It’s kind of crazy to think about. It was twenty-six years ago that I sat next to my soon-to-be husband as he recovered from major jaw surgery to correct a bite that was so misaligned only a few of his teeth matched up when he tried to chew. This morning, I’m sitting next to our first born son who is recovering from the same surgery. He’s the same age my husband was and his beautiful fiance is scattering to and fro attending to his every need – and here I sit wondering how on earth enough time has passed that I am now here and she is there?  It’s one of those moments when it’s impossible not to marvel at the unfolding of life, this beautiful circular rhythm that reminds me, no matter how much changes in the world around us, this cycle of learning, growing, and teaching promises a today that matters and a tomorrow where you are sure to see the imprint of your yesterday.

My husband Joe and I will celebrate our twenty-fifth anniversary in a few months. Nursing him through his surgery all those years ago was, I now realize, a pilot of sorts for the seasons to come. We went into the surgery with the kind of blissful naivety we entered into marriage. We knew, theoretically anyway, it was a major operation and would require several weeks of healing. We didn’t know the immense amount of patience that would be required and the need to continually call upon our faith to walk through the more difficult days.

When Joe’s six-hour surgery was complete and his parents and I were finally able to see him in recovery, we were shocked at the sight before us. It’s a vision that is still as clear today as it was then, for both me and my mother-in-law. His face was nearly unrecognizable, the swelling had taken over immediately and he had tubes on either side of his face draining the buildup of blood and fluids. It was this unforgettable moment of, “Oh, ok. This is serious.” I remember feeling panic stricken that this person I loved so deeply was suddenly so fragile and there was little I could do to relieve his pain and discomfort.

Although I couldn’t appreciate this at the time, it would foreshadow all the moments we would face together when life threw us a curveball and we would have to figure out how to support one another as we healed. It’s always this careful balance of giving and receiving love, knowing one another’s limits and pushing your own to care for this person you love more than you could ever love yourself.

 As I watched my future daughter-in-law struggle with seeing her best friend in pain and do all she could to comfort him, I wondered if Joe’s parents saw as solid a partnership between me and their son as I see between my son and his bride. It’s not all that common for such a young couple to be challenged with a situation that places one so definitively in the role of caretaker and the other in this place of vulnerable dependence. They may not fully understand it now, but they are building something as strong as it is beautiful. The beauty is in their love and the strength in the faith they have woven into their friendship and lives.

I remember, when traveling back and forth to the hospital during Joe’s recovery, his parents would always pray the rosary and I would join them. On the way to the hospital this morning for our son, we did the same. We had chosen the best surgeon, the best hospital, done all we could to prep for surgery, but the peace we were searching for would only come with our decision to place him in God’s hands. We learn, we grow, we teach. My in-law’s decision to place their son in God’s hands that day mattered. And in their tomorrow, they see the imprint of that choice not only in their own lives, but in those that learned from them. 

It hasn’t been twenty-five years of perfection, at least not by the world’s definition. The challenges have been real and our faith has continually been tested. There was a stretch of years where my anxiety left me nearly unrecognizable and the building of our family came with more vulnerability and grief than I ever expected to face. The perfection is in our commitment to one another through it all and the deepening of our faith with each passing day.

When we got the ok to visit our son in recovery, we weren’t sitting by his side for more than five minutes before I turned to Joe and found him with his head between his knees. It’s not an uncommon sight when any sort of medical procedure is involved – or being discussed – or referenced in any way. He picked his head up just enough to reveal the ever-recognizable pale complexion and a forehead covered in sweat. I didn’t even have a chance to react before I heard the recovery nurse shout, “Oh no you don’t! I’ve already had two dads hit the floor this week. You will not be the third!” At which point she swiftly grabbed a cool face cloth, slapped it on the back of his neck, popped open a can of ginger ale and escorted my husband right back to the waiting room. Oh how I love that man. The scene brought me right back to the day our son was born when he saw the size of the epidural needle, nearly hit the ground, and suddenly everyone was more worried about the nauseous guy in the corner than the one getting the needle inserted into her spine.

We give. We take. We learn. We grow. We teach. I’m grateful. Incredibly so – for all he’s given through the years, all he’s allowed me to take, the lessons I’ve learned in his example, the growth I’ve found in myself when I am patient enough to listen. I hope for twenty-five more years and twenty-five more after that. And I pray our love for one another and our commitment to our faith teaches our children all they need to keep the circle going.