Twenty-three years ago from today I married this guy.

I showed up with huge puffed sleeves and my first manicure.  We shared a white limo with the band “Kiss” for the day (I know, random, we found that out after the fact and thought it was funny).

But I had no clue what I was getting into. 

I thought I did.  I knew that dimpled smile well.  I knew the surface of his good heart.  I knew he was “Uncle Muscles” to his nieces and nephews (and that has to be good, right?), that he was a hard worker, that he loved Jesus, and that he agreed with me that we should have seven kids:) 

But standing there with my white bow veil perched on my head smiling at that man, how could I ever know the breadth and depth of what would grow from that day?  The adventures we’d share, the fights, the make-ups, the beautiful vistas and the low valleys we’d travel, sometimes arm in arm, sometimes stomping as far apart as we could get.  How could I know how much he’d put up with from me, how much he’d exasperate me, how much I’d learn from his example, how much more I’d love being cradled, perfectly fit in the nook of his arm.

Today I’m just so grateful for all those highs and lows that continue to weave into this story of “us.”  I love this story.

Happy anniversary to my number one.


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