Six Years

Six years ago we stood in a large auditorium surrounded by our favorite people and said, "With God as my witness I give you this promise." We promised forever, no matter the trial. Since then, we've grown together.

For two years we lived in a tiny, brick apartment in Knoxville, on top of a bar, right next to the railroad tracks, away from our families in Virginia. Together, we prayed for a baby. We bought our first home in Norfolk, Virginia, with lots of green grass, the perfect garage, and plenty of room for growing and improving. God gave us the desire of our hearts, our first baby, and we felt joy. Twenty-five weeks later, when our son was born still, we mourned together, full of sadness, but also filled with overwhelming peace.

Eleven months later, our daughter was born screaming. She was everything we needed her to be: alive. We've changed jobs and bought cars together, loved half a dozen house pets, and put band-aids on scraped baby knees.

I love the openness of our relationship. We talk through our emotions and feelings, even when we're moody, never letting the sun set on an unresolved conversation. We've kept our promises to each other and set big, long-term, impossible to reach alone goals.

You've made marriage easy, Matthew, by loving me hard and letting God lead our family, step by step. I'm excited to see the elderly version of us, surrounded by babies, having loved each other hard for dozens of years.