My husband, Mark, has been working hard on renovating our soon-to-be new home, which was my parents’ home for over 40 years. He puts in seven days a week of physical labor under the hot Georgia sun during the day and creates notebooks filled with diagrams, numbers, and calculations at night. And lots of lists detailing what we need from Lowe’s for the next day.

He hauls lumber, rocks, concrete blocks, a gas stove, flooring, light fixtures, and countless bags of garden soil, plants, and pine straw—all loaded in his truck and carried on his back. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lowe’s issues him a W-2 or at least an honorary blue vest. 

He works on the house while I work in the yard. We sweat, complain about back issues and mosquitoes, come home to shower, and go to bed. The next day is the same thing.

I might be a little biased, or maybe a lot, but all that lifting, hammering, and sawing has created a nice set of muscles. Very nice indeed.

When he is at the “new house” alone, he tells me he talks to my parents as if they were still alive. He tells them how he wishes he had known them and that he will take good care of their daughter, and that anything he is doing to the house is because of the love he has for me. 

He is a strong man with a tender heart.

Mark has endured many trials to become the man he is today.

I chose Mama and Pop’s house myself when I was 18, sometime in the spring, and we moved in during the fall.

When Mark was 18, on Christmas Eve, he experienced a life-altering tragedy. Driving over to give his then-girlfriend her Christmas gift, he came to a hill he had driven many times. Just over the hill were two police officers on foot, standing in the road, but without flares or cones. It was pitch black outside except for the blinding lights of a small gas station.

Mark didn’t see them. No one could have. Both men died.

Mark’s best friend was on the other side of town and heard about an accident that had just happened involving Mark. They were as close as brothers, had enlisted in the Army together, and were scheduled to report to boot camp in January.

He quickly jumped into his car to reach his friend.

He died in an accident on the way there.

For over two years, Mark endured lawsuits and trial after trial, not because there was any way the accident could have been avoided, but because insurance companies required it. They even attempted to sue his father.

Mark was shown graphic pictures of the accident repeatedly at each trial. He heard accusations that were false and had been disproven. No, he wasn’t speeding; no, he had not been drinking. He was asked if he had been listening to loud music that distracted him from driving. He had been listening to Christmas music.

Several Georgia State Patrol officers testified on Mark’s behalf, stating that there was no way he could have seen or avoided the officers standing in the road. Mark was found not guilty on every charge in every trial.

But Mark, at 18 years old, had to relive every moment, knowing that the accident, despite being unavoidable, left two families without fathers and took his best friend in the world.

Most people would have been broken by the heavy weight of that night. Forty-five years later, Christmas Eve is still a difficult night for him. Mark relies on his faith in God to get him through.

Life went on, and Covid hit. Mark contracted the worst kind, the one that killed so many people. He spent over a month in the hospital, during a time when no one could visit, and the hospital staff were fully masked and covered from head to toe. There was no interaction, no hugs, no touch.

He wasn’t expected to live. He had trouble breathing and experienced the panic of air hunger daily. His respiratory therapist prayed The Lord’s Prayer with him, almost as a Last Rites. Even his sister, who is a registered nurse, broke down when she finally saw him weeks later.

Mark’s only son, named after him, was in another hospital, sick with Covid. Markie called his father to say goodbye.  Not because he thought his dad was going to die, but because he was.

He called to tell Mark that he knew he was about to die and that he loved him. He died a few days later.

His father was alone, without comfort or interaction, knowing his only son had died. He didn’t get to see him, hug him, or say goodbye, except over the phone.

Most people would have been crushed by the heavy weight of that time or become bitter and cynical about life.

Instead, he developed a quiet strength and a gentle heart through relying on the goodness of God.

When a friend’s son died suddenly, Mark reached out with a text that simply said, ‘I know what you are going through and I’m praying for you.’ When she saw him at the visitation, she reached out without a word, and they wept together.

Unashamed tears from a lion’s heart developed by heavy, heavy weight over many years.

Mark built a shadow box for our new house. It contains two items: a dirty Titleist golf ball and a Woodbridge Chardonnay cork. Pop and Mama got golf-fever in their late 40’s and Pop would hit balls into the woods behind our house over and over. Mama and I would drink that brand of wine together and talk and laugh for hours. Mark knows how much I miss them.

When we move in, we will see that shadow box in our kitchen every time we turn out the lights.

My gentle giant husband, strong in every way.

I love you Mark Martin.

And thank you Lord, for the gift of bringing us together.

Psalm 28:7: “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy, and with song I praise him.”