Valentine’s Day 2015. I am Christian. I am cougar. I am
woman, hear me roar.
In1964, I was a nice Christian girl. I always excelled in
school. So why did I drop out of high school and get married when I was barely
16? And, no, I wasn’t pregnant.
Several teen couples in our church got married that year. By
the time I realized there was no fairy tale ending, no happily-ever-after, I
had brought five children into this world. When most girls my age were doing
homework, I was having babies, cleaning and cooking, and doing laundry. I
stayed in church – actively involved in church, he didn’t. I pasted a smile on
my face and pretended things weren’t what they were. I was dying – both figuratively
and literally. I have scars on my wrist to prove it.
Sometimes our prison becomes our comfort zone. It’s what we
know; what we’re familiar with. We know how to function within the parameters
of our prison. Freedom frightens us because it’s unfamiliar. I wanted to be
free, but I couldn’t leave. I fasted and prayed for something to happen.
Restoration. Release. God could restore and rebuild but only if my husband chose the help God offered.
He chose to leave in 1986 after twenty two years. I
blossomed. I healed. I had five beautiful children and grandchildren. There many
people within and without the church who loved and nurtured me and my children.
I wanted to experience a Christian marriage. I wanted to be loved
and cherished. I wanted to fall in love. I was thirty-eight and I’d never been
in love. I prayed. I headed up our singles’ group at church where there were
plenty of women my age but not men. Houston, we have a problem.
Jeff joined our singles’ group. He was younger. We quickly
became good friends. But, hey, I had several younger guy friends in the group I
hung out with. It was never romantic. Cougar? If it was a term to describe an
older woman with a younger man back then, I’d never heard it. If I had heard of
it, I wasn’t interested.
Grrrrrowl! Don’t call me cougar. It suggests stalking prey. That’s
not me. So….while I watched Jeff and plotted how to make a move. Nope! It wasn’t
like that. When I got married in September 1964, Jeff wouldn’t be born until
two months later in November. He’s seven months older than my firstborn. But we
did date. Off and on. For almost four years
Marriage? It wasn’t happening. He had little kids. I had
raised mine. I had visions of being cast aside later when it truly hit Jeff
what all our age difference entailed. Rejection and hurt? No thanks. Been
there, done that.
Love doesn’t know age. In October 2014, we celebrated our
twentieth anniversary. We are still in love. We respect and appreciate each
other. I have some grandchildren older than his children. He became a
father-in-law to two of my sons-in-law who are older than him.
It has been an adventure. Lots of hilarious situations have
happened. Someday I’ll finish my book How
Can A harmless Housecat Be A Cougar? You can read all about it then.
