It was a cold, January day in Zion National Park. Red rock mountains towered above our heads, glowing like fiery giants as the sun began to set. As we stood small and fragile, watching the glory radiate off the canyon walls, he wrapped his arms around me, pulled a tiny box out of his pocket, and asked me to marry him. It was rugged and romantic, and I had no idea how much that moment would change my life forever.
Fast forward fifteen years to the night of our 15th wedding anniversary. I crawled into an empty bed, closed my tired eyes, then got up half an hour later to begin a nightlong vigil of attending to a vomiting child. I had spent the previous afternoon cleaning up the car seat and there I was, at it again with the next victim. My husband was, inevitably, traveling for work. As luck would have it, the next night I came down with it myself because no self-respecting stomach bug attacks a tired mom during daylight hours.
But then in a blink, a week went by and I found myself on a beach, hand-in-hand with my husband as the wind slushed the palms above us. Blue vistas fanned in every direction, the sun tinting the sky a pastel rose-gold as it set behind us. Sweet jasmine and salt infused the air, giggles humming as the kids splashed in the surf at their toes. He looked at me and pulled me close, caressing my arms and gently pushing the windblown hair from my face. He whispered in my ear how much he adored me, how much he loved me, how glad he was that we were here. Tears welled up and my voice caught in my throat, but I think my eyes told him everything he needed to know. And we kissed in the glow of the moment.
It was magical, falling in love again with my husband in paradise. For ten whole days we did nothing but enjoy ourselves together. We hiked, swam, ate our meals outside, and soaked up the Hawaiian sun. We explored little shops and took in the views and showed our kids the aloha in every moment.
And those moments had been a long time coming. For years we saved and planned for that trip, but like a knife to the heart, we had to cancel our initial plans, not knowing at the time whether we would be able to rebook. So when the thing I’d dreamt of finally materialized, and I stood there together with my husband in the beauty of the garden isle, it was super special.
Because after what has now been 16 years together, we’ve been through some stuff. The early years of our marriage are behind us, a blissful memory of a simpler time when we had no kids, no money, and all the time in the world.
When the babies showed up, they totally stole our hearts and shifted the center of our life. One baby became two, and two became four. And here we are, many years into the whole thing. Never a dull moment. The truth is that the kids and his business—they are all consuming. They take everything we have and then some. And so, our little getaway was so desperately needed. And it was unforgettable, taking the time to relax and reconnect as a family, explore the wide world, and cherish the romance that still sways between us as a couple.
I think the best part of marriage are those magic years after you’ve been through the rough. Where your love has a maturity you didn’t know was possible in the early days of grand gestures and love bubbles. Those early days are wonderful, but eventually, life grows up. The bubbles fade, the gestures become scarce, and all that’s left are two over-worked, exhausted people trying to figure out how they will make it through the week without either going crazy or going broke.
It’s those moments when you’re standing in the driveway after 15 years, choking back tears as he leaves for a long work trip because you don’t know how you’ll bear it again. Or when you walk into the kitchen, see her washing dishes, and can’t catch your breath because she’s never looked so beautiful. It’s when he’s on his hands and knees beside the bathtub, rinsing the shampoo out of their sticky hair. The sigh after a long week, when a job slipped through the cracks and the dishwasher’s broken, and stress of next month’s bills is piling up. It’s when she has more patience than you, again. Or when he folds all your laundry and puts it away exactly where it’s suppose to go. It’s when you cuddle up to watch a movie together but both fall asleep on the sofa before 8pm, the flirty competition of trying to outdo each other in today’s WOD finally catching up.
It’s knowing which buttons to push to gain the upper hand in an argument, and not knowing what to say after you both insulted each other. And then it’s rolling to the middle when the lights go out, knowing you’re both sorry and that some things are better left unsaid.
You can’t get to the best part in a few months or even a few years. And it isn’t a given. Not everyone makes it this far. It takes riding the swells of life, climbing the shadowy canyon walls, over and over again and coming out the other side hand in hand.
We missed the meaning in it then, when he proposed in Zion, intertwining our hearts at the foot of a glowing red mountain. It was like an omen spoken over our marriage. But it’s not surprising to me now that we’ve spent a lot more of our life together trekking through the dry desert, praying for manna than eating milk and honey in the promised land. We spend far more of our life doing things like cleaning up vomit at 2am than kissing on a breathtaking beach.
And that’s the ticket. That’s when you look across the chaos of the dinner table, you catch his eye, and you smile. Because here in the muddy waters of the life you once dreamed of through rosy glasses, he still sees you. And you still see him. And it’s stunning because here in this wilderness you feel yourself falling in love with the man you married all over again. Only it’s better than the first time. Despite the struggles, the sacrifices, and responsibilities, you’re still the center of each other’s worlds. It’s then you realize all this stuff that vies for your attention and leaves you completely wrung out at the day’s end actually hasn’t left the two of you broken. It’s only broken you in.
True love doesn’t come easy. It tangles, snares, and leaves its mark. Many times we’ve sat there, two hearts laying in pieces at our feet, trying to figure out which ones are his and which ones are mine. And you can pick up all the pieces, but the real question is can you live with the scars? Can you forgive who you both are?
So, when you finally do steal away for a few uninterrupted days in a tropical paradise somewhere, and you really look into each other’s eyes, the depth of your love is more meaningful than you could have ever imagined. You don’t just get a rekindled fire; you get Sinai. You get Zion.
My favorite part of marriage is the one we’re in. It’s the couple we were at the foot of the mountain and on the beach that night; it’s the couple we are today, hustling kids through breakfast and dishes at 6 o’clock this morning. We’re two people that know how to handle the tides of life together; two that have kept each other afloat. I have no doubt there are rough seas ahead, likely many more impossible and unforgiving than what we have already faced. And I trust that God will part those waters, too.
Because the best part of marriage isn’t a euphoric sunset proposal or the reprieve of a dream vacation. It’s the divine intertwine. It’s when you look up from the swirling and find yourself hopelessly caught up in the mystery of two people who’ve chosen a love that lasts. It’s what the very best love stories are made of.
Two Precious Stones 