The Anniversary That Wasn't Supposed to Happen

Sixteen years. That's how long it's been since he quietly eased into my life, and he's been there ever since. 

Back then, they said we couldn't make it. 

"Too young." 

"Two firstborns can't get married."

 "You're throwing your lives away."

But he's not the kind of guy that listens to "can't". He responds to jeers of "Easy out!" by hitting the ball out of the park. When life knocks him to the ground, he springs up with fists flying. When boulders block the path he's taking, he turns them into stepping stones. 

Tell him he can't do something, and he'll die trying. 

Fourteen years. That's how long it's been since we ignored the unsolicited advice of many and hearkened to the counsel of the precious few that loved us best. When the Author of Love itself inscribed it into our hearts in indelible ink alongside, "I can do all things through Christ Who strengthens me." 

The ink hasn't blurred. It hasn't faded. Its scrawl has remained constant through multiple washings of tears and numerous incinerating trials. 

We've laughed and wept together. We've buried loved ones and birthed four. We've fallen in the dust, and together we've dusted ourselves off and kept going. We've enjoyed successes, and we've grieved failures. We've held hands on rose-strewn pathways, and we've held each other through the darkest storms. 

And, a long time ago, we stopped listening to "can't". When you tell us we can't do something, we'll die trying. 

Because the Author's footnote says, "'Til death do us part."