Thirty Years of Marriage
… and what I would have said to myself if I had known three decades ago what I know now
30.
It’s not much if you’re talking about the dollars in your wallet, but it’s quite a span when you’re talking about the years of your life.
Thirty years ago today, in a church building in northeast Kansas with a defective air conditioner on a day that was nearly one hundred degrees, my wife and I said, “I do.” At least we both assume we did. Neither of us actually remembers that moment and we couldn’t afford a videographer, so no proof remains beyond the eyewitnesses who were there. Our honeymoon consisted of a car ride to Branson, during which our Ford Escort was rear-ended and totaled by a distracted driver. Not exactly the way any couple dreams of beginning their life together, but it did get better.
My wife and I met in the summer of 1992, when she was a summer intern with the Kaw Valley Association of Southern Baptists and I was leading music at a camp. After six months or so of dating, I proposed after hearing “Can’t Fight This Feeling” by REO Speedwagon on the radio—which thus far may have been the only good decision I’ve ever made while listening to 1980s rock.
The years blur together now, and the memories are a series of mental snapshots, still images that vividly punctuate particular moments of pain or joy.
The pains of the early years seem small now, but they didn’t seem so small then. There were the weeks when we couldn’t pay all of our bills, the year that two different churches said no to me becoming one of their pastors after we had gone through the candidacy processes, the relational strains of me doing too much in the first few years of youth ministry—all of those crises felt immense in those moments, but they were nothing compared to what was yet to come. The diagnoses of infertility, the difficult decision not to pursue in vitro fertilization, the loss of three adopted children in a row because birthmothers changed their minds—the pain of those losses has never gone away. I feel their sting every day, and I suppose I always will.
But there are snapshots of joy too, and the joys are far more numerous than the sorrows. Our first airplane trip together to Florida to celebrate the release of my first book, buying our first house, the compassion and care of our church in Oklahoma as we adopted our first child, the unexpected way that God brought us to Louisville, three more adoptions during our years here, many moments of learning to be patient with one another in middle age in ways that we could never seem to manage in younger years, and so many more joys beyond what I can say.
And then there are the spaces where the brokenness and the beauty mingle, and you can’t quite see where one stops and the other begins. The hard blessing of parenting children who live with the weight of past families that abandoned them, the weeks of pain as one of our daughters—as far as anyone could tell—was dying of COVID followed by her unexpected survival, the months of indescribable confusion and pain after another daughter experienced a life-altering concussion but also the joy of her resilience and return. Throughout it all, there has been Rayann’s steadfast love and care, even when I’ve been entangled in my darkest moments, giving hope. Nothing that I’ve done would have happened without that.
So much brokenness, but even more beauty.
“Darkness is just a speck in the light.”
30.
What would I say to myself thirty years ago, if I could?
I think I would say something like this …
The pains that seem insurmountable aren’t; keep moving forward together and you will outlast them.
The joys that God’s providence brings regularly will change over the years; enjoy them, remember them, but recognize that new and different joys will take their place as you grow together. Allow part of the joy to become the recognition that the joy of this moment is not permanent.
Learn how to speak a genuine apology—not a plea to make the other person feel sorry for you, not an excuse to reiterate the reason why you did what you did, not a self-condemnation that places blame on yourself when the blame doesn’t belong there, but an authentic and sober recognition of what you did that was hurtful that cultivates a new way of relating to each other.
Not everything you think or feel needs to be said; in fact, almost nothing of what you think ought to be said in the way that it initially takes shape in your mind. Ask yourself over and over, “Will speaking these words in this way really help us to love each other in ways that are vulnerable and authentic and kind?” If not, reflect on your own thoughts and emotions, being honest with yourself about the twistedness of your own inclinations and desires, until you can speak with kindness or recognize that you didn’t need to speak at all. Patience and calmness in your speech goes a long ways.
Worry far less about your long-term relationship goals and focus on developing daily and weekly habits that cultivate closeness. After thirty years, I have only one long-term relationship goal left: stay married to the same person until one of us passes away. My focus is not on a set of long-term goals; it’s on a dozen or so daily and weekly habits that greatly increase the likelihood of my one long-term goal.
30.
It’s a good number.
How very wonderful. Thank you
Beautiful!