Meant to be.

It is amazing how sometimes seemingly innocuous occurrences in one’s life can turn out to be the starting point on a path to truly greater events. Some call this the “the butterfly effect,” mathematicians may refer to it as “chaos theory,” while others simply say, “God works in mysterious ways.” This series of events begins in late November 2015.

On the northcentral Wisconsin island town of Minocqua; a quaint wilderness get-away where some of the regions wealthier inhabitants have what they refer to as “cabins.” In reality, these “cabins” were log mansions overlooking Lake Minocqua. This was the kind of place where residents didn’t bat an eye at paying $12.00 for coffee. In preparation for a trip to Europe I was told that I needed to purchase warmer clothing; a task that I really didn’t want to undertake as I lived in Florida and most of the items would be rendered useless in the Southern heat. I begrudgingly went along assuming the purchases would be no more than socks and thermal underwear; items I assumed would be available in abundance as ice fishing season had been in full swing for several weeks. After jumping from store-to-store perusing an endless stream of $50 stocks and $100 long johns I was near my breaking point when I was handed a button-down shirt. It didn’t look like anything special and to the touch was slightly less abrasive than fine sandpaper, but there was something that drew me to piece of attire. It did not take much persuading for me go try the shirt on. From the moment the final button was in place I knew this was my favorite piece of clothing I had ever worn……then I saw the price tag. I was in no way interested in paying $200-plus for a shirt, no matter how I felt (awesome) or looked (more awesome) in it. Apparently, that day I was overly susceptible to coercion because I left that overpriced shop with the shirt and a sizeable debt on my credit card.

The trip didn’t go quite as expected in terms of the weather and the need for warm attire. Most of the trip was spent in temperatures warmer than what it would have been in Tallahassee during the same period. Warmer days were spent walking around in lighter clothing; then suffering through wearing the heavier clothing purchased specifically for this adventure once clean lighter attire ran out. On the final evenings of the trip the temperatures had dipped enough that I could finally wear the new shirt without sweating through it or passing out from heat exhaustion. I was extremely grateful for the temperature drop because that one new shirt made up a high percentage of the clean shirts I had left. As I went to exit the room after putting the shirt on I turned back to retrieve my phone and felt a snag; followed immediately by a tearing noise. My initial thought was: “Oh no, I tore my pants.” It was far worse; the new shirt had been desecrated. As I rotated back into the room the untucked shirttail had caught the weird European door handle and tore a 4-inch split. Although bummed out by this I figured I would just have a professional repair it once I returned stateside. .... now to the important stuff….

Have you ever had a moment or initial interaction with a person and in that instance, what seems to be a flash runs through you? It is as if there is some sort of lightning bolt and internal voice or instinct saying: “This is not just some chance moment; you are not just meeting some person.” For me, this very rare type of occurrence creates a memory so vivid that I can play it back in my mind as clearly and easily as rewinding a video and re-watching it. This happened to me on an otherwise nondescript evening in March of 2016 when my good friend Mia approached me and introduced her friend Rachel. As soon as the name left her mouth I was greeted by the “flash” running through my mind and sense that I had not just met another person who would be gone from my life just as quickly as they had entered it. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had just met the only woman……who could fix my shirt. Side note: The reason I refer to this as a “chance meeting” is because Rachel needed to be coaxed off her couch that evening with the threat from Mia that “she would never meet someone if she did not leave her apartment.” Additionally, I had not planned on being social that evening but had to meet with a colleague on a work-related issue.

In the months following my return from Europe, I attempted to get the shirt repaired; a task I assumed would be simple as it was merely a small tear on a wool shirt. I assumed wrong. I called or visited every tailor and seamstress in the Tallahassee area, each one told me that the rip couldn’t be repaired, or if it was repaired it would be very noticeable. Almost all of them said some version of: “You can always tuck in the shirt.” That was an option, but it really made for an awkward-looking ensemble. During this time, I was also trying to figure out why it was that the introduction to Rachel, a friend of a friend, had remained so rich in my memory. Why was it that this person and our roughly five-minute interaction had even registered as a blip on the radar, let alone left an indelible impression? Sure, she was personable, intelligent, and attractive; but I meet new people every day and then move on. I thought about connecting with her through social media because she was a new contact, but ultimately decided it would be inappropriate for a myriad of reasons.

Months had passed since the chance encounter and introduction to Rachel; by this time, she had become firmly entrenched in our group of friends and had grown very close with my two sisters. In that same time span, I had not been able to find someone with the talent to repair my shirt. This would turn out to be quite fortuitous. We all started attending more and more social gatherings that fall. When the temperatures started to drop, I knew it was time to break the shirt out. At the advice of the local tailors, and much to my dismay, I would wear the shirt tucked in. This opened the door for my sisters to unabashedly mock me and let me know that I looked like an old man when I wore the shirt in that fashion. During one of these public shamings Rachel asked the question of why I wear the shirt tucked in. I explained the Swiss door handle situation and showed her the tear. Upon seeing the damage Rachel, with the nonchalant confidence of a Michelangelo using a coloring book and crayons, said, “I can fix that.” I would be lying if I said I had unwavering confidence in her skill set at that time, but she is cute so of course I didn’t hesitate to give her a crack at it. For her efforts and willingness to try to repair the shirt I told her she could select the color that would replace the periwinkle paint on the walls of the Sunroom. (A fine example of my inability to properly flirt.) Thus, I was introduced to Worldly Gray (actually tan); a color that I thought was selected in jest because of a shirt I had torn in Europe (worldly) which made me look like an old man (gray).

One Sunday a week or so later Rachel contacted me to let me know that she had finished the shirt, and would swing by later in the day to drop it off. I let her know that I would be there all day putting the finishing touches on transforming the Sunroom into a more formal Parlor (I thought the transformation of the room and name change would make me sound more sophisticated). What I did not let her know was that I had finally figured out why, when we first met, I had that lightning bolt of consciousness run through me: I was crazy about her. Of course, this is not something I could have known at that time; nor would I have even entertained the idea of, but it was obvious to me now. I had to figure out some way of getting her to go on a date with me. To demonstrate what I could bring to the table I made sure not to clean up my tools from the yard to show her that I am handy. (Second Example of an inability to properly flirt.) She will never cease to mock me for this attempt to impress her, but seeing as we are where we are today, I’d have to say that my plan worked to perfection. When Rachel arrived, shirt in tow, and I readied myself to A) no matter the results tell her what a great job she had done, and B) accept the fact that this shirt would probably have to be worn tucked in for the rest of eternity. Then she presented the shirt and, very much to my delighted surprise, I could not find where the shirt had been torn. It was nearly seamless. So much so that Rachel had to show me the area she had repaired. At that point, I decided to make my move in what is probably the least bold but apparently most effective way possible: Invite her to dinner as a “thank you.” (Example three) From what I am told she read right through my plan and called my sisters as soon as she got back in her car and informed them that she thinks their brother just asked her out…but most importantly: she said “yes.”

It is truly amazing how small choices can unsuspectingly lead to the greatest events in life. If had not caved and bought the shirt. If it had not been unseasonably warm. If I had not forgotten my phone. If I had turned clockwise avoiding the handle instead of counterclockwise. If any of the tailors could have fixed the shirt. If I had not had a work function that night. If Rachel had not been pressured to go out that night. If my sisters had not become as close with Rachel. If I looked good with the shirt tucked in. If Rachel had not been overly attracted to a handyman in a tool belt. If I had not had the nerve to ask her out. If she had not said “yes.” There are so many variables that seemingly fell into place; variables that eventually opened the door for me to ask Rachel, the love of my life and my best friend, to marry me and for her to once again say “yes.” There is a part of me that likes to think everything had to fall into place so perfectly in order for us to get where we are today; but another part that believes the variables did not matter, this was all meant to be.