Story
**This is the Brown+Caliger (Browliger) story as told by Kristine Brown -- she doesn't insist you read the whole thing, but she does insist you acknowledge how long it probably took her to write it. And she does ask you to forgive her for being verbose.**
It all started with a story about a Bahn Mi shop in Sacramento. It all ends up right here.
Rob and I first met at our friend Brooke Griffin's birthday party in early February 2016. It was at Reno Public House, a place that would be the home of several important days for us. I remember Brooke had mentioned Rob and I would get along because we both loved food and drink, so I naturally expected the conversation to go that way -- which it did. I don't know how we got on the topic, but we commiserated over the severe lack of good Asian cuisine in Reno and he told me about a Bahn Mi shop in Sacramento he claimed was THE. BEST. EVER. I thought, "He knows what Bahn Mi is. Respect." (You may be thinking "knowing what Bahn Mi is" is a low bar. I do not dispute this.)
It wasn't much of a "meet cute." In fact, it was incredibly normal. Uneventful. But there was just enough there, just enough that seemed interesting and worth spending time on, to pull in my awareness. Rob didn't come in like a wrecking ball (sorry, Miley), he came in like a seed planted, or a song that gets stuck in your head. He claimed space and grew, and kept coming back to me.
We saw each other once, twice more in the months that followed, and both times involved another one of our shared loves: music. Both times, he was playing at house shows, and I was drawn in a little further. At the second of these house shows, I had hosted a mezcal and food pairing for a few guests prior to showtime. I think he poked his head into the kitchen, and when he did, probably witnessed some flurry of stress, and charred watermelon, and chicken mole. But I'd also like to think he was impressed, and that his awareness of me may have started to grow, too.
Weeks later, and I don't remember how, I ended up getting the courage to invite him to my 32nd birthday party. That particular birthday, I decided I wanted to go on a dive bar tour (because I'd really not experienced many before), so I wrote the names of the grubbiest, smokiest, murkiest, awesomest bars in the midtown Reno area on small pieces of paper and allowed fate to decide where the night would take us all. Rob was so much fun that night, and he stuck with me to the end -- which, if you've lived in Reno any length of time, you know likely involves either Jimboy's or Gold 'n Silver. (It was Gold 'n Silver in this case.)
Either during or soon after my birthday, I'm not sure which... Rob asked if I'd want to get drinks some time, and I said I would. Rob claims -- CLAIMS -- I made a "FACE" when he asked that question... a face akin to a grimace one makes when smelling a foul fart... which I VEHEMENTLY deny to this day... but he says this supposed "face" let him know I wasn't actually interested (which I was) and I didn't want to go out (which I did). #facegate
Two weeks later, I asked our friend Rob Griffin why Rob was dragging his feet, and I was informed there had been something wrong with my face... (ladies, how often have we heard that one?!)... I reached out to clear things up and let Rob know that any face I made or hadn't made was not a good reason to not go on a date. So I told him the door was open.
Soon after, we did go on a date. We were both uncomfortable at the start, but became more and more disarmed as the hours ticked by. We talked for about six hours that night... and both left feeling like the other had talked too much. (Probably true.) We did have questions about each other, and whether or not we could really work -- but there was just enough to keep us curious. And so we went on another date. And another. And another. In early September 2016, I asked Rob what he thought about our relationship (read: DTR) and he said, "I feel like you're my girlfriend."
I felt like Rob was my boyfriend, so that worked out very well.
We dated for about seven months the "first time around." We had so many great times (usually involving food, sitting on my couch listening to music, or watching comedy specials on Netflix). We connected on so many levels... our relationship with God, our hopes and vision for the church and our place in it, our humor, our tastes... so many parts of our relationship felt -- not effortless -- established. Almost like it had been decided, and inevitable, and magnetic. We were best friends. The thing I remember most viscerally -- even to this day -- was the "game" we used to play together. It wasn't anything special. We just poured ourselves some scotch, and took turns making toasts back-and-forth for things we were grateful for. But, although simple, those nights deepened our friendship, our roots. That's what gratitude does. It grows sinews between us, connecting us to each other, to God and his grace.
Those moments have lived inside me all this time. Those were the moments my soul became tied to his. The weight of glory in those moments even became physically manifest, in a way... After Rob would leave for the night, I used to sit in the spot on the couch where he would sit to feel closer to him, almost believing something of him had been imparted to it.
And I cried over that very spot when our relationship ended.
Though we had so much pulling us together, there were equal forces driving us apart. At the time, I did not truly believe my worth apart from the feedback I was getting from the outside world, or even myself. I was insecure. I always questioned Rob's intentions, his affections, his staying power. Even though Rob would admit he struggled to know how to be reassuring, I know these insecurities were borne first from me -- from pieces of my heart that needed healing, parts of my story that needed reframing. I've had other close relationships in which my insecurities drove them away, and I know how exhausting a burden it can be when nothing one does or says is ever enough... I grieve the burden I placed on Rob, one that only God can truly manage.
Rob struggled, too. He struggled to trust his own feelings in general, but especially about us; and when I was paranoid, it further convinced him that something was broken, irreparable, both in him and in us.
We broke up on March 15, 2017. We cried. We talked for a few hours. When Rob left, we held each other -- and it was probably the tightest and longest we had ever done so.
We each had very different responses immediately after breaking up, but there's one throughline between us: we both felt we had lost our best friend. Time dulled this conviction, but never fully overcame it.
There's a lot to say about the "in-between," but I promise to keep it short. *Everyone laughs.*
Six weeks after we broke up, Rob was diagnosed with MS (Multiple Sclerosis). Simultaneously, my longing to be with him -- to be his friend, be by his side, hold him, comfort him -- became a consuming fire (not exaggerating), and my soul drowned in the despair I could not. At the time I wanted to be with my best friend the most, I was the furthest away I had been.
Trusting God was all I could do. All we could do.
We tried to be friends, we really did. But one summer night in 2017, the love that had grown in my heart spilled out, clumsily and unexpectedly. I said "I love you." He said, "I have to go."
You have to understand... at that time, Rob thought he was going to die. He thought MS would, quite literally, cut his life short, and that there was no future in which he could be close to someone else -- let alone love them, let alone accept them as a partner for however long that life would be. He didn't want to cause that kind of pain, for anyone he loved -- his family included. He thought creating distance was creating safety for his loved ones.
That was the last time we gave friendship the ol' college try. It was too painful for us both.
Eventually... we moved on. We healed. We changed. We grew. There's no way I could sufficiently tell you all the ways we did.
I finally got rid of that couch one day, the one I had in my apartment when we were together. I had to, I needed to. His presence was still stuck squarely in it, and I had done so much (successful!) work to get unstuck -- it was time. After the movers took it away, I sat in the spot where the couch had been for all those years, right where Rob had taken up residence. I cried. I cried because -- after all the work, all the healing -- there was part of me that would always miss him. But, how glorious it was to feel it, acknowledge it, accept it, and know that I was still okay. I could simultaneously believe there would always be something about him I would miss, that I may always still want him in some way, that I was better off without him, and I was worthy apart from him. This was September 2019.
At that time, Rob was doing his own work. I don't feel like I could do it justice in my own voice, honestly, but I can tell you what I saw when he reached out to talk in November 2019.
We got together for a drink one Saturday, later in the evening, after Rob had gotten off work. I was nervous. Still self-assured, but nervous. It didn't take long, though, for us to click right back into our friendship, and I was quickly disarmed. We talked about music, comedy, food, drink, laughed a lot... we had fun. I remember pinging back and forth between several thoughts that whole evening: "This is so good, and so easy." "I really don't understand why we don't work." "I need to keep my head on my shoulders, my heart is going to run way ahead of me."
But fun wasn't necessarily the point of the conversation. Rob's intention in reaching out was to apologize to me, to say he was sorry for all the things he had done to hurt me, and to reconcile, if I was amenable to the idea.
I don't remember all the things that were said, by him or me, but I remember clearly the way it all felt. Rob was tender. He was humble. He was listening, and trying to understand. He was curious. He was willing to take the time to heal us well. No other person I'd been in a romantic relationship with had ever done that.
I can tell you one thing I said that I know resonated deeply with Rob. I made a point of telling him I didn't think he was a monster, and that he wasn't unlovable, wasn't too far from grace. I don't know if I'll ever really understand how much that meant to him -- there are some things only God can understand, that are unspeakable, unknowable. But I know I'll say it a million times, and a million times again, if I have to -- because it's true.
We parted ways that night with a hug. Rob says he wanted to kiss me. (But he didn't!) When I said "goodbye" to him, there was something that felt final, like closure -- almost like passing a test of some kind. I was able to be with Rob and still be okay. It seemed at the time that his mind was still made up, that we would be decidedly friends; and instead of being angry and frustrated by that fact, I said, "Okay. I accept this. I may never understand, but I accept it."
So imagine my surprise when -- on the strangest of nights and under the strangest of circumstances -- Rob came back. I suppose I was the one who had planted a seed this time; a seed that grew, and grew.
On May 30, 2020, Rob sent me a text. There was unrest in downtown Reno following a peaceful BLM protest, and he was checking in to make sure I was okay. I was safe, but could hear and smell the tear gas being deployed from my house -- it was surreal. Rob was also deeply concerned for the safety of a friend who had been part of the peaceful protest that day and was still downtown -- so we texted a bit back and forth about that, sharing whatever knowledge we had that could be helpful.
A few days later, I checked in to see how his friend was doing (alive and well was the verdict). A few days after that, Rob asked if we could get together to catch up -- I had recently decided to leave my church of 15 years (to plant a new one) and he wanted to hear more about that decision.
In mid-June, we got together at my home. We sat 10 feet apart, all windows open and fans blowing, everything sanitized... and talked until 5 a.m., when we watched the sunrise from my front step.
At around the 2 a.m. mark, everything that Rob was feeling came spilling out. His plan was to draw things out over a few weeks, to continue spending time together until it seemed like a good idea to broach the topic of trying our relationship again -- but at 2 a.m., something else takes over, perhaps less methodical. And while I was shocked, I am so glad he did.
I never want to forget what he said to me -- and he also sent it to me in a text, so I pray I never do. He thanked me for opening up the door to exploring the possibility of getting back together... and said he hoped to fill the space with a "confidence and consistency that confirms your worthiness." "Not that you need it," he said. "But I want you to know that as I fumble through what it means to pursue you."
We were both skeptical, and tentative -- both so sure of our undeniable friendship and connection -- but needing to know that things would be different this time. There were things he needed to know, and I needed to know. As the summer progressed... our questions were answered.
After soaring over so many hurdles, one final question remained for us -- perhaps not explicitly declared, but implicitly posed -- and it was this: would we murder each other if we went on vacation?
We started planning a trip to California (which was not only on COVID-19 lockdown, but COMPLETELY and devastatingly on fire at the time) that included a few days camping in Salt Point, and a few other stops in the Bay Area we determined were safe and accessible.
I'm happy to say there was no murder. In fact, we finished that vacation feeling closer and more sure than ever before that what we had was good. We loved each other. And, after years of growth and change, God had helped us clear out the thorns and thistles that kept us from seeing it. Knowing it. Enjoying it.
On our way back to Reno, we made a stop for dinner. It was at a Bahn Mi shop in Sacramento. Someone had told me once it was the best they'd ever had.
He was right.