Al and I had been talking for a month, and though my heart was already set, we both knew we had to meet in person to be sure. I was headed to Kentucky to see a friend, so we planned a stop in Nashville on my way back to North Carolina. The plan was simple: I’d meet him at the airport.
I stood in baggage claim holding a playful sign that read Cowboy, Take Me Away. You know that song. The one by the Chicks. I imagined waiting patiently until he strolled over so I could say, “Well, hello there, cowboy.” But flights don’t always stick to plans—his was delayed more than once.
When he finally rounded the corner, there he was in all his cowboy handsomeness. I tried to wait, I really did, but patience flew out the window. I ran straight to him. He dropped his carry-on and scooped me up like a scene out of a movie.
The weekend itself was a sweet mix of family and adventure. We celebrated my great-niece’s third birthday, worshiped together at cowboy church in the Troubadour, wandered through Nashville’s music district, and spent an evening at the Grand Ole Opry listening to Bill Anderson and Vince Gill.
We also enjoyed several memorable meals, the kind of southern cooking that sticks with you. But it wasn’t the food or even the music that sealed it—it was knowing, without a doubt, that we were meant to be right where we were.
If you’ve followed along with Back at the Ranch, you know faith, family, and the cowboy way show up everywhere in our story—even in Nashville. This trip was where it all truly began.
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