Or why my Wildflower deserves a medal, and why I’d marry her all over again.
Every now and then, someone asks me how my Wildflower and I have managed to stay married for thirty-seven years.
Not just married.
Happily married.
And I suppose that’s a fair question.
In a world where relationships sometimes seem to have shorter lifespans than the appliances purchased to furnish the first apartment, thirty-seven years together is something of an accomplishment.
Especially considering the fact that she’s spent those years married to me.
That woman deserves a medal.
Possibly a national holiday.
At the very least, some kind of government recognition for extraordinary patience under prolonged exposure to difficult circumstances.
I’ve suggested this before.
She generally just rolls her eyes.
Which, after thirty-seven years, I’ve learned is one of her more affectionate forms of communication.
But people genuinely want to know.
What’s the secret?
How do you stay together that long?
How do you keep loving the same person through the ups, the downs, the disappointments, the changes, and all the ordinary nonsense that comes with sharing a life?
Well, I have an answer.
But first, I think we need to clear up a few misconceptions.
We Haven’t Had a Perfect Marriage
Not even close.
We’ve had wonderful years.
We’ve had difficult years.
We’ve had seasons when life seemed almost embarrassingly good.
And we’ve had seasons when getting through the next twenty-four hours felt like a considerable accomplishment.
We’ve laughed until we couldn’t breathe.
We’ve argued over things that seemed terribly important at the time and that neither of us could remember a week later.
We’ve been frustrated with one another.
We’ve misunderstood one another.
We’ve said things poorly.
We’ve occasionally failed to say things that desperately needed saying.
We’ve been tired, distracted, impatient, stubborn, and occasionally convinced that the other person had temporarily misplaced whatever good sense they once possessed.
And I suspect there have been moments when my Wildflower looked across the room at me and wondered whether thirty-seven years was a reasonable sentence for whatever crime she’d committed in a previous life.
I wouldn’t blame her.
I can be difficult.
I have strong opinions.
I tend to overthink things.
I question everything.
I occasionally disappear into my own thoughts and forget that the rest of the world is still operating.
And I have a remarkable ability to become deeply interested in some new idea, project, or pursuit that probably wasn’t on our calendar the previous morning.
She’s lived through more of my reinventions than most people experience software updates.
And somehow, she’s still here.
Still loving me.
Still occasionally shaking her head.
Still my Wildflower.
But none of that means our marriage has been easy.
It means we’ve lived an actual life together.
And actual lives are rarely as tidy as the photographs people post on their anniversaries.
We’ve Been Through Some Things
Thirty-seven years is a long time.
Long enough to watch the world change around you.
Long enough to change careers, change opinions, change priorities, and occasionally wonder how you became the people staring back at you in the bathroom mirror.
Long enough to raise children.
To watch them grow.
To make parenting mistakes you wish you could go back and correct.
To celebrate accomplishments.
To worry through sleepless nights.
To discover that loving your children doesn’t come with a guarantee that you can protect them from everything.
And, in our case, long enough to know the kind of grief no parent should ever have to experience.
We’ve buried children.
There isn’t a clever observation or inspirational quotation that makes that sentence easier to write.
There are losses that divide your life into before and after.
Losses that change the way you see the world.
Losses that reveal just how little control we actually have over the things that matter most.
And sometimes grief doesn’t bring two people closer together in some beautiful, cinematic moment.
Sometimes it leaves them exhausted.
Confused.
Angry.
Silent.
Trying to survive something neither knows how to fix.
We’ve had our share of those seasons.
We’ve also experienced financial pressures, demanding work schedules, disappointments, changing beliefs, and the ordinary wear and tear of trying to build a life while the world continues making demands.
There have been times when we were both running on empty.
Times when one of us had more to give than the other.
Times when the best we could manage wasn’t romance or excitement or some grand expression of devotion.
It was simply being there.
And sometimes, being there is an extraordinary act of love.
The Woman I Married Isn’t the Woman I’m Married To
And thank goodness for that.
Before someone gets offended, let me explain.
The young woman I married thirty-seven years ago was wonderful.
But she wasn’t finished becoming who she would be.
Neither was I.
We’ve both changed.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Intellectually.
Spiritually.
We’ve grown older.
We’ve learned things.
We’ve abandoned some ideas and embraced others.
We’ve discovered strengths we didn’t know we possessed and weaknesses we’d rather not discuss.
There are things I believe today that would have surprised the younger version of me.
There are things she understands about life now that neither of us could have imagined when we first began this journey.
And that’s one of the peculiar things about marriage.
You’re not simply promising to love the person standing in front of you on your wedding day.
You’re promising to keep getting to know the person they’ll become.
And you have absolutely no idea who that person will be.
Neither do they.
That’s a rather remarkable gamble when you think about it.
Two young people stand before family and friends, make promises about forever, and then spend the next several decades discovering what those promises actually mean.
Because the person you marry will change.
So will you.
And if your love depends entirely on that person remaining exactly who they were when you first fell in love, you’re going to have a difficult time.
I’ve had the privilege of falling in love with several versions of the same woman.
The young woman I married.
The mother of our children.
The woman who endured losses I wish neither of us had ever known.
The woman who has grown, changed, learned, questioned, laughed, cried, and continued becoming herself.
And the woman who shares coffee with me today.
I love all of them.
But I’m particularly fond of the one sitting beside me now.
She’s earned every gray hair, every laugh line, every hard-won bit of wisdom.
And I wouldn’t trade her for the girl I married.
Because that girl became this woman.
And I got to be there for the journey.
Love Isn’t Always a Feeling
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Because I think this is where a lot of people misunderstand marriage.
We talk about love as though it’s primarily something that happens to us.
We fall in love.
We feel love.
We lose love.
We fall out of love.
As though love is some mysterious weather pattern that moves through our lives without our permission.
One day the sun is shining.
The next day the clouds roll in.
And apparently we’re supposed to pack our bags because the forecast has changed.
I don’t buy that.
Not entirely.
Feelings matter.
Attraction matters.
Affection matters.
Desire matters.
And after thirty-seven years, I can assure you that I still find my Wildflower remarkably attractive.
But feelings aren’t particularly reliable foundations for lifelong commitments.
Some mornings I wake up feeling energetic and enthusiastic about going to work.
Other mornings I’d rather wrestle an angry badger.
The fact that my feelings change doesn’t alter the responsibilities I’ve accepted.
Marriage is considerably more important than a machine shop.
And yet people sometimes treat it as though the entire relationship should depend on whether they’re experiencing the appropriate emotional sensation at any given moment.
There have been days when I’ve felt overwhelmingly in love with my wife.
And there have been days when we’ve irritated each other.
Days when we’ve disagreed.
Days when romance wasn’t particularly high on either of our priority lists.
Days when life was simply hard.
But I didn’t stop loving her on those days.
Because love, at least the kind that sustains a marriage, isn’t merely something I feel.
It’s something I choose to do.
Now, Before Someone Misunderstands Me
Choosing love doesn’t mean tolerating abuse.
It doesn’t mean accepting cruelty, manipulation, betrayal, or repeated mistreatment without boundaries.
It doesn’t mean one person must sacrifice their dignity, safety, or well-being to preserve the appearance of a successful marriage.
And it certainly doesn’t mean that every marriage can or should be saved through sheer determination.
I’ve spent enough years working with people to know that some relationships are genuinely destructive.
I’m not suggesting anyone remain in danger because they made a promise.
What I’m talking about is two imperfect people who genuinely care about one another and are willing to keep doing the ordinary, sometimes uncomfortable work of loving each other.
That requires more than stubbornness.
It requires humility.
Honesty.
Forgiveness.
Patience.
The willingness to apologize.
The willingness to listen.
And the occasional ability to recognize that being right isn’t nearly as important as maintaining the relationship.
That’s been a particularly difficult lesson for a man who enjoys a good argument.
My Wildflower could probably provide several examples.
Possibly with documentation.
She Deserves a Medal
I’ve joked about this for years.
But there’s a little more truth behind the joke than I sometimes care to admit.
My wife has lived with me through some remarkable changes.
She’s seen me at my best.
And she’s seen versions of me that I’m not particularly proud of.
She’s endured long work hours, financial uncertainty, changing priorities, and more than a few of my questionable ideas.
She’s listened to me wrestle with beliefs, philosophies, business ventures, and questions that probably would have been easier to leave alone.
She’s watched me chase dreams.
She’s watched some of them fall apart.
She’s watched me begin again.
And again.
And occasionally again.
She’s loved me through grief.
Through frustration.
Through seasons when I was probably more concerned with being useful to the rest of the world than being fully present at home.
And I know there have been times when she deserved more of my attention than I gave her.
That’s not something I’m particularly proud to admit.
But thirty-seven years of marriage should teach a man at least enough humility to recognize that loving someone doesn’t mean you’ve always loved them as well as you could have.
I haven’t.
There have been times I could have listened better.
Been more patient.
Been more attentive.
Put down whatever project I was working on.
Stopped trying to solve a problem when she simply wanted me to hear her.
And occasionally recognized that the woman sitting beside me was more important than whatever seemed so urgent at the time.
I can’t go back and correct every one of those moments.
But I can learn from them.
And I can choose differently today.
That’s part of what love means to me.
Not pretending I’ve always gotten it right.
But continuing to care enough to try to get it right more often.
And for whatever it’s worth, I hope she knows how deeply grateful I am that she’s continued choosing me, too.
Because this marriage hasn’t survived on my choices alone.
It has taken two people.
And she’s carried her share.
Probably more than her share on occasion.
Hence the medal.
The Secret Nobody Wants to Hear
People love secrets.
Especially when it comes to relationships.
They want the formula.
The technique.
The five habits.
The seven principles.
The one conversation that will transform everything.
And I suppose I could put together a course.
I’ve developed enough courses over the years to know how that works.
I could call it something impressive.
The Thirty-Seven-Year Marriage Method.
Include a workbook.
Maybe a few guided audio recordings.
Throw in a certificate of completion.
Charge $197.
And promise that by the end, you’ll understand the secrets to lasting love.
But that sounds exhausting.
And frankly, the answer is much simpler.
I choose to love her.
That’s it.
That’s my secret.
Every day.
For more than thirty-seven years.
I wake up and choose to love the woman I promised to love on our wedding day.
Not because every day is wonderful.
Not because she never irritates me.
Not because I’m always easy to live with.
Not because marriage has somehow become effortless after all these years.
But because I made a promise.
And that promise still means something to me.
Now, choosing love isn’t always dramatic.
Most days it doesn’t look particularly romantic.
Sometimes it means making coffee.
Sometimes it means listening when I’m tired.
Sometimes it means apologizing when I’d rather defend myself.
Sometimes it means doing something I don’t particularly feel like doing because I know it matters to her.
Sometimes it means giving her space.
Sometimes it means putting aside my own preferences.
Sometimes it means holding her close.
Sometimes it means leaving her alone with a good book.
And sometimes it means recognizing that the most loving thing I can do is stop talking.
That last one remains a work in progress.
But the choice is the same.
Today, I choose her.
Tomorrow, I’ll choose her again.
And as long as we’re fortunate enough to share this life, I intend to keep making that choice.
I Don’t Stay Because I Have To
This is another distinction that matters to me.
I don’t love my wife because a preacher told me divorce is wrong.
I don’t stay married because I’m afraid of what people would think if we separated.
I don’t remain committed because of some external obligation that requires me to endure a relationship I secretly resent.
I stay because I want to.
I love her because I choose to.
I made a promise thirty-seven years ago, and I continue honoring it because the woman I made it to still matters enormously to me.
There’s something beautiful about that kind of freedom.
I could spend my days wishing I had a different life.
A different marriage.
A different woman.
Or I could recognize what I already have.
A woman who knows me better than almost anyone alive.
Who has seen the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.
Who knows my weaknesses.
Who understands my peculiarities.
Who can occasionally communicate an entire paragraph with one raised eyebrow.
And who still reaches for my hand.
Why on earth would I want to spend my life chasing the fantasy of something better when I have the privilege of continuing to build something real with her?
That doesn’t mean we stop growing.
It doesn’t mean we stop working on ourselves.
It doesn’t mean we take one another for granted.
Quite the opposite.
It means I recognize that a good marriage isn’t something you accomplish once and then put on a shelf.
It’s something you continue creating.
Day after day.
Choice after choice.
Year after year.
The Older I Get
Lately, I’ve been thinking a great deal about simplifying my life.
Becoming less accessible.
Spending less time online.
Taking on fewer obligations.
Perhaps eventually disappearing into a little cabin somewhere in the woods.
And every time I imagine that life, there’s one person who is always there.
My Wildflower.
Not an audience.
Not a collection of followers.
Not a calendar full of appointments.
Not a list of people waiting for something from me.
Just her.
And me.
And probably Watson doing something he shouldn’t.
A coffee pot.
A few books.
Some quiet mornings.
And the opportunity to enjoy whatever years we have left together.
Because here’s something thirty-seven years of marriage has taught me.
The most meaningful parts of life aren’t necessarily the things that attract the most attention.
They’re often the ordinary moments nobody else sees.
The familiar sound of her voice.
The way she laughs.
The conversations we’ve had a thousand times.
The quiet comfort of sitting together without needing to say anything.
The knowledge that after all the changes, losses, disappointments, and unexpected turns, we’re still here.
Together.
And still choosing one another.
I don’t know how many more years we’ll have.
Nobody does.
But I know what I want to do with whatever time remains.
I want to love her better.
Listen more carefully.
Laugh more often.
Worry less about things that don’t matter.
And stop giving so much of myself to the world that the woman I love receives whatever happens to be left.
She’s earned better than that.
And so have we.
So, What’s the Secret?
If someone asked me to offer one piece of advice for a happy marriage, I wouldn’t tell them to find someone who never disappoints them.
That person doesn’t exist.
I wouldn’t tell them to wait until they’re absolutely certain they’ve found their soulmate.
I’ve never been particularly convinced that lifelong love depends on discovering one magically predetermined person among billions.
And I wouldn’t tell them that if they truly love someone, marriage will always feel easy.
That’s nonsense.
I’d tell them something considerably less exciting.
Choose to love the person you’ve promised to love.
Not just on the wedding day.
Not just on anniversaries.
Not just when you’re feeling affectionate, romantic, or particularly pleased with one another.
Choose them on the ordinary Tuesdays.
On the difficult Thursdays.
During the exhausting seasons.
Through the changes.
Through the disagreements.
Through the times when neither of you is quite the person you wish you were.
Choose to listen.
Choose to apologize.
Choose to forgive when forgiveness is appropriate.
Choose to grow.
Choose to remain curious about the person beside you.
Choose to protect the relationship without losing yourself.
And remember that the other person has to be willing to make those choices, too.
Because a good marriage isn’t built by one person loving hard enough for two.
It’s built by two people who continue choosing one another, even as life changes them.
Thirty-seven years ago, I stood beside a young woman and promised to love her.
I didn’t understand everything that promise would require.
Neither did she.
We were young.
We had dreams.
We had expectations.
And we had absolutely no idea what life was going to throw at us.
Some of it was wonderful.
Some of it was heartbreaking.
Some of it was downright ugly.
And a great deal of it was simply ordinary life.
But here we are.
Thirty-seven years later.
A little older.
A little wiser.
A few more scars.
A few more gray hairs.
And still together.
Not because we discovered some magical secret.
Not because we’ve never wanted to strangle one another.
Not because we somehow avoided the difficulties that end other marriages.
But because we kept choosing to love each other.
And tomorrow morning, when I wake up beside my Wildflower, I’ll make that choice again.
Just as I have for more than thirty-seven years.
Because I promised her I would.
And she’s still the woman I want to keep that promise to.
Now, about that medal…
Shane Clements
Husband¹ • Father⁷ • Papa⁴