Years in the Making

We didn’t exactly have a blueprint for a healthy marriage. We had chemistry, sure. We had inside jokes and playlists and matching sarcasm. But we also had baggage—and not the cute monogrammed kind. More like the kind you shove into the overhead bin hoping it doesn’t burst open mid-flight.

So now, let’s rewind. All the way back to the night I met him.

On July 21st, 2007, a week after my 34th birthday, I went with a friend to go see her father’s band. I was not expecting the lead singer to be a young strapping fellow with sideburns that could put Elvis Presley to shame.

Not only did I fall in love with his sideburns, blue eyes, and obvious talent, but also his kindness , and the fact that he was close with his family, a Christian, and how he immediately and so easily integrated with my family, and my friends.

Unfortunately, integrating into my family and friends was part of what led to another battle with addiction.

On July 28th, 2007, we had our first date. I learned that Eric was once married, and that his father was bipolar, and his mother had epilepsy. I also learned that he was taking a hiatus from drinking and marijuana.

And then we went bowling so all of his buddies could meet the girl that jumped up on stage with him last weekend.

His sobriety was very attractive to me. It was a refreshing change from who I had dated in the past. Because who doesn’t love sloppy drunks and drug addicts? Am I right?

I had yet to learn just how much he had struggled with drugs and alcohol over the years.

After our first date we were inseparable.

He immediately joined my kickball team, attended about a billion weddings, and spent a great deal of time with my family and I with his. On Saturdays we would party at my families “lakehouse” and on Sundays we would head over to his grandmothers where his entire family— aunts uncle’s cousins and their children would gather for supper.

Eric didn’t ease back into drinking—he cannonballed. And I didn’t exactly grab the lifeguard whistle. I was too busy holding up my end of the “fun couple” reputation. We weren’t popping bottles at the club, but our kickball team was “Sotally Tober”. So, yeah, need I say more?

Oh but there’s more. So much more.

Twenty two months later, we were married, on the dock at my family’s lakehouse. Just as the ceremony was about to begin, a thunderstorm that had been looming all morning began to drift away. And then—a rainbow.

But not just any rainbow.

Years earlier, I stood on that same dock watching my grandfather canoe across the water. The rain had just passed, and all of a sudden, light enveloped him as he paddled through the end of a rainbow—lit up like a scene from a movie. I never forgot that moment. He passed away when I was in high school, long before Eric came into my life. They would have been the best of friends.

But on my wedding day, as the clouds parted and that rainbow arched over the water, I knew exactly who was there. It was him. That was my sign. His blessing. His presence.

And for that one day, nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the baggage, not the fact that Eric was stoned during our vows, not the red flags we’d both carefully folded and packed away. Just the rainbow and the promise and the hope that this time, love was going to win for us both. Finally.

Truly we had the most epic wedding of all time. I wish I could tell you we floated off into happily ever after on that lake. But like most newlyweds, real life came crashing in—along with jobs, bills, secrets, and some very real consequences. And while I wouldn’t trade that wedding day for anything, I also wouldn’t want to relive the early days that followed. But I’ll take you there anyway. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that healing starts with honesty. Even the messy kind.