9.15.2012
Itโs nearly impossible to write about my husband. Twelve years in, and I donโt have words. At least, words that seem adequate.
The romantic writer girlies of the internet would shake their heads at me. Theyโd have the words. Theyโd be quick to compare their love story to the wistful, romantic stories of Jane Austen or of L.M. Montgomery, with maybe some slight Emily Brontรซ tension. Or theyโd have some romantic story that would make their readers lean in, have tears well up in their eyes, or even make them (gasp) jealous. I have no such stories. Our story is an honest one but not a particularly romantic one.
We met online. For three months all we had were phone calls. Heโd call me at 7pm every night, my time (he was Pacific, I was still central). He listened and I talked. And then we met. He tried to kiss me in the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel for the first time, but I stopped him. He got his kiss later that evening in the kitchen of my cabin. Not super romantic, but very honest.
Our first โrealโ date was a disaster. He took me out to a restaurant that had a photo booth. He thought it would be fun to take pictures together. The food was so-so, the service terrible, the photo booth broken. And then, he forgot his wallet. The mortification on his face was profound. He insisted that he walk back to the car (a good five blocks awayโin snow) to get it. I laughed and insisted he not. He said โthis was not what I plannedโ and I said โbut now we have a good story to tell.โ Not an hour after this moment, I met his family for the first time while they took professional family photos together. Did I get pulled into these photos? Yes, I did. Was I mortified? Yes, I was. Did one of those photos end up becoming our โsave the dateโ postcard? Yes, it did. It all worked out I suppose.
We lived in Idaho for four years. We moved to Oregon for seven. Now, weโve been in Washington for a year and change. Weโve had jobs and lost jobs. We made friends and lost friends. We traveled to Scotland, the Oregon coast, the gulf coast, the Southeast, the Northeast. We buried my mother. We fostered. We adopted. We were rumored to be infertile. We allowed that to remain a rumor. We bought and sold a house. We bought another one. We lived in what felt like a million shitty rentals (and a few good ones). We left a toxic church. We found a healthy one. We got confirmed and blessed by a Bishop. We laughed that our former Evangelical selves would think we had flown the coop. We laughed even harder knowing that we now feel closer to Godโs presence than ever.

And David? Heโs been steady through it all.
If youโve ever seen the final Harry Potter movies, youโll recount the sixth movie where Dumbledore takes Harry globe trotting in an attempt to look for one of Tom Riddleโs more hidden horcruxes. In one such scene, Dumbledore and Harry are transported to a large rock on the edge of a cliff face in the ocean. Dumbledore points to the cave that, therein, lies the horcrux theyโve been seeking. The waves crash around them and the wind whips, but the rock they are on is unmoved. Itโs been there for centuries and will be there for centuries more.
David is that rock. He has not been unchanged by the winds and the waves in our life, but he has been steady. His faith is rarely if ever shaken. He knows that God exists. He knows he is His image bearer. He believes in the saving sacrifice of Christ. You cannot convince him otherwise.
I on the other hand am more like the sea. Iโm easily tossed around and all it takes for me to forget my place is a wind stronger than a light breeze. Not David. He shakes but is not overthrown. And when he doubts himself, I remind him that if he does not doubt God, then he cannot doubt Godโs good works and David is foremost of those works.
the makings of a man
David is good. Heโs not particularly romantic, but he is the very definition of integrity. He struggles to find the right anniversary gifts every year, but he knows what to say (or not say) when my heart is broken. He believes in me. He believes in us. I have given him multiple outs. He has never taken them. Heโs introverted but loves people and craves to be hospitable. Heโs a man of few words, but when he talks, people listen.
David is fast with a pun. He loves peanut butter cups more than anyone I know. If I were to die tomorrow, heโd probably make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch every day until the good Lord called him home. He wants a motorcycle with a sidecar. He loves LEGOS and Star Wars. He will find the good in anythingโhe is the proverbial โglass half fullโ on legs. He has the mind of an architect and the heart of an artist. He loves stories and can discuss movies and books ad infinitum. He could fall asleep at 8:00 PM every night if he was allowed. Heโs allergic to avocado. He makes a damn good chili. Donโt get him started on Vivek Ramaswamy.
It was because of Davidโs tender heart that we fostered and adopted. It was because of his bravery that he started his own business. Because of Davidโs work ethic, we are still in our home after being unemployed for eight months. Because of Davidโs encouragement, I started writing publicly. And because David leaned in when he could have run away, I believe in love.
cold feet
A few nights ago, David flipped over in bed to face out and I did the same. We tend to sleep with our backs to one another, but weโll intertwine our feet until they come undone in our sleep.
As I scooted my foot over to Davidโs, I apologized for how cold they were.
โIโve had worseโ he said. I could hear him smiling in the dark.
He has had worse. These days weโre so thankful for cold feet in bed. It could be worse. It has been worse. It was such a comforting way to end the day. We laid there, back to back (like we often are in life), resting and knowing that weโve both had worse, and the tiny discomforts we experience now look more like blessings in disguise.
David is not Mr. Darcy. Heโs not really a man out of any Austenian fantasy. If anything, heโs Gabriel Oaks from Thomas Hardyโs Far from the Madding Crowd. He sees what needs to be done and does it. Heโs nuanced and fathoms deep. Heโs loyal and steadfast. Heโs not afraid to say what is true, even if itโs uncomfortable. And somehow, he took my restless, selfish heart and called it his own.
Hereโs to a dozen years.
Always,
Emily
P.S. The traditional gift for your twelfth year of marriage is a plastic yard flamingo. Do with that what you will.
This is the side of marriage that needs to be shared more with young people: the beautiful steady privilege of getting to know someone more and more each day, through the good and the bad.
(Also- as far as I can tell - you found some beautiful words ๐ let the romantic do their worst. This is the kind of relationship I want to see.)
That was sweet to read. It would seem he doesn't just look like his dad..Happy Anniversary ๐