I had kept myself–a present both to the one who would be my husband and to me, and now on June 27, 1956, as in the bathroom I made myself ready, my mind whirled: a man, I’m getting ready to be in bed with a man, I don’t really know him . . .And I did not know him, my Jerry. For who of us in truth know the one with whom we have partnered. Indeed, who of us scarcely know ourselves.
I was incredibly young as I entered into my marriage–for in a few days I would reach the wise, noble age of 18 years. No, I did not know Gerald R. Buxton, nor did I comprehend the magnificent path on which God had directed me, as on that significant day I became his wife.
He was a darling.
Of a gregarious nature, he gathered and maintained a wide circle of friends.
Chosen, and set apart, his hands were laid on thousands.
Four of them. This one is called Michael. Stephen, Rebecca, and Andrew rounded out the four. Four excellent humans, gifts of God.
Andrew was the photographer.
Then came the day. We were there, all of us. We had prayed, invited in visitors, talked long, had his hands laid on grandchildren, held hands, and made plans. “We’ll take care of Mom,” the sons said when he expressed concern. We wept in private and on the necks of our dear ones.
. . .then came the moment Jesus took him home. He was 86.
Today is another June 27th. I’ve tried to write this all day, have planned and wanted to do it, but again did not want to, and if I dig in my heels much longer, midnight will come and I will have missed. On that other June 27 I was seventeen with only a microscopic understanding of the magnificent, rare man who asked me to be his wife. Today, 66 years later, I believe it is not possible to truly comprehend the profound grace with which God favored me. I will never get over it. How blessed I am.