To R~,
Forty years.
FORTY. YEARS.
Honestly, I’m not sure whether to celebrate, congratulate you, or have someone check your head for signs of questionable judgment. Because you have voluntarily spent four decades married to me—and somehow, you still seem to like me.
October 11, 1986. I can hardly believe it has been forty years since we said, “I do.” Of course, neither of us had any idea at the time exactly what those two little words were going to mean.
Forty years of laughter, crazy seasons, ordinary Tuesdays, big celebrations, hard days, wonderful days, and all the things in between. Forty years of figuring out life together.
And forty years of Dad Jokes.
So. Many. Dad. Jokes.
I have watched you do things that still amaze me. You can parallel park a bus in approximately half a nanosecond. You can do long math in your head without a calculator. You can look at a complicated problem and somehow immediately see the solution.
But then there is the microwave.
Watching you operate a microwave is sometimes like watching a man attempt to disarm a highly sophisticated explosive device. I have learned not to interfere. Apparently, there are buttons. Many, many buttons. And somehow, after all these years, the microwave remains your intellectual nemesis.
And honestly?
I wouldn’t change a thing.
Because somewhere along the way, through all the laughter and all the ridiculousness, you became so much more than my husband.
You became my best friend.
You are the person I want beside me when something wonderful happens. You are the person I want beside me when something goes terribly wrong. And when the world feels like it is falling apart around us, you are somehow still standing there calmly saying, in essence, “Well…we’ll figure it out.”
You are my calm when I am anything but calm.
We have walked through some difficult things together, including medical challenges that neither of us would have volunteered for. We’ve had seasons that tested us, stretched us, and reminded us that life doesn’t always follow the plans we make.
But through all of it, you have been there.
And I’ve been there.
Together.
That’s the part of forty years that means the most to me.
I don’t love you because we’ve had forty perfect years. We haven’t.
I love you because we’ve had forty real years.
We’ve grown. We’ve changed. We’ve laughed until we couldn’t breathe. We’ve probably annoyed each other a time or two. (And by “a time or two,” I mean obviously never.) We’ve raised a family, made memories, weathered storms, celebrated milestones, and somehow kept choosing each other.
And I would choose you again.
In a heartbeat.
I believe God knew exactly what He was doing when He put us together. He knew the roads we would travel before we ever saw them. He knew the joys and the trials, the laughter and the tears, the things we’d understand immediately and the things we’d have to learn the hard way.
And through every season, He has been faithful.
I am so grateful that He gave me you to walk this life with.
Roy, my Himself, after forty years, you are still the man I want sitting beside me.
You’re still the one I want to tell things to.
You’re still the one who can make me laugh when I don’t feel like laughing.
You’re still the one I look for in a crowded room.
And you’re still the one I want beside me when (ha) we’re old and gray, arguing over whose turn it is to figure out the microwave.
Forty years ago, I said, “I do.”
Today, I would say it again.
I do.
And tomorrow, I will still choose you.
Thank you for being my husband, my best friend, my steady place, my partner, my favorite person to laugh with—and the man who can apparently calculate long division in his head but still needs supervision when heating leftovers.
I love you more than I can put into words.
And after forty years, I suppose that’s pretty good evidence that this whole marriage thing might actually work.
Happy 40th Anniversary, Himself.
Here’s to the first forty years.
And, by the grace of God, to whatever He has planned for the next ones.
I love you.
Always.
Your wife,
C~