I Do. I Am. I Will.

About 13 years ago, when Pace and I were still in the early months of dating, he crushed his foot. I'll spare you the details, but his slam-dunking in sandals trick landed him a foot full of pins and stitches. Because I was young in love, I cheerfully swabbed the pin sticking out of his foot with antiseptic and kept him company until he was no longer drugged with Vicodin. I was more than happy to dole out antibiotics, fill up his water mug, and fluff his pillows.

Fast forward more than a decade, and we're typical suburbanites: married a while, claim a few kids, with a nice little house and a golden retriever. We're comfortable.

And then, wham! Life hits hard, and it shakes us up a little. Last year we were hit with a sledgehammer when our daughter was born with a hole in her heart and other issues. We clung to each other, knowing the other was the only one on earth who shared the pain equally. We weathered a couple of surgeries, a multitude of specialist appointments, and the journey of grieving disappointment. But we came through shining, with a marriage that was stronger and more precious to both of us.

As I sit here, propped up on the couch and never far from my hated crutches, I realize that this is another storm of a different color. It's not critical, and it doesn't threaten our happiness or future; it's just supremely annoying. My lack of mobility translates into not being able to do my share. I am proud of my ability to make sure our home is a place Pace wants to come home to each night, and being stuck in bed, surrounded by chaos and mess and whiny children, is not my preferred way to greet him at the end of a long day. I feel lazy, and so I feel guilty. But when I start hobbling around, I end up back in bed, regretting my choice. There's no good answer here. So Pace comes home after work to fix meals, do dishes, fold laundry, vacuum, bathe the kids, and change diapers. It's not pretty, but it's necessary.

When we got engaged, Pace pulled out a large blue and white pitcher and bowl and washed my feet, telling me that just as Christ had served his disciples this way, so would he in our marriage. It was romantic then, and as much as he meant it, there was no way for him then to know how that would translate in the future. Just as we wholeheartedly promise to love and cherish in good times and bad, we can't see how that will look years down the road, when bodies wear out and tempers flare and love isn't so romantic. That's when we have to roll up our sleeves, dip our hands in the water, and be willing to go outside our preferred place and serve. It's not fun, or glamorous, and rarely convenient, but it's part of saying "I do." And while I'm currently the one who is being extended grace and service and help, I've been married long enough to know that the tables will turn, and I'll be the one serving. The real question is whether I'll be able to do it with the same grace and cheerful attitude.

So as I sit here tonight, I whisper to myself what I will say when that time comes:

I do. I am. I will.