Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

Now you, our humble Victorian audience, have spent some time learning our complaints from the past. Surely, our battered hearts will redirect some further, future conversation back to these ugly topics. But for now, let’s accentuate the positive. Jane and I are a foreordained relationship. We have felt so, but little evidences have popped up as we started to unravel our old lives and re-ravel them back together. I was looking through some old writings over the last few weeks as I was taking inventory of what I should take with me out of my old life and into my new. From possibly my only dream journal ever, recorded by Quill way back in the last century, within 9 months of marrying my ex:

“I usually don’t have concrete dreams. They are often just a bunch of jumbled thoughts reflecting images seen over the previous few days, sometimes in a horrible movie form, like a David Lynch movie that I will never understand. However, the night before last I had a dream that was obviously some sort of message, for I actually remembered it 15 minutes after waking up (usually I forget dreams within minutes of arising from slumber).

I was driving in our carriage, down an ocean-side road I had never seen. Somehow I knew there was a big storm coming. At any rate, a little water started to run over the road, but I kept driving; in fact, I think I sped up. I knew it was going to get worse, and about 100 yards up, I saw the road get completely washed away. I turned around and started driving away from the destruction, but once again the road was engulfed in a maelstrom of crashing waves and churning seas. I was now stuck – all the time I was at peace, knowing I was protected. I rolled up the carriage windows, just in case I also was engulfed by waves. I was hoping I would be rescued, but right then the carriage, with me in it and the horses attached, was washed out to sea, and the carriage sunk to the bottom. I was not worried, just thought I should do what I saw on those Discovery channel shows and hold my breath, push open the door and swim to the surface.

At this point I realized I was dreaming and did not want to hold my breath because I was worried I would hold it so long I would die, and it wouldn’t be good if (my ex) found me dead when she woke. That thought was just silly – I did wake up shortly, and asked the best dream interpreter I knew about the dream later. He said it probably was a warning to know when to get out of trouble when the situation gets out of hand, to not let myself get into anything that could destroy me. He also said that the feeling of peace I had throughout the dream is an indication that I am protected in whatsoever I do. That part was nice. This dream was the first dream I can ever remember that was so concrete.”

So let’s interpret this dream properly now. An actual dream foretelling the future? The family carriage was going to sink to the bottom of the sea and I would be protected. I would have absolute comfort that everything would be fine. And how did that happen? Why, my Jane, of course!

With 5 years’ inability to figure out why happiness was escaping me, the words to an Angels & Airwaves (some popular minstrels of our day) song come to mind:

“I'm sorry I have to say it but you look like you're sad Your smile is gone; I've noticed it bad The cure is if you let in just a little more love I promise you this, a little's enough”

And that’s what my Jane did. She started a trickle of love flowing to my heart, which was like a stone. But when a trickle of water gets into the cracks of a stone, no matter how large or strong, it can crack the rock in two in a good freeze. She cracked the stones of my heart in twain, and the trickle quickly became a fire hose of love.

That’s how much my Jane loves me.

@))>---- Bingley ----<((@

Live Or Die?

This story has been something that I could never make sense of until now. All right, I know the
irreverence and flat-out disrespect that comes along with divulging someone
else’s patriarchal blessing. Since the blessing in question involves me, I feel
as if this itty-bitty exception will be judged on a curve. I will try my best to
handle it tactfully. I won’t go into detail -- Girl Scouts’ honor.

My ex-husband received his patriarchal blessing when he was on another one of his
holier-than-thou spiritual lies. The spiritual high would always fizzle a couple
of months later due in large part to the Corona (with lime) and packs of
Marlboro 100’s in a box he claimed to be helpless against. Those harmful vices
always led to his repetitive regression.

We were unknowingly late getting to the patriarch’s house; he claimed to be
understanding about our tardiness but I could tell in his voice he felt put out.
I felt bad that we took time away from his day and can remember being upset with
my ex-husband because it was his direction we were following, I never questioned
if he had the right time. When we passed through the large wooden double doors
of the patriarch’s modest home, I could instantly feel the strength of the
Spirit. The room was simply decorated with very few pieces of furniture. The
fragrant, white, freshly-vacuumed carpet had perfectly-aligned vertical stripes
left behind by the green 1960’s Hoover vacuum that was placed neatly in the
corner.

I can remember folding my arms at my chest and bowing my head in reverence. The blessing
started and I felt this calmness wrap around me. During the blessing, I was full
of peace and strained to retain all of the information I could. Most of it
flooded out of me as quickly as it flooded in. Early in the blessing it stated
that my ex-husband would be alone and that he had very hard struggles ahead of
him if he chose not to follow Gods path. This instantly forced my eyes open to
see if anyone else was bothered by this news, I was surprised that I still felt
comforted it was early in the blessing that followed a chronological lifetime of
foretelling if he followed God’s commandments. I remember thinking the whole
time that I was going to die. If he was going to be alone early in his
blessing, then I was going to die early in my life. I wasn’t upset or scared
at all – I felt peace and comfort, through and through.

Looking back now, I understand that the “ALONE” stated in the blessing was referring to me
leaving him. At that time in my life I couldn’t even list divorce as a possible
possibility; my death was the only plausible explanation. I talked to my mom
about this after the blessing and she agreed that her first thought was that I
was going to die and my ex-husband would be alone as a result.

God is incredible just in his dealings with us. My ex-husband bluffed his intentions
and God all-knowingly called him on it. I was blessed with the strength, peace
and clarity that I needed to follow through on a decision I should have made a
long time ago. I was blessed for my choices and my ex-husband was punished for
his. Hopefully this life lesson will help my ex grow as a person and gain a true
testimony concerning the power and individual justice God delivers to everyone.
I am grateful everyday for my Heavenly Father and the love I feel He has for me.
I am grateful for the comfort of the Holy Ghost and the direction I still
questionably follow even though He has never let me down.

I will never understand how beer and cigarettes could ever be the deciding factor in keeping
you out of the presence of God and His guidance. I don’t really feel pity for my
ex about his choices; he was always hell-bent on going against God to spite me.
He never had a testimony. He loved breaking my heart and watching me gather the
strength to get over it. He toyed with my emotions to shut me up so he could
have the best of both worlds. I was trusting, and my ex used this fact to his
advantage. In a way, it was his ignorant way of proving his superiority over me.
I used facts and knowledge – he used defiance and dominant control. The methods
my ex used on me to keep me dumbly trusting in his lies are the same methods he
uses on God. What an idiot…

                                                                                      ~Jane

Opposites Detract

I’ll just say it – Opposites attract about as well as disagreeing sides of two lookalike magnets. You can push really hard and make them touch, but sooner or later the force you apply will go away and they will happily separate.

When I told some of my fellow Victorian acquaintances about Jane and the many similarities we share, these people would literally gasp, put their hand to their mouth in shock, and utter, “You’re too ALIKE. Opposites attract!” And once they were through with this useless mantra, they shook their heads and resumed other activities, satisfied that they had re-aligned the planets.

Why on earth does this make sense? Why would it be best to have everything out of common with the man or woman with whom you choose to spend your life (and Eternity)? You are the person who you are, and you have traits that oftentimes you have chosen over less comfortable alternatives. The further you go into Opposite Land to find your spouse, the more a person has chosen/developed traits diametrically opposed to your own.

I think the mistake people make when they attach themselves to an opposite, is confusing “novelty” with “endearing.” When a person sidles up to an opposite and develops an attraction, the differences are novel because they are seeing mistily through the eyes of someone who sees the world in another color altogether. The problem is, in close contact all of those opposite traits will ultimately grate on your nerves. In my life, my ex was a late sleeper (she will still sleep past noon given half the chance). I’m an early riser. My ex liked to sit on the couch and watch endless hours of television and movies; I like to go for walks. I liked to go in the ocean; she thought anything colder than the Caribbean was too cold. I think the first 15 minutes of church were the most important; she thought it fine to show up an hour late, regularly. I think you should eat as healthy as possible and cook at home as often as possible; she would send me to fast food instead of letting me cook. I hate to argue with my spouse; my ex out-and-out asked me to fight back more. And to top it all off: I believe we are on this earth to be happy; she believes your duty is to remain in a marriage without happiness, love and intimacy.

I would venture to say that anyone contemplating divorce has a similar list because they married an opposite. My Jane is the same as me; we often exclaim, “We’re the same person!” With certain obvious physical differences, we are indeed. Jane and Bingley’s minds could interchange and we would be just as happy. I think it magical that in one woman I could find a love for the little things in nature, a love for spicy food, a hatred for all the same things that I hate, a love for children, a love for touchy-intimacy even when you’re just walking down the street, a love for constant little doses of each other, and wonderful things we discover every day that they other person loved that we never contemplated in our past lives. We constantly discover new things about which we hadn’t formulated opinions, but now we love them in part because the other person does (Jane knows more cheeses than I’ve tasted, for example).

So again I say: Opposites detract. Your souls should be like mirrors if you are to grow close to your loved one for eternity. Our lives are supposed to run in parallel – if you have two lines (or lives) that diverge ever so slightly now, if you don’t chain their line to your own, the lines will grow apart through eternal progression. Ten, twenty, fifty years from now, the gulf will be so wide, you can’t even see the person you married. That is not happiness; that’s being desperately, painfully alone.

My Jane loves me. She loves the same life that I love – indeed, she wears the same color glasses I don so that I can view life. My Jane is me, and I am Jane.

@))>---- Bingley ----<((@

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

I was 16 when I got married the first time. Sure, I felt I was old enough to handle all of the
responsibilities I thought came along with tying the knot: I could keep house,
handle the complex feelings that come along with being sexually active, and I
could cook some. What I wasn’t aware of, was the fact that at the ripe old age
of 16 I wasn’t a formed person yet. I couldn’t anticipate the evolution of my
maturity. I didn’t like who I was at all, but I did love that I had the
unsupervised freedom to be who I thought I wanted to be.

It was fine for the first couple years. I was very easygoing; I just sucked up all of the life I
could as I was pushed over, and over, and over again. I learned a lot about
myself over that time, and was exposed to so many different kinds of people,
places, and things. Over the years I understood that I was working towards
loving who I was becoming, and coming to terms with who I wasn’t.

I always knew that my husband and I had completely different personalities. You always hear
the saying “opposites attract” – looking back now, I don’t necessarily think
opposites should get married. I was trying to think of an example, to explain
the kinds of conflicts being opposites can cause. The very first week of my
marriage, my husband started a heated argument that made it clear to me that we
had completely different ideas and morals. He forced the issue and strong-armed
the right to take our hypothetical son to a strip club on his 18th birthday. I
was an uptight lipstick feminist Mormon, with the opinion that all strippers
have sadly suffered some form of sexual abuse or full-on rape, and I feel this
fact should take away the sexy smoke and mirrors that strippers manipulatively
provide. My husband was so shocked by my morally opinionated reply that he
became ridiculously enraged over it. I was shocked by how fumingly angry he
became over a son we didn’t even have – if we did have a son, the argument was
over an event that was going to take place 18 years and 9 months in the future.

I learned quickly not to feed into his temper over irrelevant topics. I remember thinking
at the time, “Why doesn’t he see my side?” He didn’t, because we were too
different to relate to each other. It was the cause of so many arguments, I’m
humiliated to admit it to print. We just had different outlooks on life.

So what do you do in a relationship where both people are interested in completely different
things, and have completely different opinions about them? Compromise and take
turns doing what the other person likes. It works for awhile; but as the years
pass, you both come to the understanding that you hate doing what the other one
loves, so in truth you spend half of your time miserable. I can only speak for
myself, and I have to admit I was happier when I could do what I wanted without
the annoying look of discontent on my husband's face. This ultimately forced me
to realize that I could only enjoy myself when I was by myself. I was more
fulfilled wrapped up in my own thoughts.

I would still miss the idea of having a good time with my husband and would work constantly to
make him happy thinking it would bring us quality time spent together. I found
more times than not, we would fight about whatever retarded topic we
disagreed on, making it more and more difficult to even be in the same room
together. On a good day I could bite my tongue so it would appear that I was
enjoying myself (while really I was hating every second). Sometimes I bit my
tongue so many times in one day it would swell and ache, forcing me to shout out
a long monologue of word vomit for all of the things I was keeping to myself. I
can only be pushed so far, people!

Now comes my chance at something most people never have the pure pleasure of doing. I get a
clean slate with someone who has the same interests and moral fibers I do, like
we were woven from the same cloth – right down to our politics, food, and
religion (biggies in my book). It’s so refreshing to look back on my past
relationship and know that I will never have to deal with such nonsense
again.

~Jane

Puzzles and Locks

When Jane and I were falling in love, we were learning a tremendous amount about each other in the shortest possible time. The more we learned, the more we loved each other. With the pressure from our exes and Lydia to destroy our relationship, Jane and I quickly concluded we needed to see each other.

Jane and I had several goals: Marry as soon as possible (i.e., the day my divorce process, longer than her own process, was final), get sealed as soon as possible, and keep sinning to a minimum. So we originally resolved that I would stay in London and Jane would stay at Longborn. In this way would the distance keep us honest. I would offer to go to Longborn, and because of my work schedule Jane would counteroffer to come to London. When our exes and Lydia teamed up to destroy us on a particularly difficult day, I booked a carriage ride to Longborn for 3 weeks into the future.

The first plan was for me to leave first thing in the morning, arrive at Longborn at the carriage terminal and court her for several hours before the latest possible carriage ride home. When I booked my ticket, however, we resolved that I should be there 22 hours instead. I received permission from work, scraped all my pounds together to pay for it, and began waiting for the trip.

By the time the day came to board my carriage ride, I had found a way through work to get the whole trip paid for. This surprise was a tremendous blessing. We would now have 22 hours together between the carriage ride in and the carriage ride out, and just a little break for me to have some work meetings. And the whole thing would be free!

When I arrived at the carriage terminal at Longborn, I stopped to catch my breath outside the carriage. I rearranged my clothes, took a deep breath, and headed down the escalator. There was no one there! I immediately thought that perhaps my Jane had been consumed with nerves and decided not to show up. In looking left to right for someone, anyone who might look like the Jane of my youth, I did catch out of the corner of my eye a woman vaguely fitting my memories but by the time I looked back she was no longer at that wall. I looked right again, then left, and there was a very nervous, very embarrassed, very strong woman pushing through her fear and shaking her head in a mass of hair as she approached me saying, “I just need you to hold me.” And she threw herself into my arms.

Have you ever seen those movies where the right key or combination hits a lock and you subsequently see a ton of lock mechanisms click and slide into place for the door to open? When Jane’s body hit mine, the only thing I could say was, “You fit!” because her body fit exactly into my own. And whatever love I had when we corresponded from afar up to that point, was dwarfed by the love flowing between our hearts at that moment as she unlocked our hearts with that embrace.

I would spend the next few minutes petting her hair, holding her tightly as she fit so perfectly in my embrace, and I asked her to kiss me, saying, “We should kiss.” And we found that our lips fit like two sets of soft puzzle pieces. Our hands fit in each other’s, our bodies fit against each other, and our lips fit. In the car, her head fit nestled into my neck. When walking, she fit in my arm. When we stayed at a cottage outside Longborn, no matter how we lay, we fit as if we had two bodies designed to fit in any combination. We were the key to change each other’s lives, it was a relationship that carried more beauty the further we delved into its boundaries.

We quickly learned that we knew how to apply tenderness and affection to each other. It was something that took no trying – we simply touched, and the other person felt loved. She would reach up and touch my face, and the cup holding my love would run over. She would run her hand up my back, and I would have to close my eyes as the affection consumed me. She would kiss me, and I would melt. She even dressed the way I would dress a woman if I were the dictatorial type. It was as if someone sat her down and said, “Here are the things it will take to attract and capture Bingley’s heart…” and she memorized each one.

We then had one more bit of excitement. We had a meaningful parting, where I gave her the first priesthood blessing in what may have been decades. We prayed together, we embraced, we cried in random horse stalls as we rode to the carriage terminal, and had a beautiful but emotional parting. But I was late for my carriage. The woman at the carriage boarding area told me the ride was overbooked by 1, and that I would get free quid and a free ride the following morning. I sent correspondence on the Apple letter-sender I carry with me, and Jane turned her horse around to pick me up from the terminal for an unexpected 10 more hours together. We were filled with joy, we were overcome with passion, and we looked forward to our next visit.

But within hours, we each had decided we could not live without one another. She resolved to move to London to be with me, and we set a date for 3 weeks hence. Jane would join her Bingley in London and we would live happily ever after. This idea, like the rest of our relationship, quickly settled on our hearts and fit as another puzzle piece locked into place.

The Wrong Piece

I knew my marriage was over prior to falling in
love with Bingley. Being Mormon made me feel that the only option I had was to
work on my marriage indefinitely, with the hopes that I would eventually be
rewarded. Eventually I was -- my reward just wasn’t what I thought it would be.
I figured my husband would learn from my example and, over time, gain a
testimony in all things I hold sacredly dear. I was wrong; the reward I was
gifted was the pure joy of realizing I had done exactly what God wanted me to
do. It gave me such peace to receive the revelation that I had moved past the
ability to overlook all of my husband's selfish choices which he concealed with
convincing dishonesty. I was rewarded with the comfort I needed to follow my
feelings that were guiding me in a direction my head would have never taken me.
I was led by my faith and the slim chance of a life with someone who was equally
deserving of love.

I hadn’t seen Bingley in over 18 years. I figured it
would probably be a good idea to meet. I had already come to terms with my
reasons for my divorce, and if things didn’t work out with Bingley I would still
be getting one. Mustering up the courage to see Bingley face to face was a
challenge. I tried not to think about it and took the stresses as they came. I
was happy he was coming to me. I don’t think I could have handled the ride down
the escalators lowering me to ground level as if I were on display for an
un-obvious critique. I wanted to see him first.

I showed up to the
carriage terminal about 30 minutes early feeling all of the usual nerves. My
allergies were acting up so I ran to the bathroom to wipe my nose and make sure
it wasn’t red -- I figured since I was there, I should go. As I shut the door I
could see a long line of chamber pots along the wall I was facing, each one
occupied by men of every color.

I HAD ACCIDENTALLY WALKED INTO THE MEN'S
ROOM!!!!! My heart stopped. I was humiliated; this kind of thing always happens
to me whenever I am overly stressed or preoccupied. I could hear a father
teaching his young son how to pee standing up. I thought I was going to faint.
After the longest 3 minutes of my existence, I pretended to compose myself and
walked out of the stall to the open exit saying in a humbled giggle “So sorry, I
walked into the wrong room.” I knew my face was red by looking at my lobster-red
arms.

I walked quickly over to the arrival screen and it said that
Bingley’s carriage had arrived. I was overcome with equal parts of fear and
excitement. I could see people from his carriage walking down the far escalator,
so I walked towards them searching the crowds of people hoping to lock eyes with
my Love. No luck; I didn’t see him. I thought just for a second that there was a
mix-up, so I walked back to the first escalator. Looking up shyly I could see in
his face that he had just seen me too. His face full of sweet joy and happiness
walking comfortingly to me with half open arms. My heart was full of love and
completely sure that this was the man I have needed my entire life.

Have
you ever put together a puzzle? Let’s pretend that a puzzle is a metaphor for
your life. Each of the pieces represents a choice that must fit your individual
pattern to complete your life’s picture. When you start a puzzle, you get the
easy stuff out of the way first -- the things you don’t have much choice in
(like family) that could be the right corner piece of your puzzle. The left
corner piece could be your religion and so on. Finishing the edges of your
puzzle is just the beginning filling it in is the challenging part it’s trickier
harder to make out what piece goes where. Have you ever found a piece to a
puzzle that the shape and pattern that, although a little uneven, just about
lines up? You wiggle this puzzle piece with light force and somehow it slips
into place. You don’t question if the piece belongs there as far as you know
everything is coming along fine. Over time more pieces of the puzzle find their
home and the picture of your life gets clearer. It becomes very clear that the
uneven puzzle piece doesn’t fit. For me that puzzle piece that I had to force
into place was my marriage. It just didn’t fit. When I walked into Bingley’s
welcoming arms I knew with all of my heart that I had found the missing piece to
my puzzle. He fit perfectly.

                                                                                ~Jane

I Didn't See the Train that Hit Me

In my youth, I had a big crush in 1st grade, in 4th grade bleeding over into the next year, and then nothing until I was 15.

Jane and I had been in the same Ward (a Mormon congregation, please call your friendly neighborhood missionaries for more information about the LDS Church's structure). since about 1984. She was two years younger and I never went to church to pick up chicks anyway - it was for worship, completely separate from home which was completely separate from school. Because i didn't run into a ton of girls, I didn't have a ton of crushes anyway. But in early 1992 I noticed Jane for the first time.

I had a massive crush. I'd see her at mutual (think of it as weekly Mormon youth group - read the Book of Mormon and then call your friendly neighborhood missionaries for further light and knowledge), I'd see her at Church, and the crush got worse as my confusion about exactly what to do got worse as well. I even took exactly one friend to Church with me (I know, bad Mormon, never a good missionary) in all my years growing up, and I took him during that time period so he could see the girl who had my heart and didn't know it.

At our weekly Sacrament meetings (think of it as Mass for Mormons, and see www.lds.org for a map and times for your closest meetings this coming Sunday!), my family sat in a different place every week. Jane's family sat in the same place every week (on the right side of the room about halfway up. I remember right during this time, following my father as he decided on our pew for the day. My heart started pounding as he chose the right side of the room. Each step further up the aisle was like a snare drum beating with my heart. I almost fell over when he chose the pew directly in front of Jane's family. It was a difficult hour.

I told my few Church friends about my crush as well. They would try to force us to talk. And then one day we had Stake Conference (think of it as a week of Church a lot of people try not to attend, like your average week for a Catholic. It's important though. See www.lds.org to become a convert today!). There's no one to take care of little screaming brats during Stake Conference, so I had my youngest brother with me and took him into the Primary room (where children go) to let him wander and play in a confined space while my parents suffered through Stake Conference. Lo and behold, Jane was there with a small child as well. I had my moment and I knew it. I gathered up all the bravery I could muster, made some inconsequential joke or two, and got to talking. By the end of that interaction, I got her permission to talk to her over the phone.

I remember the emotions of our conversations on old-school corded telephones, I remember lying on my mother's bed with just the sunlight streaming in through the blinds while I tried to get this girl to like me more (it was obvious the crush wasn't one-way by this point). I seem to remember her mother and sister tormenting her a bit about being on the phone, and realizing I needed to start making nice with them if I was going to date their daughter (I would go out of my way to say hi to them at Church and make polite conversation). I was going to have an important school dance, and I specifically remember telling Jane that we would need to figure out how to convince our parents to let us go, since I wouldn't really have another shot at going.

I always thought Jane's mother would be a threat to our relationship. I knew my mother would get in the way too - she had a rule against dating poor girls with fat moms, because both would mean my future wife would be doomed to make me poor and grow big and fat. But I always preferred girls from the other side of the railroad tracks, they had their heads on right and didn't stick their noses in the air. One more reason I love my Jane desperately. So with these worries in hand, I proceeded courting Jane the best I knew how. But Jane told me one day out of the blue that it was over. I assumed that meant her mom had forbidden the relationship, but she wouldn't talk about it -- she had made up her mind and that was that.

Now I don't take rejection well, and I don't believe in getting back together with someone you break up with. So I basically never talked to Jane again.

On a seemingly unrelated note, I woke up one morning and my father said, "Bingley, the house has been toilet papered. It must be one of your friends, so go clean it up." I went outside, and some TP ninjas had completely covered my yard, the grass, the bushes and the trees. I slowly cleaned it up and wracked my brain for who could have done it. As recently as July of 2010 I told my ex that my house had only been TP'd once and I never figured out who did it. Jane knows the rest of the story (thank you Paul Harvey!), though, so ask her.

Fast Forward to 2010.

Mid-year, I wonder what happened to that Jane girl from way back when. I don't remember Jane's last name, so how am I supposed to pick her out of 1 million Jane's on Facebook? I had a few other people I knew on there, from back then, and there were no Jane's in their friends lists that I could see. I asked one person -- Caroline, who used to crush on me during that same time period in 1992 -- if she remembered a girl named Jane. Caroline claimed to have no idea.

By late-year, I'm in New York City, I'm out with coworkers at a nice restaurant committing a few little sins, and I get a Facebook message notification in my email. A girl named Jane with a last name I don't recognize, with a bleached-out photo that makes her look Asian and a bird as large as a vulture on her finger, sends me a note, "Are you the boy who used to hate me?"

Now we all have Facebook accounts (go to www.facebook.com and have your precious soul consumed if you have not yet). Every now and then we get spam messages from fake girls with faker notes and fakerer video porn sites. You just delete them and move on, and remember how glad you are not to check your Myspace account any more where these things are really prevalent. Before deleting it though, I decided to test to see if a reply would generate the usual "If you don't remember me, come see me at www.mypornvideo.com" spam. I said something like, "Uhh, I don't think I hate anyone."

Jane quickly confirmed she was the Jane of my childhood. I quickly confirmed I was the Bingley from her childhood. We added each other on Facebook and began catching up on old times in Facebook chat. Jane had an irreverent blog that she used to point out weak people's foibles, and I loved it. We knew quickly we got along great, and I suggested we talk on the phone. I immediately laid out ground rules - no feelings, no talking about that kind of thing, no stalking, no anything. We could be friends and that is it. And friends we fast became. She was online a lot, and I have to be online for work. We would talk during the day for an hour or two and chat online for hours before and after.

Jane was considering coming to Netherfield where I live, on a preplanned trip. I insisted we should get together over lunch, where we could sit outside and people-watch. Or we could go to the gym and work out. There were any number of innocent things we could do. I was excited by the idea.

We talked about the Church. We talked about each other's families. We talked about hopes and dreams and wants. We made fun of other people. We talked about cooking and cleaning and home projects (Jane is far superior with tools). We never talked about our marriages, except to say we had the best spouse on the planet who loved us more than life itself.

From Jane's comments, I didn't think she wanted children, or liked the Church at all let alone wanted to go to the Temple - three things essential for me to consider a romantic partner. It made it perfectly easy to keep her in the "friend" box and never think of her as a romantic possibility (exactly what I needed so I wouldn't be stupid, considering the confines of my marriage and my ongoing struggle with the misery in my relationship). But then Jane's sister, Lydia, set me straight. Lydia pointed out that all was not well at the parsonage near Rosings Park where Jane lived. Lydia also pointed out that Jane had always wanted the same big things I wanted in life, but that her life did not allow for such things and Jane had made horrible accommodations.

I immediately saw Jane as a woman. A woman who had proven in many hours talking and chatting that she was the sweetest, strongest, most faithful, intelligent and amazing woman on God's great Earth. And my heart hit my stomach like a rock as I was overwhelmed with love.