Five years ago our evenings were filled with thick damp air as we prayed and talked and clasped hands on a bench before a thorny-rose-bush-encircled-stone labyrinth with all our dreams suspended sweetly and agonizingly in possibility.
After the minutes had gone too quickly by and you had to go back home and I had to go back to my dorm, I would happily tease you to kidnap me insisting that I would be the happiest hostage.
Then, on a wonderfully warm May afternoon, we spoke words that can never be undone by human tongues and gave one another rings. Blessed shackles. Sacramental links in a chain of love and suffering, grace and sacrifice.
We gave ourselves wholly and freely body and soul to have our humanity forged into divinity. In front of God and man, we said I do to one another.
I do to the nights of damn good French cooking and 90’s romcoms and sparkling cocktail-charged conversations. And I do to doing someone else’s sweaty gym laundry and to sitting behind stalled vehicles in the HOV lane on the long commute to a charmless job.
I do to the fear when that tiniest member of our little trinity wavered within me. I do to the joy as he broke forth triumphant and bloody under the resplendent fluorescent lights of the operating room.
I do to evening air thick with newborn wails and damp with breastmilk. And I do to the realization of our dreams in the rapturous blossoming of human life.
I do to all we cannot yet see: to the irritation and the tenderness and the thrill and the boredom and the joy and the grief and the roses and the thorns on this labyrinthine way to eternity.