Thin Air, High Hope

I think I may have mentioned this before.

I never wanted to get married.

Some little girls dream of their wedding. I dreamed of my independence. I remember learning about nuns when I was seven or eight. Not being Catholic, I hadn’t really been exposed to them, but I heard they could remain single and spend their lives helping people. That sounded wonderful to me.

Despite singledom being my “dream life,” I still dated often. I enjoyed building friendships, but I wasn’t interested in long-term commitment. When I was about twenty-four, a relative cautioned me that if I waited too long, I wouldn’t be able to find anyone. I told them I wasn’t concerned. If I ever chose to marry, it would be because I wanted to be with that person, not because I needed to be with a person.

Then I met Alex.

We were both at a wedding neither of us had actually been invited to, playing the role of wingman (wingwoman?) for good friends. I saw him across the room telling jokes to a small circle of people and making them laugh. I was struck by his confidence. It wasn’t arrogance, but the kind of confidence that comes from being comfortable in your own skin, something I’ve never found especially natural.

Five minutes before my friend and I needed to leave the reception, he suddenly appeared in front of me: charming smile, sparkling blue eyes. He said, “Hi, I’m Alex.”

I said something charming and witty in response.

Ha…nope.

I said, “Hi.”

And I think I just stared…hopefully smiling?

But he kept the conversation going, asking questions about what interested me and immediately finding places where our lives overlapped. It was the most natural first conversation I had ever had with another person. He asked for my email (no Instagram or texting back then!), and I wrote it down. Then my friend and I left for our three-hour drive home.

I found out later that he couldn’t read my handwriting.

He ended up searching The Ohio State University directory, scrolling through hundreds of “Carmens” (thank goodness my name isn’t Amy or Lisa!) until he found me.

Because I was in Ohio and he was in Wisconsin, we spent the first part of our friendship writing emails. We talked about our days, our dreams, and eventually our anxieties and struggles. He had recently graduated and was working full-time while I was wrapping up my senior year. If he found out I was spending the night in the lab, he would order pizza for me from hundreds of miles away. When I had an unexpected surgery, he mailed me a care package filled with little gifts, each with its own handwritten label explaining the silly symbolism behind it.

Eventually I graduated and moved to the same city under the guise of pursuing graduate school.

Which was true. But the great university also happened to be near the cute guy with the sparkling blue eyes.

We got engaged and then married twelve weeks later. We weren’t really in a rush. We just didn’t see a reason to wait, and we both appreciated simple weddings. That day will mark twenty-five years this July 1. These past twenty-five years have held so much. I can honestly say there has never been a day when I regretted that decision.

Usually this is where people write, “However, it hasn’t always been easy…”

And in some ways, I agree.

I guess I just don’t like the way that sounds. It makes it seem as though we expected marriage to be easy, or as though it’s surprising that something worthwhile would require work, sacrifice, and perseverance.

The things I value most in life have rarely been easy. Beautiful, profound, breathtaking things usually aren’t. They ask something of us. They require commitment, sacrifice, effort, and sometimes wrestling. I think that’s part of what gives them their worth.

When I look back over the past twenty-five years, I’m grateful for every season: the seasons of work and the seasons of rest. Each has taught me lessons I’m still trying to learn. First, we’ve become deeply aware of the power of healthy, tenacious communication.

There have been times when we’ve strongly disagreed. Times when we’ve deeply hurt each other. Times when we simply haven’t been on the same page, or when we’ve felt things we couldn’t even name. Every single time, finding our way back to forgiveness, compromise, or deeper understanding has required awkward, messy, persistent conversation.

From the beginning, we’ve had a few ground rules. Certain words are off limits (like “divorce”), and insults or name-calling aren’t allowed. Sometimes we’ve needed to step away, gather our thoughts, and come back later. Other times, the conversation has become much messier before it became clearer, sort of like cleaning out a closet that’s been neglected for far too long. We’ve even had to reach out to trusted friends when we’ve just gotten too stuck to know what to say next. But our shared commitment to keep going until closeness is restored has been a gift.

The second lesson was captured beautifully in an article I recently read about marriage. The author wrote that marriage is almost never a 50/50 arrangement. Instead, it shifts from season to season. When I’ve been sick, pregnant, or struggling with depression, Alex has carried much more of the weight. When work stretched him into anxiety or he was walking through a difficult season, it became my turn to provide extra support and encouragement.

What I’ve found is that if both people are committed to giving everything they can, sometimes that looks like my thirty percent versus Alex’s one hundred. Other times it’s my one hundred versus his sixty. And occasionally, it’s one hundred from both of us, a season of two people able to pour into each other. Those seasons of extra do wonders in carrying us through the tougher ones!

Finally, I remember an older couple at our wedding telling us to enjoy the day because it would be the least we would ever love each other. I remember feeling confused. I couldn’t imagine loving Alex any more than I did that day. Now, at least in part, I understand.

I knew his smile then. Now I know it reflected in our children’s eyes when they respond to his joy. I know the delight that appears whenever someone mentions peanut butter fudge. I know the laugh reserved only for his brother. I know the quiet smile he wears while simply doing ordinary things around the house because he genuinely enjoys life.

I knew the furrow in his brow then, thinking it was sweet that I could tell when he was worried or thinking deeply. Now I know that furrow often means he’s concerned about our family, pondering something he read in the news, or wondering how he might help someone else.

Or…

Sometimes it just means he’s completely absorbed in an online game he’s afraid he’s about to lose.

His smile, his furrow, his touch, his laugh, even his thoughts, priorities, and concerns. When we were first married, I knew of those things, and I loved him for them. After twenty-five years, though, I know him so much more deeply, having shared so many different seasons and experiences together.

For me, this has been one of the unexpected gifts of marriage. It isn’t simply spending more years with another person. It is the privilege of watching them live through so many different seasons. Over time, I have watched Alex respond to joy and disappointment, success and failure, parenting and aging parents, ordinary days and unexpected crises. Each season has revealed another part of who he is.

Looking back, I think what has changed most isn’t simply the depth of my love, but the depth of my understanding. I know Alex so much more than I did twenty-five years ago. And because I know him more, I have found there was even more to love, and more to love still.

I deeply hope for another twenty-five years (we seem to have good longevity in our families!), but I will be deeply grateful for every one we’re given!

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