By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
When I was a little girl imagining my future, I always saw myself getting married. Oddly enough, I didn’t give it nearly as much thought as you might expect. As someone who now delights in fawning over wedding details, you would think I’d had mine planned out well before my first day of kindergarten. But looking back, I’m surprised to admit I didn’t really consider it all that much. I didn’t even think much about my future husband. Of course, there were the obvious qualities—a kind heart and a handsome face would be lovely—but beyond that, I didn’t spend much time pondering the kind of man I would end up with. Maybe it was because I saw marriage as a very grown-up thing, and adulthood felt eons away from my childhood. Perhaps that’s why I never gave notable thought to the details of marriage when I was young.
This past week, my husband and I celebrated twelve years of marriage. That feels significant. A dozen years sounds like a long stretch of time. My mind compares it to the span from first grade through high school—and that certainly feels like a lifetime. But when I think back to where I was just twelve years ago, it doesn’t seem so long at all. I know there’s a vast difference between the babehood of elementary school and the angst of an older teenager, but if I’m honest, in the twelve years of marriage, I too have done a great deal of growing up. My husband would say the same.
We were older when we married—32 and 34. I had never reached the point of panicking about spinsterhood (not that the concept really exists anymore). I’m actually surprised I didn’t worry, as I’m naturally prone to anxiety over just about anything. But for whatever reason, in my mind, the image of myself as a wife always remained steady and unwavering. I wouldn’t call myself prophetic, but I carried an inexplicable certainty that marriage was in my future.
If ever I doubted that the Good Lord knows what He’s doing, the timing of my marriage is proof enough. “Doubt” isn’t really the right word, as I know He knows. But when I don’t know, it makes His being the only Knower a little difficult for me. Still, I’m grateful for His timing. My husband and I both agree that if we had met much earlier, it probably wouldn’t have worked out. Neither of us was ready—mentally or emotionally. Maybe a few years earlier could have worked, but our early twenties (the age, not the decade) would not have been ideal. He was a sailor. I was…well, I’m not sure what descriptor fits, but I wasn’t in a wife-mindset yet. To be clear, I wasn’t wild and reckless—I’m not nearly bold enough for that—but “wifedom” was still a distant idea.
When we finally met, we were young enough to still want a good time but also mature enough to feel the puzzle pieces of a future falling into place. It didn’t take long before we gave them the final, gentle taps to lock them in.
Though I hadn’t thought much about my wedding or my husband as a little girl, I did, in my early teens, make a list of what I wanted in a husband. Some of it was trivial: I wanted him to be taller than me (which is no small feat, since I’m tall). I wanted him to have a short last name, because I’d already spent years writing a long surname in handwriting I can barely tolerate. Why add more of it? But there were also more meaningful desires: I wanted him to be kind and gentle. I wanted him to embrace all my many flaws, even the ones I can’t see past myself.
Interestingly enough, my husband fits nearly everything on that list. He has the kind of heart I prayed for—and qualities I wish I had myself. But our marriage also holds blessings I could never have been wise enough to put on paper at thirteen. We’ve grown, and continue to grow, in ways we never expected. We make each other better. We challenge one another. Where I am lacking, he is strong. Where I have a forte, it may not be his cup of tea.
From the very beginning, there’s been an invaluable comfort in our relationship. I once heard someone describe how you know when you’ve found “the one.” The answer was simple: “You’ll know they’re the one when they feel like home.” How blessed I am to feel that with my husband—to feel warm, loved, and unconditionally accepted, even at my worst. Do we disagree? Of course. Sometimes fervently. But even then, he feels like home. And as a small, joyful bonus, the name on the mailbox now has only four letters.
Prose and Possibilities 