Today marks eight years since Brian and I walked down the aisle at the chapel on the college campus where we first met.
Eight years is a long time. Or a very short time. It depends on how you look at it. With grandparents who celebrated anniversaries well past the 40 and 50-year mark, it's hard not to look at this as a small blip in time. And then again, my life is so vastly different than it was eight years ago, it's hard to say that this stretch of time was anything but insignificant.
I'm not going to get into a long post about what makes our marriage work. I've done that before and I think I've said everything that needs to be said.
But I will say this. This man, the one who efficiently shoved limes down my Corona bottle at house parties. The one who really sucked at gift-giving. The one who drove my car and got countless parking tickets. The one who wrote me song after song. The one with the navy blue backpack and the black North Face fleece with holes in the sleeves. The one who carried the tattered guitar case everywhere he went. The one who was always slow. And always late.
Well, he's still the one that is the very best part of my day, every day. When I hear his crappy car rattling a block away. When I see him pull in the driveway and hear the garage door rumbling open. When I hear the lock turn on the backdoor and the screen door slam behind him. My hearts skips a beat. He's home. The best part of my day has begun.
Eight years is a long time. Or a very short time. It depends on how you look at it. With grandparents who celebrated anniversaries well past the 40 and 50-year mark, it's hard not to look at this as a small blip in time. And then again, my life is so vastly different than it was eight years ago, it's hard to say that this stretch of time was anything but insignificant.
I'm not going to get into a long post about what makes our marriage work. I've done that before and I think I've said everything that needs to be said.
But I will say this. This man, the one who efficiently shoved limes down my Corona bottle at house parties. The one who really sucked at gift-giving. The one who drove my car and got countless parking tickets. The one who wrote me song after song. The one with the navy blue backpack and the black North Face fleece with holes in the sleeves. The one who carried the tattered guitar case everywhere he went. The one who was always slow. And always late.
Well, he's still the one that is the very best part of my day, every day. When I hear his crappy car rattling a block away. When I see him pull in the driveway and hear the garage door rumbling open. When I hear the lock turn on the backdoor and the screen door slam behind him. My hearts skips a beat. He's home. The best part of my day has begun.
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| On the night of our anniversary dinner, we found this piano in a park calling our name. How perfect. |
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