50th anniversary a celebration of lives entwined

There’s something about love that stands the test of time. About a long-term relationship that weathers partnership storms and, instead of eroding, emerges stronger. 

There’s something about finding the other piece of your heart, taking a chance and making a commitment — being scared of getting hurt but knowing if you don’t take that risk, you can never get the reward.

There something about finding “you’ll forever be my always."

I was blessed to be invited to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of an aunt and uncle, two of my favourite people in the world. 

My aunt is my Mom's sister. I can’t remember a time when she has not been part of my life. She babysat me. She taught me to tie my shoes. When I was about six, she took me to her company Christmas party for kids and bought me super-cool sneakers the next day. 

She’s an avid reader and I got books for my birthday and books for Christmas; always with an inscription and the year she gave them to me. I still have a few of those books.

She met my uncle when she was young (around 20, I think) and he was shy and quiet. I don’t remember exactly when he started coming to family gatherings but I remember being seven (or so) and feeling a little sorry for him. When my Mom's side of the family got together to celebrate Christmas or any other holiday, it was chaos. So many people of different ages. Tons of us kids running around, playing, creating havoc. Then you add in the adults and a few adult pops for them and my grandparents' house seemed to spill people into every corner. To me, it was normal but, to someone new coming in, two words: hold … on!

My uncle was a good sport, though, and when us younger kids were royal pains in the ass, he took it all in stride. But he never had a choice; if he wanted to marry my aunt, it was a package deal.

And so they got married. And eight-year-old me was thrilled to be going to a wedding. We danced with the adults, bugged the bartender for root beer and refused to go to bed. 

It was the start of their lives together but I knew, even then, that it would just be the continuation of my life with theirs.

Not long into their marriage, they moved to a different city, one about three hours away. I didn’t like it and didn’t understand why anyone would move so far away and not be close to where the rest of us lived. But they did.

They bought a house. Had a couple of kids. Had careers. They did some travelling but most of that happened when the kids got older.

I went to visit when I was a teenager and they always welcomed me with love. That love — love I always took for granted — became even more important to me when I moved to their city to go to college. There were times I was homesick for family and I wandered over to their house for Sunday supper. They welcomed me. Wanted me. And their little kids jumping around and the meal they always shared reminded me of being at my parents' and grandparents' homes. Energy with love.

My uncle taught me to waterski; dragged my butt across a lake for an entire day only to try again the next day and have me pop right out of the lake like a pro. He took me for rides in his convertible (made me wear a helmet, which has remained a joke since). My aunt would ask me to bake gingerbread cookies, and my young cousin and I worked eat most of the raw dough. 

They let me live with them one summer. 

They had hard times. There were times when money was tight. But they always shared with me what they could and I was so, so grateful to go where I was loved.

After college, I moved back north and they moved a bit further south to raise their family in a small town which was kinder and gentler; where the pace was slower. 

I always kept in touch with them. Phone calls. Visits. But as their kids grew up and as they began to travel more, and as I began to find my own way as an adult, our contact became a little less. But the roots that began at birth were strong and, when we did connect, it was like we had just seen each other or just spoken.

When My Favourite Husband (MFH) and I got married, there was only one person I wanted to ask to give the toast to the bride. It had to be my favourite uncle. It had to be the man who’s known me almost all my life and watched me grow into the woman I am.

Both my aunt and uncle loved MFH. My uncle is a car guy and so was MFH. And although my uncle has the gift of being able to find common ground with pretty much anyone and being able to have a conversation, being able to connect with someone who shared the same passion made their connection effortless.

And so I shared my aunt and uncle with MFH. And my life, which was so entwined with theirs, became our lives that were twined together.

We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries and celebrated “just because” because that’s what your favourite family is. “Just because.”

When MFH died over two years ago, their hearts ached for my loss but also for theirs. They reached out and wrapped me in love. I attempted to do the same. They worried about me, about my broken heart. I knew where they were — waiting for me to say what I needed and how they could help. And when I really began to heal months later, I spent hours on the phone with my aunt, assuring her I was not only surviving but thriving.

A cancer diagnosis. Other health issues. The flooding of their home. They’ve been through some heavy stuff the past few years. But they’ve faced it together. They’ve also built a community with their neighbours — neighbours who’ve become friends. And at that anniversary celebration, the love in that room was evident. Their favourite family members and their favourite friends brought together to celebrate their 50 years of marriage.

This post is both a celebration of their love and a celebration of the love I have for them and they for me. And in a day and age where family bonds don’t always stand the test of time, I’m so very blessed to celebrate a lifetime of memories with them.

❤️