They stride purposefully into danger. They help anyone in need whether a stranger or an enemy. Cowboys like to poke fun.
They keep their promises and never, ever shoot at women.
Cowboys witness miracle upon miracle on the open range. A Cowboy’s faith knows the Great Spirit.
On, September 6, 1985, I first laid eyes on my sizzling Lone Ranger.
Nearly a year after our first meeting, I married my boot lovin’, croonin’ cowboy. Born of West Texas folk, cowboy character pumps through his veins.
I told my girlfriends that I had struck gold!
I fell in love with;
the sweet way he treats little kids,
his uncommon commitment to the Lord,
the flirty way he treated his grandmother (and she loved it!),
how good his back-side looks in Levi’s.
However, he was not my best friend. A best friend would have basked with me in meticulous detailing of our wedding day.
He had only two requirements of our wedding day and night, a preacher and a hotel room.
The way his eyes spoke secrets to me as I walked down the aisle sent desire rushing through my veins. The way he gently cupped my face after we pledged our lives together gave me a thrill of ecstasy and security. I’ll never, ever, forget the kiss that sealed our lives as one.
No, I was not marrying my best friend. I was marrying my heart’s desire.
Best friends you have figured out. My cowboy was someone I hadn’t quite figured out, but was looking forward to a lifetime of trying.
He’s not my best friend. He’s my counterpart.
Best girlfriends can feel each other’s emotions. They share strengths and eagerness over common interests whether shopping or crafting or recounting the latest kid/pet fiasco.
My cowboy fills in the holes of my character, even when he doesn’t always understand my every emotion. It’s because of our equal but opposite natures that we make a complete posse. He is the needle to my thread. Both are necessary to join two parts. My favorite explanation of this is at The_Generous_Wife.
He’s not my best friend. He’s my whet stone.
Best friends nurture. My cowboy is a challenger. He pipes up if something doesn’t ring true. We discuss our differing points of view. He makes me figure out why I believe what I believe. On the flip side, he listens to this Annie Oakley, too, when I think things are amiss.
My cowboy has kept us riding on course through the compass of God’s Word.
He’s not my best friend. We’re a covenantal posse.
We are in this come hell or highwater. He employs the cowboy ‘can-do.’ There’s always a way to bust the bronco of adversity. There has to be. Because, we are in this for life. That’s what a covenant is.
With a ‘no-way-out’ attitude, posses cooperate to figure out solutions to miserable conditions that are encountered on the range.
Lightly, the D word, as in divorce, was once said by me to my cowboy. He was startled, angry, and hurt. “That’s not an option, don’t even kid about it.” Covenants aren’t to be taken lightly.
(Gently know, that I am pointing no fingers at marriages that are torn apart. Even with our ‘covenantal understanding,’ the locusts have foraged on our marriage. If you haven’t read our story, see it at Redeeming Marriages)
He’s not my best friend. He’s ridin’ shot gun.
Best friends aren’t expected to drop everything and give my family priority. My cowboy drops everything, including flying home from important business, when there is a crisis in our family.
Listed as ‘moderate’ on the crisis scale is when our sweet elderly dog went to sleep in the backyard sun and never woke up. She had nannied our sons through their tender years and was their constant companion. She endured much torment from 3 rowdy boys. I found her dead and lost my composure. I called Dave at the plant and he was home within 15 minutes. Together in silence we buried her. Without him, I could not have done that task physically or emotionally.
My cowboy could have given excuses that he couldn’t come home. I would have accepted them. His work is our one income. But, he gave me a precious gift that day. No questions, no hesitation. “I’ll be right home.”
He’s not my best friend. He’s seen my soft underbelly.
He’s seen my soft underbelly of vulnerability. Things I would show no one else. When the coyotes of the world would attack my weak spots, he protects me.
It takes years to read the nuance of a person’s posture or flash of eyes. The only person I want to spend that much time with is my cowboy, not a best friend.
He knows me better than anyone on earth. Some would argue that’s a best friend. However, he knows me in a way that doesn’t always include words.
He’s patiently traveled with me on the trail toward sexual understanding.
We’ve enjoyed rodeo romps in the sack and quiet slow dances of solace. It takes time to build a repertoire of sexual intimacy. He has pushed me to understand sexuality as only a lover could.
He’s not my best friend and sometimes that’s annoying.
He doesn’t have a female brain and can’t read my mind. When I’m hurt or enthusiastic, he understands. However, he doesn’t empathize with female intensity. We miscommunicate daily.
The first hunting season after we were married proved we weren’t on the same page all of the time. I came home from work to find wild game gutted in the sink of our studio apartment. The stench lasted for days. He was bewildered at my dislike of his ingenuity.
He was none too happy with me to find that his holey remnant, something resembling a Mt. Dew t-shirt, had found its way into the donation bag and I had thrown away his favorite empty box.
We have to work at seeing things from the other’s perspective.
Who’s my best friend?
Frankly, I don’t have one best friend. I have lots of sisters; biological, soul, jazzercise, blogging, childhood and singing sisters. Some have known me for decades some have only known me weeks. With each, I share unique bonds and trust to whisper confidences. We can ramble with our mouths for hours.
However, they will never, ever, be my covenant cowboy. He says little, but he sings the song of my heart and soul.
Cowboy boots on feet, dress shoes in hand. He’s pointing at the flat tire he woke up to on the morning of our wedding. “Is this an omen?” He asked me later. Honoring age old custom, he did not see me before I walked down the aisle.
THEN AND NOW