By Phil Callaway

Dear Son,

I’m writing to formally congratulate you.

When you were only four, you introduced us to Allie.

“I marry her,” you promised, without employing any r’s.

You had a ring from a pop can, and Allie was moved to tears. Or maybe she just missed her mommy. Sadly she got cold feet and moved away. You moved on too.

Girls are like buses, your Uncle Lauren would later tell you. There’s a new one along every 20 minutes.  Your perceptive sister Rachael disagreed. “Men are like buses,” she insisted. “The older they get the more they need repairs.”

Three years ago, lounging by a swimming pool, you asked what I thought about you dating. I pushed you into the pool and tried to hold you under. But you’re a big kid, so we dried off together and I told you we’d be praying. I preached a little too. About honouring Raelyn; about having no regrets, no matter the outcome.

“What do you like about her?” I asked.

“She loves God,” you said. “She’s got a car and she’s hot.” It’s not a bad place to start.

You’ve always enjoyed the story of mom and me, of our 300-year courtship. How Mom broke up with me twice a month on account of me getting too physical. (Hey, we live in a cold climate. I was just trying to help.)

You were surprised to discover fossils like us battled the same temptations you do. I told you that God, by his grace, kept us pure until marriage. You said, “So after marriage you were dirty?” Thanks for the laughs.

Sadly, your generation knows little of the joy of delayed gratification. Make sure you experience it.

At Christmastime, I advised you not to date forever. That if you don’t hurry up, you’ll be in a nursing home trying to remember her name.

I was joking, of course, but you took me up on it. And now it’s come to this.

Thanks for gathering the family together to show us the ring. We prayed for you then; one of us fought tears.

Thanks for not proposing to her on the big screen at the Superbowl. Some guys make the rest of us look bad. I proposed to your mother with one knee on a ghastly green rug in my parents’ living room, then took her out for ice cream.

I’m glad you’re an improvement on me, but remember, the most romantic guys don’t always make the best husbands. Sometimes they’re just dreamers with too much time on their hands.

I was sort of pulling for you to elope. There’s still time. You’ll save us some cash and countless hours of planning, and free up a weekend. But in the event you decide to get old-fashioned on us, I trust you’ll keep the engagement short and the wedding simple.

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Learn to budget early. Mom and I started out with $500 your grandma gave us, and we were happier than mosquitoes in a nudist colony. So keep your life uncluttered.

You don’t need a house for a while. Swallow your pride and rent. I’ve been with the Joneses. They’re not that happy.

I know you love country songs, and some are priceless. Like “She ran off with my best friend and I sure do miss him.”

But don’t base your life on songs like ‘You Complete Me.’

God alone completes us. Looking to anyone else for that is like expecting our Maltese Shitzu to bring us breakfast in bed.

I’ve seen marriages self-destruct because of starry-eyed romanticism.

We’re not wired to perfect each other, but to love each other and glorify God. Sometimes two can do this better together than apart.

When mom and I held hands at the altar and promised to stay stuck for the next 96 years, we took the on-ramp to a freeway with no exits.

Sickness. Health. Richer. Poorer. Frankly, I’d have picked poverty over illness, but we don’t get that choice.

What we can choose is commitment, and the more we choose it, the greater the reward.

Two decades ago, we began praying that God would help you chase the right kind of girl and catch her.

Not a day has gone by when we didn’t thank him for you.

You’ve brought with you an avalanche of laughter and a profoundly simple love for Jesus that challenges me.

Take that into marriage and you’ll do fine. And should you need more advice, I’ll be hanging around.

If you’re looking for me on your wedding day, I’m the guy down front smiling and dabbing my eyes.

With love from your number one fan,

– Dad

PS: One more thing, son. Remember that no husband has ever been shot while doing the dishes.

So next weekend, why not come on home, eat some food and practice loading up the dishwasher.

If Raelyn says no to the ring, you can always take the bus.

On February 14, Raelyn said yes. A summer wedding is being planned.

Info: philcallaway.ab.ca

May 2010