Twenty-five years ago, I married my first husband.
He’s still here.
Well, he’s not here-here because right now he’s in Colorado on business, but he’s still here, married to me. I know. That alone demonstrates his bountiful patience and good-will and kindness. He is among the steadiest and calmest people I’ve ever known and that’s just one of the reasons I love him.
Tomorrow we’re ditching the kids and our jobs and the puppy and our house for twenty-four hours and we’re going to San Diego to celebrate our silver anniversary. (I just have to swing by the airport to pick him up before the celebration begins.) (And I have to walk the dog, take Grace to VBS, work, pick up Grace from VBS, deliver our houseguest to the airport and discover a cure for the common cold.)
Who would have guessed on that July day so long ago that twenty-five years would slide by in such quick fashion? I would have taken more pictures and written more words if I had fully realized what a vapor life is.
We’ve lived in five states, had four kids, seven cats, two dogs and a few fish. We have lived in three apartments, one townhouse, one parsonage, and three houses. We still agree on a few things: we don’t like raw tomatoes and we don’t like coffee–though he is a social drinker from time to time. You can also count on this: I’m usually running late and he’s always early. I have a messy desk and his is so tidy that it doesn’t look like anyone owns the desk. He’s an early bird and I am a night owl.
We’re growing old together. I can’t think of a better way to grow old.