When I got engaged, my mom was worried about me. I was so stoic, chin up, accepting congratulations with a quiet dignity. No hysterics, fussiness, wild delusions of bliss for me, no. My mom took me aside and asked if I really, actually did want to be married. I was shocked. What sort of question was that? I knew I was supposed to marry this boy, no matter what. That was obvious. But did I want to?
Mom, I said, marriage is hard. Like, really hard. It’s a lot of work. It’s probably the most difficult thing I will ever do in my life.
I had no illusions of the lovey-dovey years: all I could see was two sinners, sharpening each other for all eternity. Romantic, right?
My mom nodded her head, a little smile creeping up her face.
I got married, in love and grimly determined to roll up my sleeves at the enormous amount of work that a successful relationship takes.
Six years in, and I am having the time of my life. We get to have adventures, snuggle, and make ridiculous jokes together. We share a common vision about God’s dream for the world, and we are trying to live it out together. We are best friends, tag-teamers, baby wrasslers, each other’s point of sanity and mirth.
We know the absolute worst and best parts of each other, and I wish I could go back 7 years and tell my serious little self: the good far outweighs the bad.
I have been surprised, in every way, just by how fun it has been to be married, to this one particular boy.
Here’s to another year (and decades more) of fun, adventure, crazy-times, growth, silliness, and joy.
And to work that never, ever actually feels like work.
Happy anniversary, dude.