Looking Back on 20 Years of Marriage

Time flies when you're having kids

In the Fall of 2004, I was a young man wandering, unsure of what to do with my life. I left my summer job working at a Christian ministry in the mountains and dove headlong into single adulthood.

Life was very simple, and I had almost no possessions. I drove a $500 car, had three guitars, and that’s about it. I didn’t even have a bed: I slept on a sleeping bag on the floor of the two-bedroom apartment I shared with two buddies.

I slept on the floor in a sleeping bag I folded each day. Men are pretty simple like that.

We stayed up late at night smoking cigars on our balcony and dreaming about the future. My goal was to move back to California, find a job by the beach, and do something amazing, but I wasn’t sure what that would be. I wanted to be a professional musician, but it seemed that dream had died, and it was too late.

Since I didn’t have a plan and had even less money, I started going to a community college to help me get started working toward something. Then winter set in, and almost everyone I knew moved away to get married or go to college in other places, and I had to stumble through the awkward, lonely phase of being “the one who stayed home.” I had few friends, no career, and little direction or purpose.

Desperately needing money, I stopped in at a 1950s diner under construction to see if I could get a part-time job waiting tables when it opened. I thought it would be fun, and I was really excited when they told me, “You’re hired.”

It turned out to be one of the worst jobs I’ve ever had, though.

The managers played favorites and had serious anger management issues. The pay was terrible, and I barely made enough money to cover my gas to and from work. Many of my coworkers had problems with drugs or alcohol (or both), and were in and out of jail. Their lives were a disaster; they were unreliable and often got fired or quit in a rage. I had nothing in common with them, and I never wanted to see these people outside of work.

Also, the restaurant made us wear embarrassing outfits with giant collars and huge, poofy sleeves, and gave us name tags with fake names from old music and TV shows. I was assigned the name “Wally.” I asked if I could trade it for “Elvis,” but they said no.

I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. I lasted exactly three months. That was as long as I could stand. There was only one good thing about this stupid job: I met a girl.

One of the waitresses and I started talking one evening during side work as we cleaned up the bar where we made milkshakes and malts. Her name was Rachel, or as her nametag said, “Priscilla.”

We had a lot in common: our faith, interests, and artistic pursuits. We both sang and played the guitar, and we were both trying to come to terms with the harsh reality that our dreams were out of reach. She wanted to be a professional dancer, and I wanted to be a professional musician, but it was clear that wouldn’t happen for either of us.

Over the next few weeks, Wally and Priscilla ended up doing a lot of talking, not just while shutting down the malted milk station, but also while standing in the parking lot, shivering from the cold after closing the restaurant, and while sitting across the table from each other at the IHOP up the street.

I spent a lot of time gazing into her eyes and talking about my hopes and dreams for the future while drinking hot chocolate and eating pancakes at 2:00 a.m. At Christmas time, I came and watched her dance as a sugar plum fairy in The Nutcracker.

Then, 2004 ended, and we started dating in January of 2005. We performed together in 42nd Street (the musical) in the summer, and, on October 1st of that year, we got married.

Today marks the 20th anniversary of our marriage. Two decades and five kids later, I guess I can say I eventually found my direction and purpose.

We’re still here, we’re still married, and we’re still kicking.

So, “Happy 20th Anniversary” from Wally to Priscilla. It’s been quite a ride, and it’s not over yet. I think I’ll put on 42nd Street when I get home tonight.

I hated my job at that stupid diner, but I have to admit, the benefits were pretty good.

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