Twenty-one years ago, the weather in Oxford, Mississippi—where I was married—was like it is this early morning in Nashville, Tennessee—the city I call home. Clear sky and slight breeze. Not as hot as one might fear for a June wedding in the Deep South. Back then I was preparing to walk down the aisle, a forty-something goober who had convinced herself she would never know what it meant to be loved for the long haul by a man. Today I am looking forward to dinner and a movie.

We first met when I was in college, and he was just out of law school. Reconnecting some twenty years later at my father’s funeral, we married the next year in the same church in which my parents had tied the knot in 1948.

I’m always curious why people, when writing or talking about their marriages, feel the need to say, “It hasn’t always been perfect,” or “We’ve had our ups and downs.” Because, well, life. If you were to tell me you’ve never had one upset or a single challenge in your time as a couple, I wouldn’t believe—or trust—you. 

My husband and I do not have glamorous plans for this anniversary. We will not board a plane to Paris or exchange expensive gifts. He will send me roses. Tonight, we will see a movie and have dinner at a restaurant we’ve been wanting to try. It is enough. And we are grateful.