Six months ago I put on a white dress and a ridiculously high pair of heels. I walked down the aisle with my father wearing my mother's veil. I met Dave at the altar, and we read the vows we had written to each other in front of nearly 300 of our friends and family. I walked back out of the auditorium with Dave as "First Kiss" from The Last of Mohicans played over the sound of clapping. We got out to the hallway and hugged each other until our attendants followed, shrieking with happiness for us. I remember looking down at my new ring through the happy tears and spluttering, "Oh my God, it really happened!" There was joy, such an awesome amount of joy, in those first five minutes.
But there was no magic.
Let me explain.
I was raised in the church by Christian parents and graduated from a Christian high school. At every moment in my young life, the wonder of marriage was on a sacred pedestal. Living together with someone "in sin" was the unthinkable. And looking at those who lived together and those who were married there was that one major difference: the wedding. Something transcendent must happen at the altar, like invisible cherubs sprinkling extra doses of Fidelity and Happiness onto our heads. And so I walked down the aisle at my wedding expecting the cherubs.
I climbed the stairs on-stage, said my vows, poured the unity sand, exchanged the rings, and was pronounced. It was a great and happy moment. But in the midst of my incredible joy was a twinge of surprise: the cherubs had never showed. Outside the auditorium doors, crying and laughing and yelling, I looked at my ring and then up to my handsome new husband. And he still just felt like my boyfriend Dave, he didn't feel like my husband yet. I thought, maybe I mistimed the cherubs, perhaps they'll come after tonight, the "two shall become one" deal like in Genesis. So Dave and I hooked arms and walked into the reception, a beautiful amazing party simply celebrating us.
We left our party (you know what happened), morning came and we opened our presents at my father's house surrounded by our loving family. Two days later we drove to Florida and had the best two weeks of our lives. Six months after that I sit here and write this - and I'm still waiting for the cherubs. I should've known better. After all, my parents made the same promise and I saw first-hand what has happened to millions of people; that magical promise I believed in as a child failed.
But I repeat: there is no magic.
That's not a slur to my wedding day, because it was perfect. And it's not a grudge against my husband, because I love him and love what we have. A wedding is an amazing thing, and magical in the sense that, my God, six months of work is actually coming together and happening. And the fun and the joy and the laughter is incredibly pure and loud on that day. But the vows themselves are not a magic spell. And most importantly, your wedding is not enough to keep you married forever.
What I'm saying is that your vows are not magic, they're just an example of what you are going to promise to this person every day for the rest of your lives. Do not expect the wedding to suddenly unite you body, mind and soul. Do not assume that the "cleave" God commands in Genesis is effortless. Don't wait for magic to make it happen. This is the person you love dearest of all - fight for him, fight for her.
When I told people that I was engaged, everyone considered that to be permission to give me their marriage advice. I got a lot of awful and weird advice as a result from people in relationships I did NOT want to replicate ("Marriage is a business contract, that's all it is - so she does her thing, I do mine, and we just share the same bank account"). However, on the airplane to Dallas last summer, I sat next to an older couple that was still teasing each other after at least 40 years of marriage. Enchanted, I asked how they made it work for so many years. The husband was quiet for a moment, and then said, "It takes grit. It's hard, but it's a very good thing." As the months went on, I continued to get bad advice, but the marriages that I admired would always tell me basically the same thing: "It takes grit."
Though the task is daunting, it's satisfying knowing you don't have to leave it up to the magic of cherubs. Staying married simply means you have to be a scrapper, you have to have that 'grit', that 'firmness of mind and spirit and unyielding courage'. And when in battle you take those hills and reach the top together, sweating and exhilarated, it's another victory won and it's worth every minute of the struggle.
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