and after dinner we played a card game, and she would regularly have a hand on my shoulder.

Touch just says something to me. It could be translated as, "I love you," or, "You make me happy," but I think the simplest interpretation in my mind is an affirmation; "I'm glad you're here."

Because I know how many times I have failed. I know how many ways I fall short of what I should be. And I cheerfully deal with the idea that wherever I go, most people just kind of put up with me and my weirdness (if it's not for the failures, it's for the fact that I have a backwards approach to a lot of Christianity). The idea that someone actually wants me is like dropping water on a cactus. Carefully, cautiously, disbelievingly, start to open up a little. Cactus survives just fine and dandy, hale and hearty, but this...this is something bigger.

So, Bonnie's the most beautiful mom I know.