My wife and I hit 35 years of marriage yesterday, which feels less like “against all odds” and more like, “Well, if we both managed not to die yet, this checks out.”

We said “Happy Anniversary” yesterday morning with the same casual energy you use when you say, “Hey, we’re out of milk.” Not because it doesn’t matter—because it’s so baked into daily life it’s almost ordinary now. Slightly surprised we both lived this long? Sure. But once we cleared that hurdle, the anniversary part felt attainable.

In less than two weeks, our son gets married. Watching him prepare has made me realize how wildly underprepared I was at the starting line. Back then, I was still trying to untangle my father’s death five years earlier—carrying a grief I didn’t fully know how to name, let alone process.

My son is walking into this differently. He and his bride did real counseling—discussed expectations, conflict styles, cultural differences, and finances. The counselor was raising issues my son hadn’t even considered yet. They have a follow-up appointment scheduled after the wedding, which is the relationship equivalent of actually reading the warranty instead of tossing it in the trash. That sounds less like young love and more like two adults who want this thing to work and are willing to admit they might need help to keep it working.

Our premarital counseling involved a pastor named Maynard. I believe there were one or two sessions. Judy doesn’t remember anything life-altering, and my memory is basically: we met, he talked, we nodded, somehow we’re married. We made it 35 years, so either Maynard was a quiet genius or we survived on stubbornness and grace. I’ve never met another Maynard since, which tells me either the world could use a few more of them—or it wisely decided one was enough.

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Our wedding itself was less “special moments” and more controlled chaos.

We didn’t have a choreographed dance. Most of the reception was speed-walking table to table, shaking hands like we were running for office and the polls closed at midnight. I barely remember any of it, but we hired a videographer who documented the whole thing like wildlife footage, so apparently we were there.

What I do remember—because people will not let this story die—is the keys.

During the toast, one of Judy’s bridesmaids stepped to the microphone, started out normal, then veered into chaos. She announced that Judy had apparently shared her apartment key with many different men over the years, and before we officially began married life, it was only right for those keys to be returned. Any male who had one was invited to come forward.

We thought it was a cute joke. One key, maybe two, a laugh and move on.

Instead: wave after wave of men and boys walked up. My brother worked at a truck rental company and had access to approximately every unused key in North America, which helped the prank scale well beyond reason. By the end, there were 50-plus keys on the table.

Then my grandfather shuffled up, dropped his key down, looked at Judy, and said, “Really hate to give this one up.”

He had a knack for the perfectly-timed ornery comment. The laughter was loud—and that’s the moment the whole reception was building toward, even if none of us knew it at the time.

The limo, for the record, abandoned us. Photos ran long, the driver had another appointment, and we rolled up to our own reception crammed into the back of a bridesmaid’s car. The schedule for the afternoon weddings creeping into the morning ones.

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Now we’re helping plan their wedding, which means fielding ideas from people like me.

My wife started listing our son’s history of hobbies for her speech, and the list kept growing—frisbee golf, photography, coffee perfection, baking the perfect cookie, 3-D printing, and a brief affair with improv classes. So I suggested: why not do an improv skit at the wedding instead of a dance?

They actually tried it. The prompt word was “cabbage”—apparently that’s how improv starts. Our son launched into miming eating cabbage, got about three lines in, and decided this was not how he wanted to be remembered on his wedding day. Too much pressure. Not enough guarantee he wouldn’t end up performing indigestion in front of both families.

My wife got new material for her speech. And we got a preview of how this couple is going to handle parental suggestions for the next several decades: consider it, try it on, then set it down and back away when it doesn’t fit. That alone gives me hope.

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Which brings me back to yesterday, and this 35-year mark.

Neither of us is the same person we were when we walked down that aisle hoping the limo would stay. There’s been loss. Quiet fights—not the loud kind, but the ones where the real problem was all the words we didn’t say until much later. Decisions one of us made that the other swallowed with a tight jaw. Health seasons and money seasons, a few blessings we both know we didn’t earn.

We didn’t always have our priorities sorted. We’re getting better at asking which choices will still matter five years from now, and letting that answer steer.

Retirement is out there on the horizon, getting bigger. I’m looking forward to stepping through that door and seeing what’s on the other side—maybe a little slower, maybe with more doctor’s appointments, but still us. The journey has been good. The companion has been better.

And if somewhere down the road, our son looks at his wife the way I still look at mine—half amused, half amazed he got this lucky—I’ll consider that proof we did at least a few things right.

Not because we had it figured out. Just because love stuck around long enough to grow up with us.