I used to write love letters to you. I’d sit in my dorm room for hours, penning pages of poems that you’ve apparently kept in a drawer in our bedroom closet ever since. Recently, you mentioned you miss that girl. We laughed because neither of us knew you would turn out to be the sentimental one. And I was thinking, but never said, that the older, more cynical version of me has no idea how to write a love poem anymore.
I look at love differently now. I’m different now. We’ve waded through years of never-before-known territory—sometimes treacherous, often mundane, and once in a while miraculous. There have been times of deep delight and moments of dark danger. We could have crumbled a million times, just packed it up and cut our losses as so many understandably do. Marriage is harder than anyone ever tells you. But we’re still here, together, and happily so. How? Why?
Maybe it’s because of my mom’s prayers that we’ve gotten this far. She didn’t think you were right for me. (She was wrong.) But maybe it’s the love she showed us anyway. Maybe it’s because of the friendship we built first, the fun with which our romance developed. Maybe it’s the lessons we’ve learned from our parent’s mistakes, from watching their successes.
Maybe it’s the time we take apart, the time we spend together. So many nights, we sit in front of the TV and never end up turning it on because we have too much to share, laughing and dreaming until we can’t keep our eyes open and our kids have long put themselves to bed.
Maybe it’s our choice to parent with humor and humility, apologizing when we’re wrong, changing our minds, letting the other lead, and refusing to follow when one of us is veering down the wrong path.
Maybe it’s because I go snowmobiling with you when I hate the snow, and you brought home a dog for me four years ago that you still aren’t sure you want to keep. Maybe it’s the give-and-take, the shifting of weight, the mutual fight for ourselves and each other simultaneously that has helped us grow closer and stronger over the last 20 years.
Maybe it’s because we are committed to God, to something bigger than the two of us. And committed not to hurt each other, not to throw the daggers we know could kill or maim in one stab, the nets that could pin and cage with such ease. We’ve slipped before . . . in weakness, in anger. We’ve hurt one another plenty.
But we have learned how to say, “I’m sorry. Let’s try again.” We can see when we’re fighting just to win some darn thing, to gain an ounce of control in this tango of who does what and when and how much and are we even, and I’m drowning are you? Then suck in a deep breath, pull each other up out of the dark, deep end, and find a way to laugh about the ridiculousness. The brutal truth of it all.
Maybe it’s because we’re lucky. We have privilege and resources. The lack of such luxuries creates massive stressors in a marriage. But we’ve known heartache and loss. We’ve stretched and snapped and been dragged through fires hot enough to burn us to the ground.
But aside from all of this, the truth is . . . it’s because of you. You’re the anchor, the protector. The one who starts the fire to keep us warm, and the one who puts it out to keep us safe. You’re the fixer, the helper, the taker-carer of all things, especially of me.
You’re the talker, the sharer, the one who wants to lay all the feelings on the floor, hash them out, and make sure we both know where we stand, what we need, and if we’re getting it.
You force yourself to laugh along when the kids and I gang up on you, which we have to do in card games, wrestling, snowball fights, and Catan because even with four against one, you’re still always the strongest and smartest. We love you for it (and are always secretly plotting your defeat).
You listen. You try. You plan. You build. You grow. You are intent with your life. With my life. Our life.
It’s you. Thank you.
So even though I’m no longer that girl with an eyebrow ring, writing poetry until 2 a.m., I hope you’ll take this letter in lieu of a poem as my gift to you on our 20th anniversary. Being with you makes me a better person. And while you work hard at everything, I’ve never worked so hard at anything. And now I know that love is not a feeling, it’s an action. You taught me that, and I’m so grateful. Happy anniversary.
by Hannah Carpenter 
by Heather Delaney 
by Jessica Johnston 
