Twenty-Five.

Twenty-five.

When we were married in that little chapel in the hills of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, we didn't see all of the twists and turns in front of us. 

We just knew there was a road. 

We were content to drive it as long as we could — avoiding as many road hazards and potholes as we could.

It was a warm mid-September afternoon when we said 'I do.' We made the commitment to each other then and there we were attempting to be each other's "one." 

The past 25 years have been an adventure in discovering the ancient command of "two becoming one" actually takes three. 

It's not the magic number. 

It's a supernatural mystery. You. Me. The Creator of Heaven and Earth.

This isn't "love" as presented in fairy tales and television sitcoms, is it?

The tangible video evidence of our wedding day may be a silent film, but the audible parts include lyrical proclamations from your favorite Canadian pop/rock songsmith: "Forever we will be/Together/A family/The more I get to know you/Nothing can compare/With all of my heart you know/I'll always be right there." 

That album track lyric always stood out to me. After all, we were aiming to live an album track life, not a one-hit-wonder single. 

We were now a family. 

Two different people from two different states. Two different ways of looking at the world. Two different sets of opinions. Two different sets of hang-ups and baggage.

A great commitment to The Work of becoming one.

I was very assured of my right-ness. What a foolish thing to think.

The years of commitment we made to one another have sanded down those stupid rough edges. Just as the Creator molds his creation into jars of clay, your love assisted in molding me into something at least resembling what our Creator desires.

There are a million lyrics I could quote for you. I've attempted to write you songs. But becoming one is a complex epic, not a three-chord country radio track.

Tangentially, I'm sorry I didn't tell you of my love for old country music. I promise I didn't trick you, you just caught me in a transitional year. Perhaps if we had been able to contain ourselves and given it more time, that would have emerged. I digress ...

Twenty-five. Halfway to the one where our kids are supposed to throw us a party. 

Our kids. Can you believe it? I don't think we could have on the nineteenth of September two years shy of the dawn of a new millennium. Who knew what the future held on that day? Well, One knew — but certainly none of us on that stage or in the room. Which one of them will plan our party? Which one of them will care for us when we're unable to care for one another?

We did our best. They are blessings. Not in the trite, hashtag kind of way, but actual blessings.

From a tiny one bedroom apartment on Edmondson Pike that cheated us out of several hundred dollars to a duplex on the hill on Cedar Valley Drive with our, um, passionate — and scary — seed-bearing-plant enthusiast neighbors to a duplex on Christopher Court we only had a day to find when we moved north of the Mason-Dixon to a little blue Main-Street-USA house we sometimes wonder if we never should have sold to a quiet neighborhood named for a tree we probably couldn't identify, we've always had a home. 

Not because of the structures, but because two made a commitment to become one.

It's been a hard trip, at times. But God never promises ease, does He?

Not everyone understands us. We're not the popular couple. You don't even remotely care. Like Morticia and Gomez. Sometimes we're the black sheep, but we never wanted to don only lilly-white fleece, anyway. That makes me love you even more.

We are not them. We are us.

Not you plus me — just us.

One.

For twenty-five.

For as many more as He will give to us.