Almost two years ago, I submitted a piece of writing to a blog I love. When it was published, I decided to post the link on my Facebook page.
Just another article like the dozens I’d written before about heartbreak and self-worth and finding my footing after a long year of unsteady ground.
What I didn’t know was that 350 miles away, a man I’ve known since childhood decided to click on the link and read my writing.
That man is now my husband.
He’s probably in the living room right now, hearing me tap away at the keyboard. In a few minutes, I’ll go sit next to him, kiss his cheek, and ask what he wants to watch on Netflix or if he’d like to split a bottle of wine with dinner. We’ll think nothing of it, the miracle of our love simplified into daily routine.
Yet this story is the one I love most. Not only because I got so damn lucky to marry the incredible man in the living room, but because it tells me so much of what I need to know about patience, about grace and fate. About God. The promise He fulfilled feels almost biblical.
It is a small story—my favorite kind of story. It is the conclusion to every advice article, every postgrad guide to the real world, every blog post I’ve written for the past three years. The clichés apply: All good things come in time. Patience is a virtue. When God closes a door, he opens a window. Everything really will be okay.
So when the chips are down and I’m faced with yet another vast unknown, I’ll remember how this particular story played out.
A fate so surprising, I still gaze into my husband’s blue eyes and laugh. Improbability does that to you.
An assurance that in the midst of immeasurable doubt, when you feel as if uncertainty may buckle your knees, so very little is within your control.
In the end, you just have to make a decision, hold your breath, and trust.