This was originally posted on my personal blog, but I thought it would be fitting here.
In two weeks, I'll be moving. Kelly and I were recently approved for an apartment in the Ann Arbor area, about an hour southwest of where I live now, and I'll be moving in on March 5. She'll move her stuff all over the week before the wedding and then move in, obviously, following the nuptials.
I hate moving. It's so much work, packing up everything, throwing out what you don't need anymore, living your stuff in boxes as you get ready to head out. I usually put it off as long as possible. But today I accidentally slept in and could not make it to church. Kelly is out of town with some friends for the weekend. And I have a 3-day weekend due to the President's Day holiday tomorrow. So I decided it might be prudent to head upstairs today and begin sorting through all the items in my attic, deciding what was going to be donated, what was going to be thrown out and what will make the move with me as I prepare to start my new life with Kelly.
It was definitely the chore I feared it would be, complicated by the fact that I was bumping my head on the low ceiling every five minutes. But by the end of nearly three hours, I had boxed and bags the clothes, books and DVDs I'm donating, tossed the bags of junk out to the curb and had all the other clothes/games/etc. in boxes ready for taping and labeling.
While I was up there, I came across a box of old journals, stretching back from my teenage years up through my adult days. I found cards from family members given as far back as college graduation in 2001. I found cards and letters from friends who were as close as anyone has ever been, yet I never see anymore. I found old photo albums chronicling everything from my high school graduation party to the trip to Florida for my brother's wedding and trips with old friends to Chicago.
And in that moment, I felt myself overcome by a bittersweet wave.
It's really happening. As of March 25, my single years will be behind me. To be honest, so many of those dear friends have fallen out of contact (often due to my fault) over the last 10 years. I miss them. As often as I spent my single years wishing I would find someone, fall in love and get married, I still found myself feeling a bit melancholy and mourning those days. Not in a regretful way, mind you, but more in the way that you mourn the way any chapter of life closes. The feeling that many people had when they left high school or college.
I've written before about how people who marry in their 30s have a different reality to deal with than those who marry in their early 20s. I have 12 years of adulthood behind me. I have traditions and routines that are going to change. I have an entire lifestyle of bachelorhood that will be altered. And while there are many, many things that I'm looking forward to giving up about the single life (lonely nights at home, living in squalor, eating meals from a bag), I have to also admit that my single years--however lonely and hard they may have been at times--were good years.
As I look back on my single life, I can see that there were nights of tears, frustration, loneliness and bitterness. I'm glad to be done with much of that, even though I know those same struggles will just have new clothing in married life. But I can also say that those years were some of the best and most fruitful of my life. I remember late nights at the coffee shop discussion culture and theology. Having friends to depend on when life around us got tough. I remember getting together and laughing with many friends who I no longer speak with, having a roommate who was one of the best friends I'd ever had and having another best friend who was one of the anchors of my life for so long. Getting married doesn't mean these things no longer have meaning, it doesn't negate the memories nor does it mean that I can't see these people once I'm married. But the impending change simply means that I'm reflecting back on the years and mourning what once was.
I'm growing up. Flipping the page. Changing the chapter. And with that come strong feelings.
People sometimes ask me if I ever have cold feet about marriage. And the standard answer is that "no, I'm excited about getting married. It's time." And that's true. I don't have the "bolt from the altar" cold feet. I'm not wondering if I've made the right decision. I'm not wondering if marriage is right for me.
But yes, cold feet happen. Sometimes, as Kelly and I both put it, the gravity of what's about to happen really sets in. And both of us--who are two very independent people and very accustomed to single life and routines--have our moments where we feel a bit shaken by the immensity of the decision that we've made.
Some of these are no-brainers. Yes, I worry about being the leader of the home. I've made so many mistakes in my own life--particularly financially--that I wonder if I'll just shipwreck everything. I worry about Kelly staying in love with me and whether she'll be happy in our home. I'm terrified about the prospect of having children.
And then there are the worries that I wonder if any other engaged person thinks about. I wonder how I'm going to react when my routine changes and I no longer have entire Saturdays to spend by myself, in solitude. I wonder if I'm still going to be able to hang out with my friends. I wonder if the dreams I have of writing and getting more involved in the things I'm passionate about will have to take a back seat to surviving and working long days to make ends meet. I worry about how I'm going to react when I've had a long day at work, followed by a hectic drive home and I just want to be by myself--will I have those moments of quiet and introspection? Will we find a church that meets both of our needs? Can I still watch Will Ferrell movies?
This second set of fears are what I call my "Oh Chris, grow up" fears. This is where my selfishness and pride start taking hold and saying "remember how good it feels to be lazy and just lay on the couch eating pizza and watching 'Step Brothers' every Saturday? You don't want to give that up, do you?" I've written before how engagement has really forced me to look at myself and better understand how deeply ingrained my selfish tendencies are. And I see my fear of growing up, my fear of losing my right to do what I want to do when I want to do it and my desire to be lord of my life really digging in. I forget, of course, that when I actually do get time to myself I'm usually antsy and bored; it actually is hard for me to sit and watch movies for three straight days. And, of course, there's the practical truth that getting married doesn't mean the end of my individuality. Kelly and I will still have our own interests and hobbies. Some of these we'll share together. Other times, we'll keep them for ourselves. Marriage doesn't change what we're interested in--it simply forces us to figure out how those things work when in the light of relationship.
None of this is a surprise to either of us. Kelly and I have spent quite a bit of time talking out the change our life is about to take and this has been a particularly important topic for us to deal with as two very independent people. Just the other night we were talking and I asked her if she ever got worried about marriage. Her response really impressed me, because it was exactly what I had been thinking. "I'd be worried about anybody who doesn't have these fears; it shows that they're not aware how serious this is."
I take a lot of comfort in the fact that Kelly and I have counted the cost of marriage. We don't have any illusions about it being pain or trouble free. We know we'll fight. We know we'll get annoyed with each other. We know that sometimes the 'in love' feeling will be hard to find. I hope that knowledge has made us better prepared to take our marriage before God and depend on His strength to get through.
Besides, I noticed something about the times I have these fears. They come up when I'm by myself, alone at my house with my thoughts, letting my imagination run wild. They never happen when Kelly is around. And it's because in those moments, I feel at home. I feel safe. I feel more comfortable, happy and sure of myself than I ever have and there's no doubt that, no matter what I give up, what I want more than anything is to be with this person for the rest of my life.
That warms the feet right up.
