Once upon a time, there was a young woman who would change herself in subtle ways for each new boyfriend she had. Little ways, but enough to lose herself a little bit in each relationship. From music choices to hobbies, that girl tried it all out to try to fit in.
That was until she met Joe.
If you can’t tell, that girl is me, and Joe is Farmer Joe.
Moving on and switching from the third person.
When I met Joe, I didn’t know if he was just that really nice or if he was really good at pretending to be nice. I didn’t trust myself to believe that this guy who was genuinely listening to what I had to say was for real. So, I did what all 20-something women who were terrible at dating did:
Didn’t call him back. Ignored him. “Ghosted him,” as the kids say, or used to say.
Luckily, and as you well know, my ghosting didn’t work. Joe turned out to be actually kind, a for real nice guy, and less than a year after I ghosted him, we were engaged and ready to be married. Married on August 2, 2003.
20 years ago today.
Our wedding ceremony and reception were so lovely and absolutely fitting to the life we were about to lead: meaningful, Christ-centered, fun, and complete with a rainshower during the ceremony. Torrential at times, this rain interrupted the recording of our ceremony but also made all the farmers in the church silently cheer. That day, I was happy the grass on the golf course turned greener for the pictures. Joe was thinking about yields and pasture grass.
And so it began. Reactions and differences just made life interesting. When Joe and I started our relationship, I couldn’t believe that I didn’t need to change anything to make him happy. This could not be happening. Didn’t I need to change something?
I couldn’t believe that he was fine watching me run marathons. He enjoyed a nice breakfast while I ran and cheered me on at the finish line. He was just happy for me, with me, beside me, but not cloning me. Joe was able to always find something to make a part of me part of his story, simply because he enjoyed being with me. While his idea of a perfect afternoon includes either mowing hay or planting beans in silence and solitude on his dad’s farm, and mine includes shopping, a good, fancy coffee in hand, and a day in the city, we always have made our differences work. We may not be the same on some little things, stuff that I would have previously tried to change or adopt, these differences don’t make either of us less than but make our relationship whole.
It’s why we work and still have worked for two decades.
What we do agree upon are the big things, and keeping the main thing exactly that: the main thing. Our faith, our family, our core values, this is what we stand firm together upon and then look out and laugh at the weird quirks that make us unique.
Like Joe’s choice to continue to wear these ridiculous gray basketball shorts, he has had since before we were married.
They are not my favorite.
At. All.
But here we are, 20 years later, and those shorts make a bi-weekly (or more) appearance. I have made it clear that I despise these shorts and tell him often that they have few redeeming qualities, but I know that I am lucky to have someone who can laugh off my comments and stand firm in poor fashion choices.
Sorry, honey.
Joe’s approach is a little different, shockingly. Instead of my direct approach of, “I may light those shorts on fire and roast marshmallows over them,” he has a sweeter approach. I have these cute leather joggers that are trendy, comfy and always get a lot of compliments on. However, they’re not Joe’s favorite. “Those pants leather? That’s interesting.” is all he typically says. That’s enough for me to know that “interesting” means, “put on a pair of regular jeans, please, you weirdo.”
But instead, he celebrates the differences that make me, me, and I do the same. And that makes me about the luckiest wife around because I’m me AND I’m Joe’s wife.
For 20 years.
In sickness and in health.
For richer, for poorer.
In bad gray basketball shorts or black leather pants.
Happy anniversary, my Farmer Joe. Here’s to 20 and 20 more.