Exactly twenty-nine years ago this morning, I woke up married.

Twenty-seven years ago, it was beyond my imagining and nowhere on my to-do list.

I’d been happily single for the better part of the mid-80’s, rounding the corner into the 90’s with an almost evangelical approach to the Unfettered Life. I enjoyed (yes, you read that right) paying my bills on time or earlier, taught myself some next-level culinary skills and set bread dough to rise every Friday morning while I cleaned my two-bedroom Tudor-style townhouse rental from top to bottom. My job at the university’s progressive-minded town-and-gown Newman Center Catholic church as a member of the pastoral staff guaranteed rich and diverse discussions about All Things Theological and Philosophical, accompanied by endless pots of coffee in the lounge after Mass. A nearby bike trail along the river within walking distance of my apartment pulled me into a 22-mile daily trek through woods and the edges of old neighborhoods from the early 20’s. Squirrels occasionally pelted me with buckeyes as I rode beneath their lofty leafy nests and I’d playfully shake one fist at them as I pedaled along, all of us fully aware that this ride-by admonishment would have zero effect on their behavior. I dated and had my heart broken a few times, but most days I was more or less comfortable in my own skin, allowing for the customary push and pull of inner growth that marks the young adult developmental stage of one’s life.

Enter Patrick.

A mutual friend (and coworker of mine at the church) suggested we’d have a lot in common, that we should meet on the premise of adding the Newman Center to a list of faith communities willing to house homeless families on a rotating basis (Patrick headed up this program for his own parish) and laid the groundwork for what is now the central and anchoring relationship in my life. We met on August 11, 1992, at 8:38 p.m. following a prayer service I was leading on the need for social justice to be intentional reflection as well as action (the name of the gathering escapes me but I assure you, it was much shorter than what I just wrote). He introduced himself and the friend who was with him and we made plans to meet for a more thorough conversation about the logistics attached to feeding and sheltering families within the church building’s walls. I had no reason to think it was anything more than business.

But as with any trip you plan and the way it actually unfolds, the chasm between expectations and reality is filled with that alchemic blend of emerging information, data analysis and spontaneous combustion all wrapped up in love’s penchant for chaos theory. Sheltering homeless families evolved into our sheltering of each other, taking great care to respect our respective stories and pasts while we eyed a future with each other. Plus, he wore a bow tie and pink Oxford shirt to work on Fridays, paying homage to a long tradition held up by the men in his family tree. Standing there in the Newman Center’s kitchen that indelible Friday in September, pink shirtsleeves rolled up as he unpacked the tuna salad and mixed greens he’d brought for both of us to eat while we talked, his agenda was looking less like “business” and more “let’s see where this goes”. I felt that internal swaying one often has when going all dreamy in the presence of great joyful possibility and steadied myself by placing my hands on the stainless-steel countertop, casually so he wouldn’t suspect I’d fallen off the edge of all logic and propriety. I think I got away with it but what does that matter now? We talked overnight volunteer support, safety and menus, cots and drop-off/pick-up times for the church’s future guests and set up a tentative launch date (for the program, not our wedding). We’d have to see each other quite a lot in the weeks ahead, which neither of us minded at all.

We’ve seen each other for 1,508 weeks since then and stand at the start of the 1,509th one with a beehive-busy to-do list of humble work that will slide us nicely into Thanksgiving. There’s recycling to drop off, a coop that needs cleaned out and re-fluffed with fresh pine shavings, granola to be bagged and stored for an upcoming three-day holiday market and a chicken in the fridge waiting to be spatchcocked and grilled for dinner. I’m in charge of dessert—a gluten-free dark chocolate salted almond olive oil cake best eaten just after it’s cooled a bit on the counter, accompanied by a steaming cup of honeyed rooibus tea to sip in between bites. Paying bills has long since lost that mid-20’s thrill of independence (anyone want to subsidize these two hippies’ rural artist colony lifestyle? PM me for details) and I’m quite content letting Patrick take lead on all things culinary, no matter how he employs every last bit of silverware and all the cooking utensils in the process. I’ll clean up any kitchen mess he makes with my head bowed in gratitude.

Of course I’ve skipped over mountains of details and stories that built the framework and foundation of who we’ve become as Liz & Patrick. I’m not sure I’d know where to stop and a simple weekly column on my website isn’t the place for such an epic love story as ours. But as the sun shines from a backdrop of pure cloudless blue on the place we call home, I can’t remember what I thought being single would look like when I reached the age I am now. Guess I didn’t plan that far ahead, and I’ll certainly need to sit for more than an hour to figure out just how we got here.

Come sit with me, Patrick and let’s tell the stories of our days and weeks and years together while we keep gathering more.

Happy anniversary, honey.