God Sent this Woman a Husband

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Divine Guidance, Reassurance in Marriage / God Providing a Christian With A Spouse

A Good Guy

From the November 2008 issue of Guideposts magazine, a Christian publication

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A Good Guy, by Dawn Kuzel

I wanted to meet men. But not like this.

Friday night. It was getting to be my least favorite night of the week. At least on weeknights it wasn’t a crime for a 24-year-old single woman to stay home. But on a Friday evening if I plopped down in the den with Mom after dinner she’d say, “You won’t find the man of your dreams by sitting home with me.”

I knew that was true, but there wasn’t a single man who interested me at the fish, meat and poultry warehouse where I worked. And I wasn’t crazy about meeting guys at bars or clubs. In fact, maybe I’d just given up.

That Friday night I sat in my room, depressed. I’d looked everywhere for the man of my dreams.

I knew my mom was praying for me, but I said a prayer for myself, too: God, if you don’t want me to be single the rest of my life, you will need to bring the man to me, because I can’t find him!

The phone rang. It was my friend Jodi. “Get dressed. We’re going out,” she said. “There’s a party.”

“Forget it,” I told her. “I’d rather stay in and rent a movie.”

Jodi nagged and nagged until she finally gave up. “Okay, swing by and get me,” she said, “and we’ll pick out a good romantic movie and cry our eyes out together.”

It was cold and wet. We checked out four video stores before we could agree on a movie. Something funny and sweet where the guy and the girl end up together. If only real life could work out that way.

It’s not like I wanted some Hollywood hunk for a boyfriend. I just wanted someone who was polite and thoughtful and actually listened to me instead of talking about himself the whole time. A good guy. Was that too much to ask?

We were driving home when all of a sudden I heard the wail of a siren behind us and saw red lights flashing in my rearview mirror. “Oh, no,” I groaned. A ticket. That’s all I needed.

I pulled over. An unmarked SUV parked behind me. I rolled down the window and waited. The cop bent down to the window. “Miss,” he asked, “do you realize you were going 56 miles per hour in a 40-mile-an-hour zone?” At least he had a nice deep voice.

“No, officer, I didn’t,” I said, hoping he’d let me off the hook.

He asked for my license and registration and headed back to his car. It took him a while to return. “Sorry for the delay,” he said, “but I had to write up two citations. Your inspection sticker has expired.” Then he handed me the citations to sign. “You can request a hearing if you want to, or just send it in. Thank you and have a nice evening.” He turned and walked away.

“Can you believe that?” I asked Jodi, who slumped down in the front seat as if she didn’t want to be seen with a lawbreaker. “He couldn’t have given me just one ticket?” I moaned.

I was so sick to my stomach I could barely concentrate on the movie that night. Ask for a hearing. I cringed at the thought, but I knew I had to do it. No way in the world could I afford to pay all those fines. I’d just bought the car. Was it my fault that the previous owners hadn’t had it inspected?

I showed up at the hearing, my head spinning, my stomach in knots. What had I gotten myself into? I looked for the officer in his uniform—admittedly, he wasn’t bad looking, but then it was dark that night. To my surprise he strolled into the magistrate’s office in civilian clothes: a crisp white shirt, pale pink tie, black pants and a long camel-hair overcoat. What a sharp dresser. He gave me a pleasant smile and nod. I glanced at his ring finger. Bare.

Unmarried. What if? I thought. I stopped myself. I mean, the man was about to testify against me! He’d thrown the book at me!

The hearing didn’t last long. “Guilty,” the magistrate said. I was ushered into another office and asked to sign some papers. I reached into my purse for a pen. All at once I burst into tears. I felt like such a loser! My shoulders started shaking. Lord, don’t let me fall apart. But I couldn’t stop myself.

Then I heard that soothing baritone voice. I turned and there he was. “Dawn,” he said, “are you all right?” His face was kind and caring. His name was Carl and we talked for a while—until I felt better—then he walked me to my car. We shook hands and said goodbye.

The minute I walked in the door at home Mom asked me what had happened. “I lost,” I said, smiling. “They threw the book at me!”

“So, why are you smiling?” Mom hesitated then with a sparkle in her eye, added, “You know, God does have a wonderful sense of humor.”

All that week I thought of Carl. A little upset still, but I couldn’t help recalling how kind he was, how good-looking. I knew it was silly of me. After all, I only knew him from the night he pulled me over and from our meeting in the magistrate’s office. I’d seen him for all of 45 minutes max. But there was something about the way he’d squeezed my hand when we said goodbye, the comforting look in his eyes when he saw me crying. Was it possible that he was the man who was meant for me? If only I could see him again, if only we could get to know each other a little bit better.

One evening my friend and I returned to the video store. I was checking out the rack of romantic comedies when I heard a voice—a voice I had been hearing inside my head for weeks. “Hi, Dawn.” I turned. It was Carl. In uniform. Still good-looking. Real good-looking.

“Carl,” I said, nearly dropping the videos. We chatted for a little longer—Oh, God, I prayed, why doesn’t he ask me out?—then he said goodbye and headed outside. My friend and I paid for our videos and rushed outside too. In the parking lot I looked over at his SUV. The window rolled down.

“Dawn, can you come here for a minute?” Carl asked. I walked over. “I still feel bad about giving you those tickets. Can I take you out to dinner?”

That date we went to Eat ’n Park for dinner—my favorite—and then to a movie. Afterward, we drove to the Mt. Washington district, which overlooks all of downtown Pittsburgh.

Carl turned out to be just what I thought he was—a good guy. Friday nights I wasn’t a homebody anymore. Mom called him my answer to prayer. Today, I call him my husband. And if you ask me how I met him, I would tell you that you would never believe it.

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