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"They should be here by now," my husband, Barry, remarked as we pedaled up the hill. Every day for a week, I'd heard this same lament: "I wonder where they are?"

Exactly who "they" were didn't matter. All Barry knew was that the anonymous traveling camper wasn't in its designated place, as it had been for the past five summers we'd been bicycling this particular route.

Most days find the two of us on our six-mile bicycling excursion around Wolf Point, on the west side of Lake Manitou, in Rochester, Indiana. Pedaling this scenic route, I've found that not only is the time

I spend exercising good for me physically, but it also stimulates me mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—allowing me time to appreciate the beauty of God's creation, as well as notice things that remind me of people, life-changing events, or lessons I've learned along the bumpy road of life.

Then there's Barry. While my imagination is busy playing a nostalgic game of memory tag, he's just waiting for the ride to end. For him, bicycling is exercise. Period.

My practical no-nonsense husband also notices things and believes it's his mission in life to "worry" about them.

"They better get that garbage can lid off their lawn," he remarked a few weeks ago. "It's going to kill the grass underneath."

Yesterday he detected a "flaw" in a renovation project just up the road: "Did you see how high that final step is from the ground? Someone's going to break their neck trying to use it."

I don't know why Barry notices the things he does or why he worries about them. Why, for instance, when I see the perfect canvas of a sapphire blue sky, he notices the one cloud creeping in from the north.

What I do know is that I adore this crazy man God has blessed me with.

I wasn't always so certain of that blessing. In fact, I almost chickened out of marrying him 36 years ago. He drove me home, a mere 150 miles, the day of my wedding shower, to announce to my frazzled mother that I was canceling the wedding.

I was so afraid of making a mistake. How did I know he was "the one"? How could I be sure it would last? I'd been through so much hurt as a result of my parents' divorce. And it seemed I knew few happily married couples.

For some reason I'll never understand, Barry stuck by this wishy-washy girl like peanut butter to jelly, unwavering and dependable, assuring me he knew it would work.

Although neither of us were Christians at the time, we went for counseling with a pastor who turned out to be a godsend—empathetic and perceptive.

After interviewing us separately, he informed Barry, "You're dealing with a highly emotional, sensitive, and unstable young lady (jelly). You'll need to be extremely gentle and understanding in your relationship with her."

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