Popular media today seldom depicts enduring love in marriage, but it is possible to build a good marriage. Greg and Julie Gorman share how God healed their broken home, and they offer tips for troubled relationships.
Alma Jo bit her lip as she gazed at the dresses in her closet. She’d finished her hair and her makeup. If only she could decide what to wear.
Why did I agree to go on a blind date?
A friend talked her into this. Whoever this man was, he couldn’t be as handsome as the one she’d dated a few weeks ago. Besides, anyone who needed someone else to find dates for him must have a problem.
Her eyes strayed to the clock beside her bed. Decide something. It’s getting late.
She pulled out a blue dress and fingered the fabric. It had a belt that fastened with a rose. This one made her feel comfortable, and tonight she’d need that.
But wait. What was that? The fabric on the sleeve was fraying. Her father’s long illness made it necessary to cut corners, but she refused to look dumpy. It could be mended, but not tonight.
The red dress. She tugged it out and held it up. Annie Ruth always told her the color looked great on her. After she slipped it over her head and zipped it, she peered at her reflection. A strand of hair hung in the wrong place and she snatched her comb to fix the damage.
A knock sounded on the front door, and her heart banged against her chest.
“Alma!” Her mother’s voice rang through the house. “Can you get that? Your daddy wanted biscuits, and I’ve got flour on my hands.”
A little breathless, she flicked curls one last time and hurried to answer.
A slender man with a fair complexion and a full head of dark hair stood on the porch. “Hello. You must be Alma Jo.”
“And you are Lloyd Thomas?”
“My friends call me Buddy, and I’d like to be yours.”
“So, I should call you Buddy?”
His blue eyes met hers as he gave a hearty chuckle. “Yes, please. I’d like that.”
Later she sat sipping coffee at the restaurant with him. They’d talked about siblings and parents. Now what? She hated searching for topics, and she knew nothing about him. “How exactly did Lloyd become Buddy?”
He smirked. “Well, Lloyd’s not my name. Actually, there’s a story about that. Would you like to hear it?”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
“I don’t really have a name.” He grinned. “Just the initials ‘C’ and ‘L’. My birth certificate says C.L. Thomas.”
“That’s a good question.” He chortled. “What do you call someone without a name?”
How odd. But he doesn’t seem upset. “I don’t know. What did you do?”
“My teachers wanted a name, so I told them to call me Lloyd.”
“Is that your father’s name?”
“No. His is Creed.”
“Well, that’s the C.”
“And Mother’s is Laura.”
“Hmm, Creed Laura Thomas. It doesn’t work for a boy.”
“Nope.” He shook his head and snickered. “But C. L. could stand for Cute Little Thomas.”
Alma Jo had just taken a gulp of coffee and she slapped a hand over her mouth. Her stomach quivered and she couldn’t hold back. As she doubled over with laughter, warm coffee spewed from her mouth.
She managed to get her cup back to the table without spilling any more. With a deep breath she worked to control herself. What a mess. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I love coffee.” He guffawed.
For a moment her body shook with laughter again. But when she glanced down at her clothing, her cheeks grew warm. “I must look dreadful. My dress is drenched.”
He winked as he pressed a handkerchief into her hand. “It’s not so bad. You can blot it right up. You’re pretty when you laugh.”
“Thanks.” Her face flamed. “You never did explain about why you’re called Buddy.”
“Someone called me that in high school.” He chuckled. “It seemed to fit, so everyone started using it.”
“Yes.” She smiled as she gazed into his face. “It does fit.”
Alma Jo slipped his handkerchief into her purse. The next day she ran it through the wash. As she ironed it, she thought about Buddy. Despite her anxiety over the date, she’d had more fun with him than anybody she’d ever gone out with. Maybe he’d ask again.
On August 24, 1952, Alma Jo and Buddy married in the chapel of Highland Park Baptist Church. They were married almost fifty-six years when Momma stepped into glory. Dad followed about two and a half years later. I wonder if heaven’s full of laughter as they celebrate up there together.
My gaze wandered over the ruddy man Mother and Granny chatted with. Who was he? Could I trust him? Only a few weeks ago he invaded our family when he married my grandmother, but I didn’t open up to just anyone. Even at age five, they had to earn my confidence. This burly man hadn’t.
“Welcome, Cindy.” Alvin Cofer grabbed me and hugged hard.
One strike against the man. I prefered to keep my distance for awhile, check things out. Could it be that this man was really safe? Mother smiled, as if it was normal to be snatched and squeezed with so much energy. He let me go, and I stepped away.
“I’m going to leave now, Cindy.” Mama opened her arms. “May I have a hug?”
I threw myself at her and relaxed in her embrace. Granny stood by grinning and gave me a special wink. We’d have fun with her. My brother and I could depend on eating lots of our favorite foods when I visited, like cake and cookies. This new husband, Mr. Cofer, bothered me.
My brother hugged Mom, and the two of us waved as she pulled her car onto the man road.
“Come along, Cindy.” Mr. Cofer held out his hand. “Let’s go on up to the house.”
I hung back while my insides cringed. The name ‘Cindy’ sounded uncomfortable, even bad. It reminded me of ashes Cinderella had to clean up. Mother often commented that she named me Cynthia in order to call me Cindy, but I never liked it. On the other hand, Cynthia brought magical thoughts to mind. A queen would call herself Queen Cynthia, and everyone would have to bow. Enchanting.
Mr. Cofer squatted down. He smelled of cigarettes. Ugh! The evening sun brought out the red highlights in his hair. We had brown and blonde hair in our family. The red felt hot and uncomfortable. But his warm blue eyes gazed into mine.They didn’t seem scary.
I knew I’d best reply, or else take his hand. Words popped into my mind, but I swallowed. I’d made a promise to call him grandfather, but my tongue didn’t want to say it. “Granddad…could you call me Cynthia?”
His face lit up. “Sure, Cynthia.”
I took his hand.
He gave me a broad smile and picked me up. “This hill is pretty steep if you aren’t used to climbing it.” He walked toward the white house. “What treat would you like after dinner? I have a store full of goodies. What’s your favorite candy bar?”
I shrugged. Mom allowed us a little candy, but not enough to know what to ask for. Alvin Cofer owned a country grocery store and he had myriads of things my brother and I never dreamed of.
Over the course of several days, my new grandfather called me Cynthia without failing once. I’d think about my name and the beauty of the syllables as they slid from your mouth. At times I practiced with different inflections. After awhile I settled on a new way to say it with emphasis on the last syllable. The unusual pronunciation pleased me.
One afternoon I approached Mr. Cofer with a request. Even after all his kindness, I worried. Would he think me silly? Momma would. I could imagine asking her and see her face grow tight. Granddad gave lots of hugs during the week. Maybe, just maybe he’d indulge me. “Could you call me CynthiAHHH?”
“Of course, CynthiAHHHHH.” His blue eyes twinkled.
It sounded like heaven to my ears, and I danced away grinning.
A year passed. I thought more about Cynthia, and the proper way to say it. At the mature age of six I realized that the music could be found in the first syllables, rather than the last one. Besides every time Granddad used my pronunciation, Mom rolled her eyes. I asked him to use the accepted pronunciation, and he agreed. That made me happy.
Even though time brings changes, I still love the name Cynthia. Now I enjoy its history in addition to the sound. My new grandfather died when I was nine. He won my heart, and his passing made me sad. I lost my mother a few years ago and my father soon afterward. The death of my parents left a huge void in my life. Their love served as an anchor. In their absence, however, I felt free to make a choice. Now I spell my nickname Cyndi. It looks more like my real name—the one on my birth certificate.
Despite the change, I’m the same person, who is growing, reaching out, seeking Christ.
Philippians 3:14 I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.