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Apparently, I met my husband on a hiking retreat, in the Fall semester of our freshman year of college.  I say apparently, because aside from him insisting that we did and that he definitely remembers me (being crazy) and a group shot from said hiking retreat, I don’t have any memory of it.  The first time I really remember even seeing him was when he was Jesus.

That’s right, you heard me: Jesus.  We went to Seton Hall, a supposedly Catholic university, and of the many things they got wrong, the one thing they really got right was Campus Ministry.  The men and women of Campus Min and the students who participated in it were great.  They ran retreats (of all kinds), and they did things like putting on the Living Stations of the Cross every year, the week before Holy Week.   I participated in it once, as a “Weeping Woman” (although I have to admit my friends and I were basically using our veils to hide our snickering though I can’t remember what we found so amusing).  But the year that really matters, I wasn’t involved in it at all.  I was simply standing there, on the Green, with my friends, watching and praying through the Stations, as this guy I barely knew played Jesus, and yes, caught my eye.

My friend and I stood in the freezing cold, and watched as the procession passed us.  First, he was wearing an alb (a liturgical robe basically).  Then, when they reached the tenth station, and Jesus is stripped of His garments, you guessed it: they stripped him.  The poor boy had to finish the next four stations in his boxers and what amounted to a dishrag.  And, as I saw him hanging there on the cross (well, standing precariously on the tiny platform on the cross, but still), it hit me: he’s cute.  Now, yes, I do have a thing for guys who play Jesus; I won’t lie.  But this was different.  For some reason, until I saw him in barely more than his skivvies, in the freezing cold, playing Jesus, I hadn’t noticed how cute this boy was.  How had I missed this?

I may not have noticed until then, but afterwards was a very different story. From that point on I didn’t really look at another guy seriously.  We became good friends, and (finally) he asked me out, almost a year later.  The rest is history.  We’ve been married for almost eight years now and have five children, and neither of us could imagine a life where I hadn’t looked up at just the right moment to see the cute boy playing Jesus on the Green at Seton Hall that year.

In response to prompt number 2 in this weeks edition of Mama Kat’s Pretty Much World Famous Writer’s Workshop.

Mama’s Losin’ It

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