Royal Pains

Most Tuesday mornings I volunteer at Meijer Garden (http://www.meijergardens.org/), a really lovely hub where horticulture, fine arts, and education come together to play. It’s one of West Michigan’s best features, and I’m proud to be a (very small) part of the work that’s done there.

My job is as a bus buddy. Bus buddies meet the groups of school children who come to visit and/or participate in one of our many educational programs. Bus buddies hop on the buses as they pull in, remind the kids to use walking feet and inside voices and to NEVER EVER EVER climb on the statues, and then get the kids off the buses and to their destinations in an orderly fashion.

On the good days, it’s a simple job. On the good days, the teachers are organized and have remembered name tags and paperwork and payment and have organized all the lunches into boxes or baskets, and the chaperones listen to directions and pay attention to the kids instead of spending all of their time looking at their phones. On the good days, the weather is beautiful and the buses are well spaced and arrive as scheduled.

Of course, there are no perfect days. As bus buddies, we are used to all the things that don’t go as well as we would like them to, and we work around them. It’s our job. I’ll be the first to admit that I take the job a little too seriously and that I can get frustrated with some of the bumps, but I also try very hard not to let my irritation show with the kids, parents, and teachers. I want Meijer Garden to be a happy place for everyone.

Bus buddies generally work in teams of three, but for some reason Tuesdays are hard to fill, so Tuesdays have been handled by a two-person team. Lately I’ve worked with Susan, who might be my all-time favorite coworker in this job. We talk things over and know the plan, but we both know what to do and when to do it and have no problem scrapping the plan if necessary.

Some days, two bus buddies are not enough, even though we are really good. Fortunately, Rita is a trained bus buddy who works the information desk on Tuesdays, and she’s generally available to come out and help us over the hump.

A few months ago my dad mentioned that the king and queen of the Netherlands would be visiting West Michigan, and that they would make a stop at Meijer Garden. He thought about getting an invite or a ticket for himself but thought them a bit pricey. He wondered if, as a volunteer, I would be invited or might get a glimpse. I chuckled at the thought of me, a lowly bus buddy, amid the glitterati of West Michigan celebs and millionaires. This ain’t communion; it’s PR and politics. I knew I wouldn’t be invited, and I didn’t really give it a second thought.

One Tuesday a team of security people were onsite in preparation for the visit, reminding me that it must be coming up. That’s when I found out what lots of people already knew: the royals would be there the next Tuesday.

I knew that would mean tight security and changes in some of our procedures, but I wasn’t too worried. We were getting toward the end of the school year, so we had fewer and fewer groups, and I figured any groups would be scheduled to avoid a collision with the king and queen.

Then I got the schedule for school groups. Four large groups were scheduled to arrive all at EXACTLY the same time. We were expecting about 600 kids and chaperones at 9:45 and we wouldn’t be able to use about half of our usual drop-off space, couldn’t use our usual gathering spaces, had to bring the kids in through different doors, had to relocate all their lunches—the list of hoops was long.

I was not amused. In fact, I would have to say I was seriously pissed off. For the first time at the garden, I felt abused as a volunteer. I vented to anyone who would sit still: Bill (multiple times), my kids, my boss, my pastor. Such a schedule would have been chaos on a good day; what would it be like when we had to dance around the royals?

But the venting must have done some good, because that Tuesday morning I woke up a new woman. All my grumpiness had disappeared and I embraced my inner fangirl. I put on my freshly washed uniform shirt with pride, and although I took no more pains with my hair than usual (pony tail), I did put on a little lipstick and my orange jacket, since you never know when you might get picked up on some cameraman’s B roll. I reviewed the words of the Dutch national anthem and did just a little bit of research into the king and queen. I was ready for whatever came.

We were blessed with perfect weather. I got there early, and Jess, the staff person in charge of school groups, was already setting up. Then Rita and Susan showed up, and another bus buddy Rita had impressed into service. A few additional paid staff were on hand as well, and a bored docent who wanted to be part of the action wandered out, looking for something to do. I attempted to teach them a little Dutch while we prepared, demonstrating the proper amount of spit needed for each word.  

Then the buses began to arrive—10 total—and we used every single person we had. I can’t say it wasn’t chaotic, because it always is when you’re dealing with first graders (plus teachers, chaperones, and four times the normal number of greeters), but we managed to work around the media and the Secret Service and the Dutch ambassador and get everyone (and their lunches) where they needed to go.

After we got everything put away and my work was done, I loitered a bit, watching the wealthy, the politicians, and local celebrities arrive. I debated waiting until the royals arrived so I might catch a glimpse. I probably should have stayed…just to say I did. But decided to make my way out of there while I still could. Give the rest of the rubberneckers a chance.

It had been a great day, and a glimpse of royalty would not have changed or even enhanced that. Sometimes the preparation is more fun than the party. And some days I’m smart enough to realize it. 

The Plumber

A few years ago I heard a story of recent immigrants to the United States who dumbfounded at the sight of spoiled food.  In the impoverished country of their birth, they had never seen such a thing happen. Only when they moved to the United States did they learn it was possible for food to go bad.  

I think of this every time I notice something fuzzy on a leftover or when my nose tells me there is something rotten in the potato bin. Admittedly, part of it is that I’m a cheapskate and I hate to waste money. But I do genuinely want to honor the earth and the food it provides, and I also know that someone, somewhere, would be grateful for the scraps from my table.

So when I remembered we had a few chicken breasts in the fridge, I was optimistic, even though I was pretty sure they were past their prime. They did not pass the smell test, but after I rinsed them they seemed like they might be okay. I put them in the crock pot on low for a few hours, hoping that whatever nasty thing was growing on them could be cooked out. Even as they were cooking they didn’t smell right, so I was increasingly leaning toward tossing them.

Not quite ready to give up, I took a bite and spit it out immediately. Nope. Not gonna do it.

I turned on the disposal and flushed the chicken down. Then, unexpectedly, I could hear the sink start to fill, and then bits of chicken started coming back up. I turned off the disposal; the water had definitely stopped draining. Shoot.

I grabbed the plunger and went at it. The water stayed put, milky from the bits of chicken floating about. Our home is blessed with pipes with couplings that can be easily removed to check for blockage. I put a pan underneath the sink and began to disassemble, but the force of the water was greater than anticipated, and the warm chicken soup went everywhere inside the cabinet, and a great deal of it on me as well.

The trap was clear. I pulled off a few more pieces; everything checked out. I took a knife and poked at the piece of pipe that disappeared into the wall: nothing. I reassembled the pipes and ran more water. The sink filled again.

At least three more times I disassembled, cleaned out what I could, and put the thing back together, with the same results. When Bill came home after a long, hard day, he was greeted with a mess in the kitchen and a wife who was more than a little upset. Bill thinks like an engineer and often can fix things that I can’t, but he, too, was unable to find the blockage.

I called the plumber early the next day. When I have to call in a professional, I always hope that things are not solved so easily that I feel stupid for calling, but not so complicated that the bill goes into double digits. My hopes were unfulfilled. The plumber was with us all day. ALL DAY. He used tools. He checked schematics. He drilled holes. He seemed almost as frustrated as I was—but of course, he was getting paid for his frustration.

Finally, he found the problem: about six feet of pipe clogged with all manner of table scraps, the residue of 12 years of our life, the remnants of countless meals slowly accumulating in a plastic tube between the floor joists and the ceiling tiles. He cut the pipe and the goo came gushing out; it could have been much worse, but the clog was in the pipe above the bathroom. The shower and the plumber were covered with it, and the smell knocked me back…a cross between puke, swamp, and landfill. Nasty.

The plumber felt bad about the mess; I assured him I was more than willing to clean it up if it meant I could have my kitchen back. He replaced the pipe, filled the holes, and tested everything to make sure were back in business. It was well past the dinner hour before Steve the plumber pulled out, a fat check in his wallet. And even then he said, with a wink, that the next time I called, he’d let me go through to voice mail.

It was a long, expensive day, and more than once I wish I had just tossed the chicken when I first suspected it was bad. But the truth is, this was not about the chicken, and it was not my fault. There, I’ve said it. From time to time I have to remind myself that sometimes the bad stuff rains down unexpectedly, splattering everywhere. If you’re lucky, the bad stuff can be fixed; if you’re luckier, all it costs you is money. And if you’re really lucky, you can absorb the cost without it cutting too deeply.

At the end of the day—even this day—I am reminded of all the things for which I am grateful: for running water, for help that comes when I dial a number, for our beautiful home that gives us space to commune. Even the muck is a reminder of all the good gifts we have been given. On this day—every day—we are blessed beyond measure.

Dishes

I’ve never been the woman that ropes off her living room unless company is coming over, and I don’t really have things that I save for special occasions, but I do have a number of lovely things that aren’t particularly practical for everyday use. Some were wedding gifts, others were inherited from family members, and others I’ve picked up myself over the years. Mostly they live in the china hutch, but when I host a gathering, I love pulling them out and showing them off.

My oldest niece is getting married in a few months, and her sister Sarah and I hosted a bridal shower for her. I had great fun trolling Pinterest for décor and menu ideas, and I enjoyed cooking and decorating in preparation. Cleaning…well, less fun, but important. My house is never as clean as I’d like, but I’ve accepted that, and I know that being a good hostess is not as much about a spotless home as it is about an open door.

The morning of the bridal shower, I cover the table with an embroidered tablecloth that had belonged to my stepmother; in fact, I think it had originally belonged to her mother-in-law. I spread a second embroidered tablecloth—a treasure purchased for $2 at an estate sale—over the kitchen island where I will set up the dessert station. I often pick up handwork at second-hand sales, because I want to honor and respect the work of the women who created it. The textile arts, in my opinion, tend to be undervalued.

Once the backdrop is in place, I retrieve tiny white china cups and saucers—a wedding gift from a childhood neighbor—from the bottom of the hutch. My neighbor was an avid garage sale shopper, and I am sure that these cups were not new when she gave them to me, which, frankly, I think is awesome. Recycling rocks!

I take out another wedding gift: an enormous glass bowl, a present from the kids in the 9^th-grade Sunday school we taught before we wed. I love this bowl and use it often. When I do, I always remember those sassy, introspective, amazing kids. We lost touch with them, but I know a few things: two of the girls were pregnant before they graduated high school (*sigh*), one of the boys was killed in a car accident when he was 26, and the father of one of the girls died just a few months ago. Much has happened since we knew them, but the beauty of the glass bowl remains.

To serve the chocolate mousse, I pull out my own Crate-and-Barrel dessert dishes, plus a few antique dessert dishes of unknown origin and a few pieces of my mother’s stemware. I’m sure that at one time I would have found the mish-mash of dishes tacky, but now I love it. Matchy-matchy is so 20^th-century.

There are not enough forks in my every-day silver, so I pull out the forks that were my family’s “good” silverware when I was a kid. I’ll also need three stainless serving plates to hold the quiches and my grandmother’s floral bon-bon dish for the butter. We plate and arrange everything: the tables look beautiful.

Our guests arrive—a mix of women new to me and people I’ve known for decades. The room is full of laughter and happiness, getting to know each other and celebrating Beka and the new family that is being formed with her marriage. 

At this shower, also I see and hear and feel the presence of women long gone, women I have loved and women I have not met. I see their artistry in the beautiful tablecloths that have served, and continue to serve, as a backdrop to lovingly created meals. I hear the echoes of their conversations as we sip from the same porcelain coffee cups. I see the reflection of their lives in the metals and the crystal. 

These days, when most women work for their own fulfillment as well as for financial reasons, when men cook and clean and tend to children, these gatherings might seem a throwback to another time: a hen party, a relic from the days when a well-stocked kitchen was the epitome of what every woman wanted. But I see it more as a rite of passage: women supporting women, helping to launch a young bride’s new life, offering our advice and our blessings to the bride-to-be as she enters an exciting new chapter.

When women gather, there is power. Sometimes this power changes the world through advocacy, education, research, or new ideas. And sometimes it changes the world in quieter ways, empowering just one woman and surrounding her with love as she moves confidently into her future. Godspeed, Beka, and know that you’re supported by those who walked this path before you. 

Reading

When I talk to parents who, like us, have large gaps in the ages of their children, they will often say that they are much better parents later in life. They have learned to let “little things” slide and they focus more on enjoying their kids than correcting them.

I can honestly say that I don’t feel that I have changed that much. I am just as bad at parenting as I have always been. I still get grumpy over lost items and spilled drinks, and I still get mad when I have to repeat simple instructions 20 times. We don’t indulge the kids’ every request or sign them up for everything they want to do; we ask them to make choices. When they pair green sweatpants with a red shirt or commit some other fashion faux pas, I will send my kids upstairs to change, although I have always been fairly relaxed about hair, allowing them to choose their own styles and colors (and trying really, really hard not making snide comments). But I still insist the kids eat their veggies, do their chores, and go to bed at a decent time.

I do notice, however, that I don’t worry quite as much about the younger kids’ academics. I help when I can, nag when I must, but I don’t feel the need to push them to be the top of their class. One thing I have learned is that motivation must come from within, and pushing too hard only leads to frustration for me and passive aggressive behavior in them.

I used to try so hard to get the older kids work up to their potential. All of them, smart and talented but not particularly driven, were happy to get by with the least amount of work, so from time to time we would work on an incentive program. When Beanie Babies were popular, I promised my oldest son, Phillip, a new stuffed animal with each perfect score on a spelling test, and for months his tests were flawless. When I told him that I thought he should get two perfect tests in order to get a toy, he decided that was too much work, and he never studied for a spelling test again.

I do believe in education, and I do want my kids to give things their best effort. I want them to understand math and be scientifically literate. I want them to LOVE reading and to be able to put together clear sentences in written form.  But with spellcheck available everywhere, it hardly seems important to be a perfect speller. By all means, I want the kids to learn the difference between there, their, and they’re, but most of the other stuff—eh, not so important.

More than brilliance in the classroom, my wish for my kids is that they learn to be kindhearted and empathetic without being used and abused, that they can understand the give-and-take required of any good relationship. I want them to learn to be good friends, and this is far more difficult to teach this than any academic subject.

Over the years each of my kids has had good friends and not-so-good friends. I know that my kids didn’t, and still don’t, tell me about every time they were bullied or bruised. I also know that, although they are basically lovely people, my kids have been guilty of acts of unkindness—some of it stunningly cruel. It’s what kids do: speak without thinking, act without considering someone else’s feelings. Sometimes it has cost them big, but other times they have been able to make amends. At the very least they have learned from the experience.

Back in the days when I was pressuring Phillip about I before E and all other things academic, he hung out with a kid named Greg. They were friends through high school, but they didn’t see each other much after that, even though they made some attempts to keep in touch. It wasn’t a falling out, just a falling away, as happens when paths diverge.

Enough of their friendship remained that Phillip went to the visitation hours when, at age 21, Greg took his own life. Even looking back at their time together, Phillip did not suspect that Greg would suicide. I don’t know if Greg changed after high school or if Phillip just didn’t see it. I certainly don’t blame Phillip for missing it. Greg had a loving family and several close friends; I don’t know if any of them saw it, either. But I wish someone had, and had found a way to stop it.

I want my kids to read great literature, to understand math, and to know important events from history, but more than that I want them to be able to read people, to understand relationships, and to know themselves. Not that the two are mutually exclusive; it’s certainly possible to be self-aware and a good friend and also to be intellectually well-rounded. But if I have to choose, I want to raise kids who are good friends, who have healthy relationships, and who make a positive difference in the lives of others.

I’ll go to parent/teacher conferences this week, and if history is any indication, I expect that the teachers will tell me that my kids are doing okay academically: strengths and weaknesses, but mostly middle of the pack. And then they’ll tell me that my kids are helpful and kind, sweet and funny, growing up to be good people. After the conferences I’ll attempt—as I always do—to offer more help (and nag a little more) with schoolwork. But in my heart I’ll know that the important foundation is already secure.

Sad

Lots and lots of people fight depression. I am one of them. It runs in my family, as do diabetes, heart disease, and big feet. Not much that can be done about the genetics, but if you know your weaknesses, with proper care and attention, it’s possible to avoid or overcome these things. (Well, except for the big feet. For that there is no cure, only acceptance—and cute shoes.)

Much was written about depression in the wake of Robin Williams’ suicide, and I’m not sure I have anything new to contribute to the discussion. That said, I know that writing is therapy for me, and so sometimes I write to help exorcise my own mental demons. And so, dear reader, welcome to my therapy session.

One reason that Williams’ death hit all of us so hard is because it had clearly been such a long struggle for him, and he had obviously done everything in his power to get well. If such a gifted, loved, and loving person, someone with excellent resources, couldn’t beat this disease, what hope is there for the rest of us? Fortunately, most people with depression don’t fall into a well that deep, but it is rather alarming the number that do, even when under a doctor’s care, even with family and friends being vigilant and supportive.

My depression most often feels to me like I am trapped in tall bucket about half-full of sadness. I’m not drowning, but I am surrounded, and I cannot get out. I know that there are things I can and should do to at least make the water level go down, but even when I know that writing or exercising or even cleaning have the potential to lift my spirits, they are the last things I want to do. The sides of the pail are too tall, too slippery. I feel helpless. So I focus on the darkness instead of reaching for the light.

There is a little something stubborn in people with depression. We tend to feel like victims, and with that mentality comes a sense of helplessness, of not believing it is within our power to change things.  Perhaps we are more comfortable living with the sadness that is known than to move into the happiness that could be. Or we may believe that, once we’re out from under the cloud, no one will believe that the cloud was real.

Depression, like so many illnesses, is more complicated and more devastating than we know. We’re looking, as we always do, for the quick fix, the sure shot, the easy-to-swallow correction. It doesn’t exist. It requires a lot of work to overcome. And each case is different; each depressed person is in his or her own pail. Each has to figure out what works, and then stick with the plan.

Depression is as a medical condition, and it deserves to be treated as such. There are medicines available that can be a great benefit, but getting the right meds in the right doses is kind of a trial-and-error thing. And, as a friend noted, the pharmaceutical companies are the ones doing all the research on depression, and it’s likely that their goal is motivated as much by money as by improving the human condition. A pill is not always the answer, is not always the ONLY answer, is not always the COMPLETE answer. As with most medical conditions, a multi-tiered approach often works best.

Talk therapy, with or without pharmaceuticals, can be a huge help, but again, therapists only make money when you’re making those appointments. Talking with friends can be just as beneficial for many people, but even the best friends are bound to get frustrated after weeks and weeks of negative self-talk. And I don’t blame them. I get tired of hearing myself complain. I have a pretty great life, and it bothers me that I don’t appreciate it more. I don’t want to burden my friends with my petty complaints when we live in a world full of atrocities like hunger and racism.

So, what to do? While certainly not a substitute for medical care, there are simple things that can be done to combat depression. Research shows that listing three good things that happened each day (small things, like a call from a friend, completing a task, discovering a new tea) lifts even clinical depression in a matter of weeks. Decades of research also indicate that the act of smiling—even when you’re not feeling it—and doing good deeds for others consistently boost mood. None of these things in itself is a cure (look again to Robin Williams), but all can be helpful.

When I had cancer, there were times when I thought that the treatment was worse than the disease. I wasn’t sure if I could do all of the chemo and all of the radiation. Many people kept me going: doctors and pastors and friends and coworkers and family and even the occasional stranger in the street. But in the end, it was my decision, and I knew that I wanted to do all that I could to get well. Having a goal allowed me to do the things that I didn’t think I could.

So it is with depression. Many, many people have kept me going, listened to me vent, forced me to get out, helped me to find purpose, and I am enormously grateful. But it is still my pail. Some days I am out, and other days I fall back in. And each day I have to remind myself that, even if I’m in the pail, there are things I can do to keep the water from rising. I need to choose to do them.

I also try to remember to do for others as others have done for me. I can’t pull those who are depressed out of their pails, but I can be a listener and an encourager. I can offer to hold them accountable. And I can walk with them on their journeys.

I guess those big feet are good for something.

Thrift

I often describe myself as the world’s cheapest human, which isn’t quite true, but close. It’s not that I won’t spend money, but I really, really hate paying any more for an item than is absolutely necessary. I love a bargain.

While this has been true for a long time, it became even more important when our family income was cut in half a few years ago. Although we hadn’t been living a lavish lifestyle, at that point we had to make some serious adjustments. We had to tighten up everywhere.

Clothing can be considered a luxury, but with growing kids it’s a necessity. While at one time we relied on thrift store purchases for costumes for school plays or for Halloween, when I lost my job and we added two children to the family almost simultaneously, shopping thrift stores for clothing became an important way of keeping expenses in check.

Here in Grand Rapids we have a few thrift stores that support local missions that I frequent occasionally, and I used to shop Goodwill until I learned of the dramatic pay disparity within the company, but the Salvation Army Store is my current go-to. I’m especially partial to the days (about once a month) when clothing is 99 cents per piece. No need to check the tags or do too much math…the perfect shopping experience.

I’m not the only one who takes advantage of these sales, so on 99 days, the place is packed. The entirely inadequate parking lot overflows, so people ignore the do-not-park-here signs at the enormous (often empty) parking lot of the neighboring garden center. I often park in this lot, but I park in a part that isn’t tagged for towing so I’m pretty sure my car will be there when I come out.

The store has an aroma all its own: musty, with a hint of mothballs and grandma’s cologne. On busy days it’s tough to get a cart, but if your timing is right, you can score some wheels. Of course, the aisles are narrow, so shopping with a cart will definitely slow you down. It’s a calculated risk, either way, but if I have time to really browse, the cart is a good choice.

On sale days, I start in the boutique, where the high-end stuff is lodged. I’ve never been a brand-name snob, but I know good quality, and I know that sometimes I can find it sequestered on these front racks. The store puts a higher price on boutique stuff, but on 99 cent days, it’s 99 cents. I check the racks for men’s stuff, women’s stuff, kids’ stuff. I examine the pieces for wear, for stains, and for working zippers. Replacing a button is no big deal, but if I have to replace a zipper it never ends well.

Many people shop together as families. Young children run wild, scream from boredom, or sit on the nasty stained floor and play with the toys that are for sale while mom and dad consult about items they’ve pulled from the rack. It appears that many of my fellow shoppers are recent immigrants; I often hear Spanish, Chinese, Korean, and the languages of Africa, as well as languages and accents I can’t identify.

Because of the ages and genders of my family, I shop virtually every rack of clothing, crawling past other shoppers with their overflowing carts. Clothes are sorted by gender and by color but not by size, so you can spend a lot of time looking and might still come up empty handed. For the kids, if I find something good I buy it even if it’s a size or two large; quality kids’ stuff isn’t easy to come by.

Thanks to some modest sewing skills, sometimes I can repair or alter something to make it work, and I’ve actually refashioned a few things so that they’re quite wearable. But not everything is worth the effort, so I focus on things that have real potential. Even 99 cents isn’t a bargain if you’re not going to wear it.

The lines for the five dressing rooms are crazy long on these days, so I know better than to buy anything that has to be tried on. If I am shopping for pants for myself, I come alone on a quiet Tuesday morning and take my time in the dressing room. For these pieces I have to pay “full price,” which is still a bargain, and way better for my sanity.

When my shopping is done, or when I’ve had enough of the experience, I make my way to the checkout and pull off the hangers while waiting in line, tossing them into gigantic boxes. Invariably I’m caught up in a conversation with other shoppers during the slow crawl up to the register, and I learn a tiny bit about the lives of the working poor. In general they are smart, hardworking, family-oriented, and kind—like most people everywhere. While I feel a great deal of kinship with them, I’m sure that in terms of material wealth I am a millionaire in comparison.

After a half-hour in line, I leave with two enormous bags: six pair of men’s pants, five men’s polos, a few things for the kids, and three shirts for me…for $18. The musty smell fills my car and then my laundry room, where I quickly wash away the stink and the stigma.

Because I do feel it: the ways that we are measured by what we wear. I believe that our outward appearance says something about who we are. And while I’m proud of how well I can dress my family shopping this way, I am careful about how many people I tell. Well, at least until now…

What the heck. Go ahead and judge if you must, or join me at the next sale and score some fabulous bargains. Either way, I’m fine. 

Thirty

My husband is a great guy. He’s smart, funny, a terrific father, and a great life partner. He is not, however, particularly romantic. Before we became engaged I, like many young women, dreamed of a thoughtful, memorable, write-a-book-about-it kind of proposal, but when I suggested that such a thing would be nice, Bill was clear that he thought elaborate proposals were stupid. He thought things like talking to my father (“getting permission”) and proposing while on bended knee were old-fashioned and sexist, and told me that such gestures would not be forthcoming. So the moment that we agreed to marry could most accurately be described as a non-event, but I said yes anyway.

We picked out a nice ring and started making plans, even though we were both fresh out of college and unemployed. Nothing about our future was clear or firm. We picked a date and planned a wedding on a fairly modest budget. We took a few risks in our arrangements (like planning an outdoor reception with no back-up plan in case of rain) and added a few personal touches, like a carriage ride to the reception. Everything else was lovely but fairly standard: four attendants each but no flower girls or ring bearer,  beautiful flowers, an organist but no vocalist. Great hors d’ oeuvres and a beautiful cake, but no sit-down dinner, no dance hall, and no DJ.

I’d like to say that the wedding went off without a hitch, but actually the hitches are the things I remember best.  I woke up on my wedding day still a little drunk from the rehearsal dinner the night before. As the day unfolded, I sobered up and managed to get everyone and everything in the right places. Except I didn’t have a check for the florist, and I had to make a quick trip to buy shoes for my going-away outfit…but when the time for the wedding arrived, I was dressed and ready to walk down the aisle.

About five minutes before the ceremony, the minister found me to inform me that Bill had forgotten to bring my wedding ring. Just plain forgot it. So I took off my engagement ring and handed it off to the minister, who gave it to Bill, who placed it on my finger right after the vows….which Bill also forgot. The minister helped Bill—poor nervous guy—to stumble through. And then we were married, and were off in our carriage to enjoy our outdoor reception.

That was thirty years ago this week. While I am sure that even then there were weddings far more elaborate than ours, these were the days before Pinterest and shows like “Say Yes to the Dress” turned weddings into the elaborate, insanely-detailed events that they are now. I’ll admit that part of me wishes that we could redo some things—there are some very cute and creative ideas out there!—but in truth we were more focused on our marriage and the life we would live together after the wedding than we were on the wedding itself.  And that I wouldn’t change.

When we got married, people didn’t talk about “soul mates.” Love and compatibility are important, of course, but even the most perfectly matched couples learn that love doesn’t actually conquer all. In every marriage there will be struggles over money and family and any number of issues, large and small. At the end of the day (or week, depending on your standards), someone still has to do the dishes, and you may not always agree on who that should be.

Thirty years ago, I don’t think I could have defined what a soul mate is, but I think I can now. It’s someone with whom you’ve shared a lifetime of everyday memories and some great adventures. It’s someone who supports you through cancer and job loss, and someone who trusts you enough to be willing to lean on you during his or her tough times. It’s someone with whom you have a million inside jokes and shared secrets. It’s someone who encourages you and supports you; someone who loves you exactly as you are and yet still challenges you to be better. It’s someone with whom you share a past, the present, and the future.

Love is a choice, and marriage is the commitment of two people willing to work it all out: for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. It’s not particularly romantic, but who needs romance when you can have a genuine soul mate.