Twenty-five too short years ago today I married my sweetheart. From the beginning, the odds were stacked against us. The previous year I escaped continual physical abuse from my first husband when he abandoned me and our then four-year-old daughter. When I met Brian that fall, I still suffered nightmares and anxiety. But I knew in my heart he was different, a real knight in shining armor. He swept both my daughter and I off our feet. But our troubles were far from over.
My parents didn't like him, but my grandmothers adored him--one went so far as to assert that I ought to, "snap him up." Their vote of confidence was good enough for me. We planned to marry in March. Severe pain in my abdomen sent me to the doctor. The news wasn't good: he said I had seven life threatening tumors and needed emergency surgery, a surgery he couldn't ensure I would survive. Plans were quickly changed and, hours later, we were married in my grandmother's (yes, the same one who said to snap him up!) living room. We spent our "honeymoon" in the hospital.
The tumors turned out to be benign, my life was spared. Later that week I stood in line at our reception.
Our life together has followed the same pattern we started with, times of serious trial and struggle we weren't certain we had the strength to endure--until our love and faith pulled us through--followed by sweet periods of bliss.
I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.
Happy anniversary, Bri. I love you...