The clouds hung low this last Sunday morning. Already shivering as I stepped outside, I called back to the hustling brood to grab their jackets before we piled in the car. Damp palm trees and lonely puddles hinted that it was about to rain, but only a gray mist colored our morning drive to church. The children and I traveled together in unusual silence, taking in the gloom. 

I’ve been accused of many things. I accuse myself of many things. I am a lost and uncontrollable creature that has missed the mark, missed the point, missed my opportunity, missed out on too much. But I am maybe a little too confident for such an admittedly lacking being. When I feel scratched by sackcloth and burned by the ashes. When it stings and smothers inside. When I fear I might be slipping into insanity. But yet emboldened to walk on. Even in confusion.

Yesterday, my wife and I celebrated the 22nd anniversary of our marriage. 22 years of graduate school and moves across the nation, of children and creating our idea of what a home ought to be. 22 years of pets and home repairs and broken-down cars. 22 years of ups and downs, of joys and disappointments, of boring, aimless moments and times of great adventure and wonder. As I was pondering all this, I thought back to the day we got married. I can still see her clear as day. How beautiful she was in that gown.