eleven years later
Five days ago, we celebrated our eleventh anniversary. Five days before that, Father’s Day. And the best part of both is that the best part is now.
We’re only a handful of episodes into Ted Lasso, but I’ve teared up for most of them, and I’m not prone to crying. The scene I can’t stop thinking about, though, isn’t one that warmed my heart, but one that saddened it. If you’ve seen the series, maybe you’ll remember the episode where Ted’s estranged wife flies to meet him in London. There is no hope for them reconnecting, because she simply can’t summon the feelings she used to have. As though love is the same as feeling, as though emotion is the foundation for a life. As though the beginning of a marriage is when it soars the highest, buoyed by all the butterflies and not yet darkened and weighed down by conflict or disappointment or hurt. As though the only way forward is to cling to that initial passion and hope the fumes of early love are enough to propel a marriage into the future.
As someone with anxiety, I think if I’ve learned anything over the last several years, it’s that my feelings aren’t trustworthy. My brain is not god. My interpretation of my experience is not ultimate. But we know God, and in knowing God, we know what is real. Marriage isn’t formed out of feeling, it’s formed out of covenant.
But what a gift, that even if our marriage isn’t held up by our emotions, neither is it devoid of affection. I still have feelings, but they’re sturdier, richer, and sweeter than they were eleven years ago. I’m still in love, but it isn’t what grounds me; it’s what has grown out of the ground of hard work and change. Marriage is more than living life side-by-side. It’s living the same life. I don’t look back on our wedding day and long for something we had then that now we’ve lost or forgotten; I look back and think what a long way the Lord has carried us, and what a miracle that those two people - strangers, almost - are now us. We’ve changed, but we’ve changed together.
And I don’t look ahead and yearn for something I’m missing now that I hope to find again. Because what I have now is glorious. And I am grateful.
Halfway into our marriage, our family doubled in size. We started as two kids, and now we have two kids. And while Timothy has always been the kind of dad that shares the load of parenting, he’s also the kind of dad that engages in the relational work of it. He has done more than guide, instruct, and lead our children. He’s stooped to their level, known them, and loved them. He shapes the rhythms of our week, reminds us of our mission as a family, and seeks our hearts. And already I witness the fruit of Timothy’s leadership: at the dinner table, it is often Dean or June who asks, “Daddy, did anything good happen to you today? Did anything bad happen? How are you feeling?” For many meals, it was Timothy, poking and prodding at our children’s hearts with these questions until not only did they learn how to think about their day and reflect on it, but they’ve also learned how to pursue someone else, too.
Timothy, you are a bundle of contradictions, and all of them are good. You are a visionary and a dreamer, but you are deeply aware of reality. You see into the future and imagine it with optimism and determination, but you are rooted in the present. You are a gifted leader, but your leadership is marked by humility and help and inspiration, not by control. You have learned how to ask good questions and how to listen well, but you are also quick to solve a problem. You teach our children the meaning of work and success, and you also teach them how to play and rest. You are my best friend and my passionate love. You are my greatest blessing.
