A Moment that Defines a Marriage

I’ve been pondering what to write in this post for a while now—ever since I realized a certain milestone date was going to fall on the day of the week when I usually hit publish. And yet here I am, a few days before my 25^th wedding anniversary, struggling to find a way to start.

On one hand, I love my husband and the life we’ve shared these last 2 ½ decades. On the other hand, I don’t write about marriage very often and trying to come up with a fitting tribute for this momentous occasion feels a bit overwhelming.

Should it be easier than this? Judging by other people’s gushy anniversary posts on social media, maybe so. Judging by the current season of life we’re in, perhaps not.

I vaguely remember my parents’ 25^th anniversary. I was 12 at the time. We threw a party for them and invited people from church to join us.

As I recall, the party was organized mostly by my 15-year-old sister and included some sort of talent show put on by my siblings and me. Although I have no idea what “talent” I displayed, I do remember that we gave my parents a silver pitcher to commemorate the occasion.

Looking back, my mom and dad seemed so old to me. But they were barely into their 50s, just a few years older than I am now.

When they celebrated their 25^th, they were thick in the middle of rearing seven children ranging in age from 7 to 23. Extended family lived far away, and life as we knew it primarily revolved around home, church and school.

In comparison, Randy and I find ourselves thick in the middle of the Sandwich Generation. We’re raising two teenage daughters while also managing the affairs of both my parents, who now reside in a nursing home that’s just a short drive from our home.

In recent months, conversations around our house have been dominated by one parental health crisis after another. It’s been a roller-coaster ride for sure, at times exhausting and stressful, and always with an undercurrent of sadness.

We don’t want to put other parts of our lives on hold, though, so we do our best to stay present for them. Which brings me back to my indecision about how write this blog post.

I could have attempted to list 25 things I’ve learned about marriage over the years, 25 special memories from the last 2 ½ decades or 25 things I love about Randy. Instead, what keeps coming to mind is something that happened just a few weeks ago.

My dad was in the hospital with pneumonia. He was admitted on a Wednesday evening, and I had been visiting several him times a day since then. His condition changed frequently, sometimes even during the same visit, so I never knew what to expect when I got to his room.

On Sunday afternoon, Randy came to the hospital with me. My dad wasn’t too coherent when we arrived, so we left the room for about 20 minutes while the staff tended to his needs. When we got back, he was alert and gobbling down his lunch.

He was weak and didn’t have much energy for talking, so after he finished eating, I tried to ascertain if he wanted us to stay and visit or leave so he could sleep. At one point, I jokingly suggested that Randy could entertain him by singing for him.

My dear husband, who sings at home and in the car but definitely not for an audience, laughed and pointed out that he wasn’t a good singer.

“That’s not what I heard,” my dad replied.

“Well, Dad, do you want me to sing for you?” I asked, hoping to spare Randy from a potentially awkward situation.

“No, both of you,” he answered with all the energy he could muster.

My dad doesn’t normally ask for much, but this response was especially unexpected. And of course, there was no way we could turn him down. When I asked what he wanted us to sing, he requested “O Holy Night”—a favorite that has “evoked emotion” in him in the past.

I didn’t trust myself to remember all the lyrics, so Randy found Lauren Daigle’s version on YouTube to serve as our accompaniment. I closed the door to my dad’s room, and we sat there on either side of his hospital bed and sang “O Holy Night” together.

Today, that scene is what comes to mind when I think of our 25 years together.

Randy hates hospitals, yet he was there with me that day. He doesn’t perform in public, but he didn’t miss a beat when my dad said he wanted us to sing for him. And when I forgot the words and was overcome with emotion myself, Randy carried the tune until the song was over.

It’s altogether possible that my dad doesn’t even remember this moment. I do, though, and I won’t soon forget it.

I don’t need a big party or a commemorative silver pitcher to remind me why I love Randy or why our marriage has made it this far. What happened in that hospital room is all the proof I need that the handsome young man I married 25 years ago is still the only one for me.

♥ Lois