Here I sat in our house. The walls empty—no pictures, no paint, not even a clock to break the silence. The windows bright and clean, with the sun streaming in from every direction, not a curtain in sight to block its warmth. The furnishings sparse, but they do the job, just enough to make it livable.
I remember brewing a questionable pot of coffee in the kitchen, as it was up to me to figure out the new machine. Upstairs, the shower was being used for one of the first times, not by Anne or the kids, but by my groomsman Steven, who, along with the others, had come by the house to get ready. It was 1996, and the new house was nearly livable, sitting in the middle of an empty field, it was our wedding day—28 years ago tomorrow.
The house was quiet, empty, and without memories yet, just waiting for life to fill it up. As the guys gathered, the heat was building, just like today—hot, humid, and with no air conditioning to be found at home or at the small country church where we were headed to. But honestly, the weather was the last thing on my mind. It was my wedding day, and I couldn’t wait to marry Anne.
Our pastors, Irving and Glenda Hale—who are more like friends than clergy—are going to do the ceremony, and all our friends and church family are on their way. There’s one little hiccup, though. One of my groomsmen has somehow forgotten to pick up his shoes from the rental store, a good half-hour away. But there’s just enough time for him to make the mad dash there and back, correcting the situation just in the nick of time.
Looking back now, with 28 years of marriage under my belt and a much better understanding of the attention to detail women bring to these situations, I’d say the tradition of men getting ready without women is a terrible idea! But we managed. The shoes arrived, and we all made our way to the church.
The place is packed, shoulder to shoulder, in the sweltering heat, and—unfortunately—a fairly lengthy service is planned. But then, Anne walks down the aisle, absolutely beautiful as she always is, and everything else just fades away.
And here I sit now, 27 years later, in the same house, in the same spot. The clocks, pictures, and mirrors—wedding presents, all—still hang on the walls. Anne just made toast with the toaster Garth and Jane gifted us (can you believe it?). The walls are now painted warm colors, thanks to Anne and Mom’s hard work over the years, and the farm-cut hardwood trim, crafted and installed by our dads, Maurice and Dean, adds a touch of country charm. Anne is sitting next to me on a couch—a later gift from her mother. The house is no longer just a house; it’s a home.
It’s a home that has seen our kids grow up, where we’ve watched them take their first steps, and where we’ve sat up late at night worrying about them, celebrating their successes, and guiding them through challenges. It’s a home where Anne and I have shared countless moments—laughing, supporting each other, and building a life together. We’ve navigated the ups and downs of parenthood, supported each other through career changes, and somehow managed to keep the spark alive through it all.
What a journey it’s been. And it’s all because Anne said, “I do.”
As I reflect on our journey, it reminds me that the little moments we share, the challenges we overcome, and the love we nurture every day are what truly make a house a home. Whether you’re just starting out, in the thick of raising kids, or finding new rhythms in an empty nest, cherish those everyday moments—they’re the threads that weave the fabric of a lifetime together.
Thank you, Anne. And happy anniversary.
From an Empty House to a Home Full of Memories
