This guy. This amazing man. I met him when we were just a bit over 18. He walked into my living room at a house party, and he stood head and shoulders above the rest. And he glowed. It was probably his Southern California tan and his Armenian olive skin standing out among the glow of a pale Pacific Northwest crowd, but to me he looked like a saint.

When we talked and danced, I learned quickly, from the first few words, that beyond his handsome face and strength was this incredibly dear, incredibly kind heart that shined through his unbelievably blue eyes.

And last night while he was finishing a late night at work, I smiled into two sets of those same eyes staring back at me and told our children about what it’s like to find someone that makes you believe in magic.

That first kiss literally shot through my heart and stopped time and then sped it up into a thousand little light years—our lives together, our curly-haired big-eyed boy and girl, our farmhouse, us on a porch in rocking chairs sipping lemonade and surveying the fields when we’re 110 years old and holding hands. This love and this legacy of love that will pass through every beating heart beyond us: I saw it then. I can feel it now.

I’m so certain that we were meant to share this life together and that knowing is like a ballast in a storm and I am able to weather the craziest weather, the most difficult times, the toughest tests, the most impossible moments because he is by my side. 

It’s been 23 years today since our first date. We have a curly-haired wild and wonderful girl and a beautiful strong boy. That farmhouse is coming along. The life that grows here is rooted and full. The porch is just missing the rocking chairs. 

Happy Valentine’s Day, Brian.