In honor of all the hearts floating around these days, I am re-posting a piece I wrote about eight months ago. We were just returning to Asia after a glorious six weeks in the U.S. with family and friends, good bread and better coffee, and I was wrestling with what love looks like, in a marriage, in a work, in a life, over the long-haul–
when new and easy, pretty and exciting begins the slow fade.
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The greatest wedding I ever attended was of two people that were already married.
Not kidding.
We had some 40-something neighbors a few years back who had gotten married young and fast. A baby was on the way and so the Catholic wedding was sidestepped by a quick trip to a local judge.
And 12 years and three kids later, they decided to get married. Again.
And it wasn’t an afterthought wedding, either. It was full-on white dress and big cake and outside tent and stretch limousine. There was a dj blaring and a photographer snapping and a bartender pouring.
They must have spent a small fortune.
But what I remember the most about that day happened during the ceremony. The priest stood before this middle-aged couple, and he told the crowd something like this,
“Most people say, ‘I Do,’ before they know exactly what they are getting into. They can’t really know what marriage will be like, but they have faith and hope that it will turn out in the end. But, today, you get to witness something really special, really unique. Because Mike and Abbey are saying, ‘I Do, Still.’ They are committing to a marriage with the full knowledge of what marriage is really like.”
And it was incredible to watch them recite their vows about not leaving, when you knew they had lived the gritty battles of arguments before bed and struggles with money and sleepless baby-nights. Mike and Abbey had held jobs and kids’ hands and a home together, and they had walked through 12 years of soccer games and dirty dishes and firsts, and lasts. And here they were, a tuxedo buttoned tight and laugh lines around the eyes and miles traveled on the same trail.
And after more than a decade of real marriage, they were choosing to still say, “I Do.”
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I write this from the front porch of a rental house in Kure Beach, North Carolina. My heart is full from six weeks of drinking in Community and connecting with family. We’ve been spoiled, honestly, by friends who have treated us and family who have served us and people who have given abundantly. Our kids have jumped on trampolines and surfed waves and played driveway basketball, and we’ve watched a bit of a resurrection take place in the spirit of our son. It’s been fresh air to speak the language and understand the systems and feel known.
But tomorrow, we leave the beach and head to a hotel, where we will board a plane to stay in another hotel, from where we will pack three kids and seven suitcases onto a plane headed for SE Asia in 4 days. And I would be lying to say that I don’t have mixed emotions about that.
Because when we boarded the plane last time, it was with high ideals and lofty dreams of adventure. We set off with great expectations and strong calling and the drive for a better Story. We didn’t know what to expect of living in a foreign country with small children, learning a language, integrating into an international community, or fighting human trafficking– but it didn’t matter, because in our best shot at faith and obedience, we boarded that sky-rocket, and left the familiar.
But, now? Now, we do know. Fully. We are Mike and Abbey, planning a wedding ceremony, a decade into marriage already. We know what living in SE Asia has been like for our family, for our kids. We know the stress that comes from the language barrier, and we understand the chasms of culture we may never really be able to hurdle. We know the stress from driving, the weight of the sexual darkness, and the spiritual struggles we fight there. And it is hard. And gritty.
And far-from glamorous.
And, honestly, there’s a big part of us {the majority, actually} that doesn’t want to ‘walk the aisle’ on Wednesday, that doesn’t want to choose the wedding ceremony, 12 years in. Trust me, if there was an escape hatch, we’d probably take it.
But, there isn’t.
And, so, we are– getting on that plane.
We are, choosing. We are, leaving home. We are, jumping again.
And maybe there are all kinds of obediences and followings and stories when it comes to fleshing out this faith, this journey of ours around the sun. Perhaps in some circumstances the greatest gift of hope you make is leaving it all behind, while in other chapters the sacrifice is in the staying, anyway.
But, I think I am learning {again} that the point is not mostly about the specific action, the set-in-stone formula, the cookie-cutter faith. I wonder if what He really wants from each of us is
a walk down the aisle
and a heart that says to him,
even several seasons in,
I still do.
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Who, or what, have you been still saying ‘I Do’ to lately? What does loving well look like in your world this week?
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Gorgeous original art above by Amy Lee Weeks from HiddeninHeartScriptureArt.
LauraParkerBlog.com.
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