When You Forget Your Anniversary

Between church, play dates for the kids, and a music rehearsal today, we forgot to look at the calendar.  If we had paused to register the date, Dave and I would have realized it was June 12 and that 18 years ago we came together in a little vintage church on the grounds of Living History Farms in Iowa.  We might have sat close on the couch and talked about that warm wedding day when we rode off down the lane in a horse-drawn carraige, or the romantic honeymoon on Mackinac Island in Michigan.  We might have reminisced  about our first, and least favorite, year of marriage, or about all the history between us since that blessed day we met in a college dorm room.

But, no, we plain forgot.  Until 9:00 tonight.  He was on the phone with his mom when I mouthed the words, "Happy Anniversary" with a sheepish grin.  He quickly said bye to his mom, and we went to Flapdoodles for ice cream and some humble apologies to each other. 

But the truth is, it didn't bother us.  After 18 years, not much suprises us, particularly forgetfulness.  We shrugged it off and laughed along with our kids.  For us, what runs deeper than any dutiful acknowlegement of a date is this solid rock of a foundation we've carefully laid.  Some years it has cracked under strain.  But those fractures have been tended to; not left to widen and threaten the integrity.  Signs of the repair job still remain like small scars that remind us to be more careful stewards of this mysterious oneness called marriage.

When we returned home, our stomachs full of sweetness and our hearts blessed by a spontaneous date, we wandered outside in the cool twilight.  I pulled this man I love close and we looked straight up into the dusky sky.  Just emerging like small diamonds was the faithful Big Dipper, tipping earthward, pouring out something invisible and forever.