The Ordinary Goodness

It seems like every time I turn around another relationship is crumbling. New couples blindsided by hurdles nobody prepared them for. Couples married for decades leaving each other for something different. And couples you’d never expect ending years of outward happiness because they’re just not feeling it anymore.

I don’t say it enough, but I’m a blessed man. I’ve never had to worry about falling into or out of love with someone. I just found my person, and then I stopped looking.

Stopped looking for someone else to be with. Stopped looking for what more the other person could bring. I’m not saying it’s a perfect, happy-go-lucky life all the time. But I’ve found that when you stop looking for what your spouse can bring and settle into the marriage you have, you end up a lot happier. And you find that what you already have is probably better than you first thought.

My wife has told me more than a few times that when I’m home I’m calmer than anywhere else. She’s not saying that I’m a different person, but that my demeanor settles. I think that’s exactly the point. You don’t have to perform for anyone. You don’t have to impress or be “on” for people to accept you. When you’re with your person in the home you built together, the expectations lower and the presence increases. You can just be without having to worry about doing all the time.

There’s something quietly profound about knowing dinner will be taken care of. That when I forget my bag at home there’s someone who will make the trip to bring it to me. That a text shows up that just says: Hey, I’m headed to town. Do you need anything?

The ordinary goodness of marriage isn’t in the hard-fought wins over big challenges. It’s not in the spectacularly planned vacation. It’s in that text. It’s the suit dropped off at the cleaners without being asked. It’s the coffee that’s already made.

When you’re always trying to impress or overcome, you can’t really rest. But after 26 years of marriage, marriage is where I rest. Not rest as in doing nothing. Rest as in not having to live in a state of performing or earning approval. Rest as in being fully known and staying anyway.

These small things are what you have to choose to pick up. The do you need anything text. The errand run without being asked. The quiet presence at the end of a long day. When you lay those end to end they build a bridge toward each other. One ordinary plank at a time.

But this isn’t always how we do it. Sometimes we pick up the annoyances instead. The grievances, the frustrations, the small offenses we decide to keep. Those don’t lay end to end. They stack. And stacked things become walls. Walls divide. They separate. They keep things on opposite sides of themselves. Marriage is no different.

The thing about an ordinary life together is that the bridge materials are everywhere. You don’t have to manufacture them or plan for them or wait for a significant moment to arrive. They’re already there. They’re in the texts and the errands and the bag brought to the office and the dinner that’s handled. You’ve probably been walking past them every day.

You just have to decide what you’re building.

Twenty-six years in, I can tell you what we’ve been building. Not a monument. Not a highlight reel. Just a bridge. Plank by plank, ordinary day by ordinary day. And that bridge has held the weight of everything we’ve carried across it.

That’s the ordinary goodness. Quiet. Steady. Built from nothing special.

And still standing.