Twenty-four years ago today, Greg and I were standing in front of God, our families and friends, pledging to spend our lives together. In our early 20s, we were still riding the coattails of that teenage sense of immortality.
Although we were standing inside the air-conditioned comfort of Zion Lutheran Church in Vassar, it seemed more as if we were standing on a beach staring out across the ocean of our future. It was so vast that it was all the eye could see. And there was no discernible path to follow; that was what we’d define together.
During the past nearly quarter of a century, we’ve discovered that our personal ocean of life is at times so calm there’s not a ripple to be seen. At other times, it’s so turbulent the waves come close to knocking you off your feet. More often than not, we look back and realize that a current has slowly been carrying us along. It’s when we look back that we see the lessons we’ve learned.
I always experience a Hallmark moment when I see an elderly couple walking down the sidewalk hand-in-hand. But I’ve come to realize that some separation can be a good thing. Growing up, I knew a couple who never vacationed together. She’d plan a two-week trip doing something she wanted to do. He’d plan his own trip. They later divorced, and I always wondered whether their lack of shared interests was part of it.
But sometimes space is necessary. As a child, I’d see my parents perfectly content to putter around the house on weekends pursuing their separate interests. My dad would be building something in his workshop, and my mom would be working with her flower beds or in the garden.
Greg and I have found we have both separate and combined interests. Around the house, I’ll read for relaxation, and he’ll work on computer projects. Together, we’ll watch our favorite TV shows on TiVo. During the regular TV season, we’ve got three or four that we watch together. We’ve got a few others we watch as a family.
Over the years, Greg and I have discovered that tag-team parenting works for us. This was most evident when the boys were younger and needed more supervision. At the same time, they seemed especially adept at pushing us to our limits.
Luckily, we discovered early on that what would drive one parent crazy didn’t seem to bother the other. Greg and I became skilled at reading the situation quickly. As one parent was reaching the end of the rope, the other would step in and take over, letting the frazzled parent step back and de-stress. We were careful not to countermand the other parent, but just to help defuse the situation.
We’ve traveled far on this ocean of ours, and we’ve realized that often perspective is important.
I remember a time just weeks after we’d married and moved to Alexandria, Va. I walked out of our apartment to a nearby park and sat on a swing.
“What have I done?” I thought. “How can I live with this man who takes off his socks and leaves them wherever they fall?”
I was positive I’d made the worst mistake of my life. After all, you’re not thinking about dirty socks when you look into each other’s eyes and say, “I do.”
But dirty socks and any number of pet peeves fade in the face of holding a newborn son in your arms — or watching your husband hold the newborn. And after you’ve watched a parent die, or comforted the spouse whose parent has died, you realize you’re thankful simply to have dirty socks to pick up and wash.
Our journey together is far from over. In fact, in many ways, we’re still newlyweds. On this same weekend we’re celebrating 24 years, a couple at church is celebrating 44 years, and we know others celebrating 64 years and more.
This ocean that is our life still seems vast, but looking back, we can see the course we’ve sailed and the islands on which we’ve stopped for both brief and extended stays. Ahead, the water still stretches as far as the eye can see, but it now has new islands that we may choose to explore. And, where we started out sailing aimlessly along, we’ve learned that, by working together, it’s much easier to chart a course.
Here’s to the next leg of our journey.