I’ve heard it said that most boys at BYU can play the guitar, at least one song, it’s considered a good chic magnet. Tom tried the same trick with me when we met the second time. He strummed away on the guitar, wearing his black a fro (it was a Halloween party), and talking casually. Assuming it was a classic single’s ward ploy, I laughed it off and he didn’t play his guitar again for a long time.

Friday night we were looking for something to do. It was late, we had both worked hard all day and were exhausted. We had already spent money on dinner so there was no chance of going out. Tom asked if I wanted to sing, he’d play for me. I sang a few songs to his accompaniment, and then he started recollecting songs he had memorized. Soon he was finding book after book to review his old favorite- Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Chopin. I sat behind him on the couch enjoying the sounds and sights of my dear husband. I imagined him as a teenager practicing on his piano at home. His love of rich thick harmonies showing forth clearly deep emotions that he so logically keeps restrained. After a half hour of so of piano serenade, I brought down his guitar, and encouraged him to play. He played through a mulitiplicity of fascinating riffs, fumbled his way through rusty memories of old songs, and successfully made me fall in love with him all over again. This time I didn’t have to hide the blushing emotions I felt, I didn’t have to divert my desire to just stare into his deep chill eyes. Or to smile and dance as he played everything from lullabies, to Spanish dance music. I’m so grateful for a husband who loves music, and plays music.

Tom with his fellow guitarist and grandfather, Grandpa Pettijohn.