June 29, 2025–24 Years
In early 1997, I was eighteen and sitting in a small auditorium when I first really noticed her. She was seated at a piano, playing a song she’d written. Over the melody, she recited a passage most of us had heard a dozen times, but something about the way she paired the two made me stop and listen.
That night I wrote in my journal, “There’s something special about that girl.”
We hadn’t even been on a date. In fact, she had a strict rule: she would never marry a “high school boy.” I used to joke that she’d made a list of fifty guys she’d consider marrying, and I didn’t even make the cut.
I was a loud, often socially awkward kid in high school. I got pulled into a group of friends she was part of, but I rarely ventured outside my comfort zone to make new connections.
Right after graduation, I did manage to go on a date with her, but only because I’d exhausted a bunch of other options first. I already knew how she felt about high school boys.
After that day in the auditorium and our first date, life moved forward. I eventually went to Guatemala, and she went away for school.
And then, as it often does, timing did something curious.
I’d just come home from two years away. On a whim, I decided to track her down. She had just broken up with someone. She was transferring to the same university I was attending. I asked her out, not knowing any of that.
She said yes.
Our second date, more than two years after the first, was at Lagoon, a local theme park. It was July-in-Utah hot, and out of nowhere, it started pouring. A full-on, the-sky-is-falling kind of storm. And instead of running for cover, she just laughed.
We weren’t even at the hand-holding, awkward-kiss stage of the relationship yet. It was only our second date. But I remember watching her in the rain and thinking, I hope I get to marry that girl someday.
Over the next few months, we went on a few more dates. One Sunday afternoon as fall approached, I asked her to go on a walk. I told her how I felt about her. She didn’t feel the same.
We stopped spending time together. I tried to move on.
But something changed.
A few months later, we were sitting together again — this time talking until past 2:30 in the morning. Deep, existential stuff.
The next day, we got engaged.
Technically, I think we went on maybe five dates before I asked her to marry me. I had already spent years chasing things I thought I was supposed to be chasing. But then I paused. I paid attention to what mattered.
And I saw her.
Not just the girl at the piano. Not just the girl in the rain. I saw the person I wanted to spend the rest of forever with, figuring out this crazy thing called life.
We were married on a perfectly pristine day in June 2001. I still remember waiting for her to change after the ceremony, eager, anxious, excited to walk out and meet our family. When our eyes met, I had this completely overwhelming feeling — the kind that would definitely cue violins and a Hallmark choir: I didn’t know love could feel like this. It was so much bigger than I had imagined.
That moment, so simple and unassuming, has returned to me again and again. Especially during the hard seasons. When we’re tired. When life is complicated. When the noise makes it hard to hear each other clearly.
Over the last 24 years, I’ve forgotten how to pause.
I’m learning again.
I’ve slowed down recently. It doesn’t feel natural yet, but I’m working on it; slowing my pace and posture on things. And because of that, I’ve started to see more about myself, our kids, and the shape of our life together.
A few weeks ago, I got home late from a long work trip and just stood in the kitchen for a moment, watching her move around the house she’s filled with so much light. And I thought, how did I get so lucky?
We’ve lived nearly a quarter century in this life we’ve been building together. It’s far from perfect, but it’s honest, steady, and filled with love and laughter.
Sometimes, I watch my wife sit outside with her eyes closed, meditating, as the early morning sun warms her face.
She’s taught me, especially of late, that pausing is a lifeline.
It’s how you remember what you love before it slips into the background. It’s what turns survival into memory. Years into meaning.
And today, I’m letting that pause be more than enough.
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