SELECTED WORKS

Marriage asks something beautiful of us.

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Not certainty, but curiosity.

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It asks us to love another human being deeply enough that we never stop discovering them.

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We often imagine marriage as a promise to love the person standing before us today.

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Perhaps it is something deeper.

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A promise to keep meeting the person they will become.

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Because no one remains who they are on their wedding day.

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Life will surprise you. Break your heart open. Humble you. It will ask you to let go of who you thought you were more than once. The person you wake beside twenty years from now will not be the person standing beside you today.

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What a miracle that is.

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Your beloved is not a fixed landscape, but an entire garden. One that will bloom in ways you never expected. Water it. Tend to it. But never mistake tending for directing. Trust it to grow. Let it have its seasons. And while your beloved’s garden reaches toward the sun, let your own grow beside it—tended and wild.

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May your love never become so certain that it loses its sense of wonder. May you remain students of one another. May you leave room for the mystery.

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May your love make it safe to change. To follow what is true. To become more fully yourselves. Not despite marriage. Because of it.

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And on that morning, twenty years from now, when you wake beside each other, may you find each other's hand beneath the covers and not be able to believe your luck.

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I wish you not only love.

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I wish you a garden, tended and wild.