Yesterday we ended up at a beat-up Indian restaurant. The type of place you pretend not to notice the stains on the table cloths, but whose tikka masala makes you cry tears of happiness. We didn't expect to celebrate our anniversary there, but after a series of thwarted plans (oh, we had lots and lots of lovely plans), we simply shrugged our shoulders and celebrated the best way we knew how: together.

I don't pretend to have a great marriage, but what I can say about love is that it never looks how I expect and the even best laid plans are suspect to life's trade winds. But I suppose that's the beauty of it.

To be able to sit across the person I love (whom I love so earnestly, brokenly, and whole-heartedly) and promise, again, to love him in good times and bad, sickness and health, at fancy restaurants and hole-in-the-walls is the greatest gift I possess.

Love makes me realize that if I get nothing else for the rest of my life, I am the richest woman to have my husband by my side. He is far greater than anything I could've imagined and the backbone to my hopes and dreams. Happy Anniversary, JD.