In December 2004, we'd only known each other a few months, but we were already spending a lot of time together in the same group of friends. When I found out Mike wasn't big on birthdays--he mumbled something about his childhood birthday being the day his family got the Christmas treee?--I immediately set about making surprise birthday plans. I corralled Mike's brother and his roommate to partner with me, and, many e-mails, phone calls, and white lies later, Mike discovered a table full of friends waiting for him at the local Red Lobster. (Laugh if you will, but college kids are broke, and we all had plans to pocket those cheddar biscuits.) In the end, Mike toasted his brother and roommate for planning the birthday get-together. I didn't say anything, not wanting him to know how much I cared. The important thing was that Mike was happy, no matter what, even if that meant---and so it began.
The next year, Mike stood me up on his birthday. It was 2005, and I'd promised him a warm, cozy breakfast at Cracker Barrel--if he would drive. I woke up early on the snowy Saturday and dressed for breakfast with the boy I was quickly falling in love with. I went downstairs to the dormitory lobby and planted myself by the icy window on a faded grey couch. I waited. And I waited. And I waited. He never showed. I held my chin high as I dragged myself back upstairs, willing myself not to call, not to e-mail, but to simply fall back asleep. Several hours later, Mike called and nonchalantly asked if I was still interested in breakfast. I held my chin high, took a deep breath, and prepared to tell him "no, thank you very much, but you missed your chance." But I was already nodding in agreement by the time he finished his last sentence: "Pick you up in a few, kid!"
In 2006, Mike and I made plans to celebrate his birthday by a day-trip to New York City. I'd just returned from a semester abroad and was settling into my new home of New Jersey. The rest is pretty much history; you probably already know the story. It was an unbelievably fantastic day, my first to NYC at Christmastime. We watched the ice skaters in Rockefeller, bumped shoulders as we meandered our way through Central Park, and enjoyed sushi together for the first time. On the train back to New Jersey that late night, nearing the final station, we hugged it out: we were only going to be friends, we loved each other, and isn't that great? All this to the soundtrack of the conductor calling for everyone to move forward to the front cars and several partiers vomiting up the night near our shoes. The next morning, Mike woke up and admitted he was in love with me.
You might think that this is a strange way to celebrate Mike--my husband, lover, friend, and confidante--on his birthday. I could write it all down--my love for his goodness, his willingness to listen, his strength of conviction, his habit of grabbing me in the kitchen while I'm baking and kissing me passionately, aiming only to convict me of sneaking mouthfuls of brownie batter. I suppose a good birthday blog includes that sort of public affirmation for the person of strength, wit, and patience that is Michael Colletto.
But the reality of it is our history of birthdays that somehow always managed to break my heart. Pay careful attention to that last birthday in New York City, though, you'll know that Mike has since pursued and captured my heart in a way that showing up on time for a birthday breakfast never could: he waited on God to show him that the picture of us--Heather Wenzel and Mike Colletto--was good and right and ready and beautiful. And that place is exactly where we find ourselves today. Happy birthday, Mike. Thank you.
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