On my ten year wedding anniversary. (August 7, 2020)
I cannot translate us into words;mch
our intimacy will always
transcend our skin.
The other night before bed, my husband said something to me that was so beautiful. We had been torn apart with pain after losing another of our beloved fur sons, and while each of us grieves separately and in our own way, we still have the capacity, the strength, to set aside our personal pain to dive in with the other when we’re needed. We band together while still finding ways to respect each others space, timing, and tears. I need to talk, Dana needs to think. He zigs, I zag. But, in the end, we still land on the same path.
Our conversations are sacred; they belong to no one but us. But his last line before he held me close in bed that night, tears running down both of our faces, was this:
“Thank you, Marybeth. Thank you for suffering with me.”
You won’t hear that in wedding vows. It’s not pretty enough. It’s a little too honest. We celebrate the joys of marriage, yes. In a
good great relationship, there will be much joy. But in time, after the wedding gifts have been unwrapped, after the dust settles, that is where true intimacy has the ability to take center stage. There, during the trials of life and moments of diagnoses, disasters, despairs, and even death, we can find a closeness and connection that is deeper than our skin.
I pray you have that.
I pray you can find that.
Dana, when you asked, “Will you marry me?” I know the layers beneath that question. You were asking—
Do you want to tread this trail of highs and lows in the same way I only want to walk it with you? Do you trust holding hands and taking this life-hike with me? Do you know that even though we won’t have a trail map to warn us when the terrain gets rough, you’ll still want to be with me knowing it’s worth the adventure simply because we’re doing it together? Will you let me love you the way you were meant to be loved, a way no one else has loved you before? Will you be open and vulnerable alongside me as we learn and grow, messing up and starting over? Do you want to walk as an us the same way I do? And when we make it to the shoreline and the waves crash around us, will you laugh with me and jump the water or dive in, hand in hand, arms out, bodies intertwined? Will you stay there beside me, wrapped around me, fighting the current until we either drown together or resurface stronger? I’m in if you’re in.
I’m in. Of course, I’m in. I’ve been here for ten years, and I’ll remain here forever— fingers wrapped, rings touching, yes?