I always said I would never get married in December — but life, and God, have a funny way of rearranging our plans.
I’d been invited by a former employer to stay at his condo at the beach while he was out of town and do a bit of freelance work. Fred was supposed to join me the day before Thanksgiving.
But one phone call changed everything.
I had never planned to remarry. Two divorces behind me felt like a neon sign flashing, You’re not good at this. For three years Fred stayed close, never pushing, rarely bringing up marriage — but I always felt it sitting between us, quiet and hopeful.
That day, the company he worked for announced layoffs. He called to say he was losing his company Cadillac and would be driving my little Chevette down to the beach.
I hung up the phone and sat alone, crying. Both of us unemployed. No plan. No safety net. Just fear.
When Fred opened the door, he didn’t say hello. He said,
“Let’s get married! You won’t be marrying me for my money!”
What he didn’t know was that earlier that afternoon, I’d found an old Upper Room magazine in Bo’s condo. I’d called the prayer line in desperation. The woman on the phone listened to my tears… and then began praying something I did not expect: she prayed that Fred and I would get married.
Her prayer comforted me — but it also scared me half to death.
So when Fred made his big announcement, I was honestly afraid to say no. It felt like God and that prayer-line lady had ganged up on me!
Fred set the ground rules right away. Before we could marry, we had to agree that we would never use the word “divorce.”
We wouldn’t say it.
We wouldn’t spell it.
We wouldn’t joke about it.
Not ever.
Both of us had failed at marriage before. We were older. We each had children. If we were going to do this, it had to be for keeps.
The Monday after Thanksgiving, we drove to the courthouse in Conway, South Carolina to get our marriage license. It was closed. By the time we returned and finished all the paperwork, the earliest date available was December 3, 1985.
I borrowed a red-and-black dress.
Fred wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and his leather jacket.
Bo drove us because he “wanted us to feel special.”
When we applied for the license, the woman behind the counter asked how many times I’d been married. She didn’t approve of my answer — and she made no effort to hide it. Fred’s one previous marriage was apparently fine, but two for me? I was a bridge too far!
We walked out with my Chevette, the house we were renting, and less than $100 between us.
We stood before the magistrate — not the woman, thank the Lord — and all was fine until he asked me to repeat the words “for richer or poorer.” I doubled over laughing. Then Fred started laughing. We finally pulled ourselves together and finished the vows.
Bo took us out for cheeseburgers at Munchies in North Myrtle Beach. He snapped a picture of us that was so terrible I sent it to my mother and told her not to show it to me until I turned sixty. I’ve never seen that picture again.
Forty years have passed since that cold, gray December day. We hoped to make it to fifty, but we knew the odds were against us given our age when we married.
And we kept our promise.
We never threatened divorce.
Never joked.
Never spelled it — except once when he came home with a motorcycle I didn’t know about. But even that passed.
We always assumed I would be the one with dementia and he would care for me. But life gave us a different story. I became the caregiver. I walked him home.
I would take it all — every hard day, every sweet moment, every bit of it — just to have him beside me today.
I know Fred is in heaven, whole and restored, held by Jesus — the only One with scars in glory. Fred’s mind and body are what they were meant to be, and he is enjoying the fullness of eternity. And truthfully, I wouldn’t call him back if I could.
But oh, how I miss his laugh and his touch.
Until I see him again, I hold our memories — good and bad — close to my heart.
They have to keep me warm now.
—Gritty Granny, needin’ to get her grit on and live in the here and now
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