In April my fiancée made the drive out to school to be my date at the spring formal.  To be honest, I just wanted to be with him and didn’t want to bother with everyone else.  He didn’t know anyone at the dance and I think he just wanted to be with me, too.  But then, somehow, he sat down at a table just off the dance floor and started talking to JD, the boyfriend of one of my sorority sisters.  I didn’t know her well, but somehow the boys hit it off and talked about March madness and how they both wanted to go to law school.

Three months later my fiancée and I got married.  The sorority sister and her boyfriend got engaged.

A year and three months later my husband started law school.  The sorority sister and her fiancée got married.  And they moved to Minneapolis.  We had them over for dinner like good sorority sisters do.  I think I even wore blue and blue.

The weeks and months passed.  Then one day we found out that the boyfriend-turned-fiancée-turned-husband had gotten into law school too.  Suddenly, that March madness/basketball/sorority formal interaction became a bit closer.  My husband and her husband traded law school war stories.  They shared outlining tips and bemoaned legal research and writing.

Last September, she got a job with me at Target.  For the past six months she’s worked three floors below me.  And just a few weeks ago, he got a job at the firm where my husband works.  They will be working in the same tiny back office on the same projects with the same attorneys.

But here’s the best thing about this friend: I used to think she was crazy but I’ve truly fallen in love with her.  She’s bubbly, gets excited over the smallest things, and makes me laugh at myself.  She’s a good listener, very wise, and loves her husband and respects him and makes sure the world knows it.  I want to be like her.  Being around her forces me out of my shell and helps me see the world in a whole new way.  God sent her to me just when I needed her most.  I’m so thankful.

The craziest part?  She grew up celebrating her half-birthday too.  Our husbands think it is a holiday we’ve made up to get stuff.  So we decided to just celebrate together.  Last week she ordered me this dress pattern for my half-birthday because I loved it so much.  It was supposed to be a surprise.  The problem is I ordered it for her birthday because I wanted to make it for her and surprise her.  And we realized this at the same time yesterday afternoon.  So now we have two.

So today, I’m celebrating my half-birthday friend and the gift God has given me in her.

Then one day her mother shared wonderful news — she was going to be a big sister again, for the fourth time!  And this little girl waited and waited to find out if her dream of having a little sister would come true.  Her parents decided to wait until the baby was born to find out if it were a little girl or a little boy.  And so she had to wait too.

Those nine months were agonizing.  Sometimes the little girl couldn’t sleep.  She prayed every night that God would bring her a little sister.  And finally, on the afternoon of March 13, 1995, God answered her prayer.

She still remembers that wonderful day when her dad called and said, “Guess what?  You have a little sister!”  It was one of the best days of her life.

Happy Birthday, sweet Bethany.  I love you.

And so it’s been a year.  A year since I wrote this letter to you, my dear readers, explaining what I was doing and why I was doing it and what it was supposed to accomplish.

My husband says I love celebrating things… and this is true.  If you know him, ask him sometime about his feelings on half-birthday celebrations, and you’ll suddenly have a window into one of our marital disagreements: celebrating my half-birthday (which is a week from today, in case you were wondering) and those of our future children.  Apparently this is one of those discussions in which he has 51% of the vote.  But I digress.

I love celebrating events, big or small.  I guess it is because I believe all of life should be a celebration, something to enjoy and cherish and remember.

I remember last year, sitting in this little coffee shop with my husband, trying out all sorts of blog names.  I was convinced that the best ones were all taken.  Then, somehow, Rhetorical Expressions came into being.  And I made my husband promise he’d go to it at least once a day so I felt like I had a real audience.  He’s wonderful.

Thank you, dear readers, for being the rest of the story.  I’ve been blessed and terrified by the fact I know this is all out there and that you’re actually reading it.  More importantly, I’ve learned more from your wisdom and insight and willingness to share than I ever could have with a solitary journal.  That’s the beauty of blogging — it connects you to others and allows you to share life.  So thank you.

My dear roommate from college is turning 25.

I still remember when she arrived at 19.  We were freshmen navigating our first semester in college.  19 seemed so old.  I mean, one more year and she wouldn’ t be a teenager anymore.

I was proud of the birthday party I put together in the back of our dorm.  I made a cake, decorated with streamers, and she pretended to be surprised.  I had a lot to compete with — six weeks prior, she threw the largest birthday party of my life.  And I didn’t have a clue.

She’s the roommate who took my suggestion of matching bedspreads and, very kindly, said no thank you.

She’s the one who participated in my scheme of hiding a bread machine in our closet and making bread every Thursday morning.  Our enjoyment was short-lived.

She’s the one who rode in the ambulance with me to a rural Michigan hospital after I collapsed.  And she helped me learn to like cheese and nuts once I discovered my hypoglycemia.

I’ve been counting down the days for over a month.  The only sad part about the visit is that there will be someone missing, our dear friend who participated in all schemes formerly mentioned (she protested the bedspread when she learned of it) and others not disclosed. 

She’s surpassed any of our adventures by living abroad with her husband and two small children and making a beautiful home in Italy for the school year.  She’ll be with us in spirit and over skype, but it just won’t be the same.

Happy Birthday, dear Laurel.  Come home soon, dear Amy.  Here’s to celebrating 19 and 7 all together next year.

My father’s mother’s mother was born on April 3, 1909.  She worked in New York City during the Depression and shared a tiny apartment with five other girls.  She married her father’s much younger cousin and never had to change her name.  My great grandfather was a soap salesman and they spent the first 9 months of their marriage driving around Iowa in a panel truck.  She was convinced the car fumes made her nauseous but soon discovered that she had something called “morning sickness”.

When she went into labor (with the help of Castor oil, the inducement of the day), she had no idea she was carrying twins.  She felt huge during her pregnancy, but then, who doesn’t?  Two healthy girls were born – my grandmother and my great aunt.  She spent two weeks in the hospital because the doctors were afraid a blood clot might make its way to her heart.

She’s the matriarch of our family and is the proud mother of two, proud grandmother of seven, and proud great-grandmother of 18.  Until just a few years ago she routinely played 18 holes of golf – one for each of us. 

She always has the perfect shade of lipstick and could be a host of “What Not to Wear.”  She’s a stylish lady with impeccable taste.  I’ve inherited my height, shoe size, and wedding china (that is older than even she is) from her.

I’m blessed to be her great-granddaughter and have learned much from her life.

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You were expecting a post on speeches, right?  Wasn’t that more interesting?  Part II on Monday.