Embarking On “The Great Perhaps”

Embarking On “The Great Perhaps”

Packing this week for our move to a solar-powered farm in Wisconsin, I discovered a clear freezer bag stuffed with emails to and from my long-distance fiance; emails that I had printed off in my dorm room before I graduated from college.

I remember the day I printed them off. I knew my student account was going to be deactivated, and I didn’t want to lose that priceless cyber exchange.

However, the act of printing them out seemed unnecessary. I never believed I could forget the emails. I had, of course, committed them to memory by rereading them countless times.

But memory, as we all know, is a fickle thing, even if a heart remains true.

Seven years after I sent those emails—and received them—I knelt on the carpet before a plastic tote, read the neat black font composing our modern love letters, and realized I’d forgotten every single one.

We’d written out lists of what we loved about each other, and I found myself laughing at how schmaltzy we were back then (“I love that you rub my feet with minty lotion”), or how some things haven’t changed (“I love how you worry that I don’t wash the pesticides from my fruit”).

I won’t lie: a part of me mourned that young couple who had a whole galaxy of life around them, and yet acted as if they were the only planets in orbit.

I wondered, holding that email, how we could start afresh again, focus on each other again, even after two children and six years of marriage.

So, on our way out for “date night” last night, which consisted of Blue Coast burritos, groceries, and then a Starbucks pit stop, I asked my husband what were his best and worst moments.

He looked at me quizzically, surely wondering what thought process had conjured the question. And I had to give credit where credit was do.

It came from the book I was reading, Looking For Alaska, by John Green: the gritty young adult author who also wrote the maudlin blockbuster, The Fault In Our Stars.

Tapping the steering wheel, my husband contemplated my question. He said that he loved our wedding, which surprised me, since it was one of the longest (and sometimes most stressful) days of our lives.

He said he loved snorkeling when we were on our honeymoon in Kauai. He loved (and hated) the day that he missed the trophy White Tail with his bow.

He told me the hardest day of his life, and then I shared the best day of mine, which—when I thought about it—was actually the same day as his: our wedding day, which took place on September 27, 2008, on a horse ranch in Tennessee.

“I loved giving birth, too,” I said. “Though I enjoyed this second birth better than the first one.”

My husband shook his head. “I only enjoyed it once it was over, and I knew everyone was okay. Isn’t it crazy how the worst days are often also the best?”

I thought about it a moment and knew that what he said was true.

Just as my best day consisted of a collage of moments, my worst day was hard to define.

It was either the day my friend died from a heart attack at twenty-one, or the day—almost a year ago now—that we miscarried at ten weeks.

“You were there for both,” I said, glancing over at him.

His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, though his smile remained bittersweet. “That’s marriage,” he said. “We’re there for the best and worst moments.”

Right now, as I’m typing this, it’s our anniversary.

The washer is madly spinning a load of whites; my toddler is singing the Veggie Tales theme song during naptime; my newborn is stretched across the nursing pillow in my lap; the kitchen table has a centerpiece of Scotch bubble wrap we purchased last night at Sam’s to wrap our wedding china that we never use; a Strawberry Short Cake princess dress is draped over the African drum we’ve turned into a coffee table, along with a black fedora that makes our toddler look a little like a tyrant, despite her wealth of loose, dark-blond curls.

My husband should be returning soon with another load of boxes so we can continue boxing up the contents of our six years of conjoined life.

Tears distort the fall-gold leaves falling outside, and my heart beats high inside my ribs, a ballad of both dread and anticipation.

I know that the next step of our marriage journey is going to be a beautiful, messy collage of best and worst moments, but I cannot imagine anyone else I’d like to take the journey with, embarking into what author John Green calls “The Great Perhaps” . . . side by side.

Did you ever embark on a major life change that left you apprehensive and excited at the same time? Please share!