Happy B-Day, Martin Cockroft

 Can you all believe this man is thirty-seven today?


The first time I met him at Wheaton College during a literature lecture, I didn't really take much note of him.  But a week later, sitting at the round table in the English Department, surrounded by literary journals I was supposed to be cataloging, I met him again.  Even though he was a TA, too, he didn't seem to have much work to do that morning and we sat there and had an hour-long conversation about how he wanted to be a junk-man and live in the woods with a dog.  I was smitten by his easy charm, his wonderful eyes, his quirky sense of humor and ready laugh.  I felt deeply impressed by his intellect and certain something that I can only describe as presence--not a pretentious presence but a presence that makes the people he's with feel important and loved, truly listened to and respected.

 I walked back to Fisher dormitory, climbed the five flights of stairs to the over-heated room I shared with my friend, Jill, and announced, "I've just met the man of my dreams."

From that afternoon, I was smitten in a way I'd never experienced before--Martin Cockroft, senior literature major, had completely captivated me.  After growing up with the same small handful of boys since sixth grade, I'd hoped that college would be the place where I could finally date and flirt and finally be the heart-breaker my mother had been in her youth.  But at the beginning of my sophomore year, I found that my heart was set unwaveringly on this man.  One day I walked into the dining hall and found it mostly empty except for Martin playing the piano. . .oh, it was uncanny.  He downplays his musical ability whenever he can, but he is something of a savant.  He seems to speak music like I speak English--he sits with an instrument much as he sits with a person, with that quiet, soothing presence that understands--and then he makes something beautiful happen. 
I didn't know he was a poet then.  I had no idea until we'd been married for two years and he said--out of the blue--"I think I'm going to apply to MFA programs for poetry."

Poetry?  I'd loved this man wildly for three years but we were both stubborn as mules and quick to argue--(there's the infamous story of our wedding rehearsal dinner, where we kept everyone and the hot food waiting for an hour while we argued in the car--but we won't get into that now.)  Come again?  Move to Montana while you study poetry?  I'd always considered myself the writer in the relationship, the poet and the fiction writer--and I felt almost that he was stealing something from me.

Now I can hear the echoes of God's laughter as he shook his head over me.  What I didn't know at twenty-one is that this boy I was growing up with who'd suddenly chosen poetry would be my best companion all of my days, and that I'd been given a rare gift: a fellow writer who lives, eats, edits, and laughs at my side.

My mother once told me long ago that the key to being in love with your spouse forever is to choose someone who will always surprise you--someone with whom you'll never get bored--someone who is just as smart or smarter than you.  Well, Martin never stops surprising and delighting me.  He is always ready for something new--gutting a salmon, for instance.  Or selling more than half of what we own and moving across the country.  Or losing a job but gaining his life in new and unexpected ways. 


A long time ago, when Merry was little, I wrote a book for her to give to him for his birthday called "My Daddy is From Texas."  One of the lines went something like this:

He takes words that other people think are junk and makes them beautiful, like a flower growing out of an old black boot.

Well, it was better than that, but I think Martin gained his dream of becoming a junk-man in a surprising way.  With his deft perception of hidden grace in moments and people, by living each day with gentle, determined creativity, he transforms the world in countless, wonderful ways.  He has taught me to be brave: there is beauty everywhere, a light in every person, and there is no place where we cannot find God's candle flickering, no matter how dark.  It's how he taught for over a decade, and it's the vision that has shaped his life, his understanding of art, and his sense of vocation.

 He still lives by a simple mantra:  He has shown you, O man, what is good and what the Lord requires of you: To do justly; love mercy; and walk humbly with your God.

I've known Martin now for over fifteen years, and my respect and admiration for him just increases year by year.  I knew I'd found something deeply good all the way back in college, and I know it now more than ever.  He's welcomed each of our daughters into the world with a quaking tenderness that ripens into a robust, steady, gentle love.
Plus, he has the goofiest sense of humor ever, and that makes the cloudy days glitter.  I watch my parents and his parents and note the way they bust a gut over something the other has said, and I realize that perhaps Martin and I find each other funnier than we really are, but he is the crack-up of my youth.

Most repeated phrases of our life together: 

"You are totally insane."

"That's ridiculous."

"Look over this and tell me what you think."  (writing)

"You're driving me crazy."

"Is it time for tea yet?"

(Me, feeling overwhelmed by life:)  "Let's go somewhere."

 (Martin, when I've invited someone over or arranged a party, say about two million times in the last decade:)  "Why am I just finding out about this?"

"Did you put the pot on?"

"I love you."