I am going to write a tribute to my husband.

In no way am I planning on embarrassing him, as he has been with me long enough to know that nine times out of ten, if I do embarrass him, it's for a good reason.

I have known him almost my whole life. We went to the same small school. He was two grades ahead of me.

We went to a school populated with about 600-700 students, seventh through twelfth grade. Everyone knew everyone. He also lived three houses away from my grandparents on Lake Hill, and was friends with my older cousin, who lived three houses in the other direction from my grandparents. Farm community, where the two friends would race up and down the road on their atv's and my grandad would sit on the front porch and yell at them to slow down even though they of course couldn't hear them.

He was very good looking. He was very quiet and very polite. He was the type of guy that none of us thought we had a chance with, so why bother? Ironically, I was flattered (and slightly annoyed) to find out that he thought the same of me.

He played football. (in our town, at this time..playing football was the mecca of manhood).

In my next to last semester at college, he approached me at a local dive bar we all frequented. I had never spoken more than four words to him in my life. He had on a burgandy ball hat with a suede brim and a plaid shirt. He was drinking Yuengling out of a bottle. He sat down at my table and began this conversation that made zero sense to me because I was looking at his eyes and they sucked me in like wet cement. After about a half hour, he asked for my number and I left the bar with friends.

He didn't call the next day. Or the next.

Oh well. I had a lot of options at this point in my life..and to be honest, my father was in the final stages of cancer and I truly didn't know if I had it in me to start up something new.

Then one afternoon a few weeks later, I saw a birth announcement in the local paper about his sister having her first baby, a daughter. It was the first grandchild in the family and I knew that her birth would be a special, special event. So I called him to congratulate him 'on being an uncle'.

(please note: I HATE calling boys. Hate it. I was of the confident crowd, if a guy doesn't call me, fine, I have a waiting list, trust me)

That's all it took. He asked me that night if I would like to go out sometime, and if so..perhaps he could stop down sometime and we could visit before hand.

He came on a Thursday night. He wore a navy blue zip up fleece, jeans and boots. No hat. I had on the baggiest jeans I owned and a man's button up dress shirt from the Gap. I was so nervous I ate an entire jar of cinnamon jelly beans.

While we sat and visited in my parents den, my father wandered in. He was weeks away from dying and in an immense amount of pain. He was having morphine constantly for the pain. He was using a walker, as the cancer had spread to his bones and his hips hurt unbearably. But he walked into the den, unassisted (I am now really popping the ole' jelly beans, thinking 'holy crap what do we have here?') and sat in his favorite chair, crossed his legs and said (smirking, his trademark Harry Potter glasses on..jelly bean, jelly bean) "Well, well, well. Mr. Schoonover, you have showed up a little late for this party, now haven't you?"

My husband reached out his hand and said "I hear that, Mr. Johnson. I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

They shook hands and talked for about 4 minutes before my mother came in with the liquid morphine, which my father took through a baby medicine dispenser, some rolled down his chin as his motor control was failing.

George never even blinked. He kept talking and acted as though this was the most natural situation ever.

When he left that night, I expected him to tell me that our date wasn't going to work out, that something had come up. Young men and cancer grieving girl don't mix well, as I had found out a few months before.

He said, "I'll see you Saturday, and I'll call you tomorrow."

Kiss on cheek.

Three weeks later, after several evenings together and phone calls, we had gone to the grocery store for my mother (HOT DATE here people) and I knew my father was close. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't hold his spoon, and he couldn't talk anymore. I was getting to that emotional point of no return and I said "If you want out, it's fine. I understand. I totally, 100% understand that I am an emotional basket case..I have all this baggage and I'm sad and my family is strange and sad. So, if you want out, do it now because I won't be able to take it later."

He pulled the vehicle over. (I was like "Oh crap! He's going to make me get out and walk!") Leans over and says, "I am in love with you. I am not leaving you ever. No matter how sad you are, how miserable you are. Got it? I'm in."

That was a Friday. My father died the following Monday morning.

Five months later we were engaged. Thirteen months later we were married. Ten months later we had twins. Three and a half years later we had another son.

Two years later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. One year later we had a daughter.

My tribute is this.

My husband is without a doubt, without one shred of doubt, the kindest man I've ever known. He is patient (anyone who knows ME will attest to this being a true test). He is calm. He is smart. He worships our children. He tolerates my mother. And he still looks at me sometimes and I feel like I'm standing in wet cement.

He makes me believe in God. Every. Single. Day.