An Old Marriage, a New Home, and a Fond Farewell

Wednesday, May 25, was quite a day.

It was my 31st anniversary of being married to The Hubby.

Thirty-one years!

We were teenagers when we met; we were about 20 when this photo was taken.

There's nothing else in my life I've done for that long of a time: Not living with my parents. Not being a parent. Not living at one address.

It stuns me and humbles me to think of it.

Nobody who is conscious, who is being truthful, can say that being married for 31 years is all chocolates and rainbows. There have been cancer scares and devastating earthquakes and burn wards. There have been periods of tedium, of staleness, of alone-ness.

But there also has been the birth and raising of three spectacularly wonderful children, when The Hubby and I felt like demi-gods: We created THIS! We produced this perfect being!

The Hubby and me, with one of the spectacular children we created, The Boy.

And there have been times when, together, we climbed to mountain tops, huddled in snowstorms, woke to cherry-colored sunrises, flew over canyons, swam with sea turtles, touched prehistoric stones, and shot through Class Four rapids in amazingly tiny kayaks.

I have travelled farther, walked longer, listened more deeply, cried more bitterly, and laughed more heartily with this man than with any other person on Earth.

For the sheer longevity of our relationship, if for no other reason (and there are many other reasons), I salute you, The Hubby.

And thank you for putting up with the dogs.

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As if to underscore that 31 years of marriage is both something to celebrate and something to yawn at, Fate conspired to make May 25 a "non-versary" for us. He had a board meeting, I had a class, and the most time we had together that day was the hour-plus we spent signing mortgage papers.

Yes, we bought a new home.

And no, we aren't vacating our lovely house, with the white picket fence and the 60-plus rose bushes.

We bought a funny, dumpy little house 15 minutes down the freeway. It will be home for Lovely Daughters #1 and #2, when they begin their lives together, working and studying in Los Angeles. They have talked about being housemates together since they were very little girls. Of course, I think they always imagined it would be someplace more glamorous, like San Francisco or New York City.

But nonetheless, this door will soon witness their comings and goings as they attend medical school, go to work, bring in their groceries, welcome guests for dinner, leave for weekend trips, and come back at the end of a long, weary day.

I hope they love their new home.

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And lastly, May 25 was the final day for "The Oprah Winfrey Show."

Like millions of women, I've watched Oprah for years. I wasn't a fan in the early days; back then, her show was sensationalist and silly, like almost every other daytime talk show. But when she realized how powerful, how important, her unique platform was, when she started to use her show to encourage us all to live fuller, truer, more authentic lives, I tuned in.

Some of the episodes left me yawning. I don't share the nation's fascination with the so-called "reality" shows that feature a bunch of shallow and vain people peacocking around in front of the cameras. If those characters were her guests, I didn't tune in. I never really cared for her "Favorite Things" shows--all that shrieking and swooning over a bunch of consumer goods!

But when she interviewed an ordinary person who displayed extraordinary courage and grace, or when she introduced another of her books in Oprah's Book Club, I loved to watch.

And I shared a tiny little connection with her--Oprah and I were born only 18 days apart.

photo: Mars Hill Church Seattle

I will miss you, Capricorn-sister. It's going to be hard to find another person who can ever do what you have done for daytime talk shows.

Best of luck in your future ventures. And I hope May 25 will always be a day you look at with fondness, as May 25 is for me.