Dear Debbie, 

Before we ever said “I do,” we walked side by side as friends—learning each other’s laughter, quirks, and quiet strengths. But on June 6, 1981, we took a new kind of step. That day was the beginning of us as one—the start of a journey only God could have scripted.

Now, forty-four years later, I reflect not just on the time, but on the steps we’ve taken. Some steady. Some stumbling. Some slow and sacred. Some breathless and brave. All of them—together.

Florida gave us our early rhythm: waves crashing as background music, the salty breeze tangling our hair, and the unmistakable crack of a baseball bat echoing through spring afternoons. We walked sandy shores, cheered from bleachers, and found ourselves in the middle of church services where the Spirit whispered to us both. We made everyday life sacred—morning routines, evening conversations, favorite shows, shared playlists, and late-night laughs. Those ordinary steps became holy ground.

Georgia brought new steps—up mountain trails to waterfalls, through long walks in quiet neighborhoods, and down roads that took us to friends, churches, and new stages of life. Each location gave us scenes and sounds I still carry: the percussion of a basketball bouncing on hardwood; the hum of conversation on road trips; the smell of your French toast on holiday mornings; and yes, the quiet anxiety in your eyes every time we boarded an airplane.

We’ve also endured storms in both Florida and Georgia. Not just the hurricanes that swept across the coast or the thunderstorms that rattled Southern afternoons—but the storms that settled into our lives and stayed. My major illness arrived in Florida and rewrote our plans. It altered how we lived, how we dreamed, how we rested. And you—without applause or complaint—walked through it with me. Every appointment. Every unknown. Every exhausted day. You were steadfast.

Other storms followed, with your own health challenges—one after another. Each one demanding more strength than most could give. But you carried them with grace and grit. And even when you were weak, you kept serving. Kept praying. Kept loving.

I remember our years of aching hope—when the longing for children lingered heavy, and the waiting felt endless. But in the mystery of God’s timing, our family came. Three sons. Three new reasons to celebrate, to worry, to rejoice. We learned new rhythms then—bedtime routines, ball games, and hallway talks. And later, their wedding steps. Now, grandkids have given us a new soundtrack: laughter, footsteps, squeals of joy as they run toward us.

We’ve taken steps in joy and in grief, in conversation and in silence. We’ve walked hospital halls, vacation trails, and airports. We’ve shared playlists, sat in waiting rooms, and finished one more episode of a show we’ve seen before. We’ve wept at funerals and whispered prayers in the dark. We’ve stayed when it would’ve been easier to run.

Thank you, Debbie. For every step.

For choosing the long road of love.

For walking beside me—when I was strong and when I wasn’t.

For embodying the faith that doesn’t just speak, but endures.

You are steady where life is shifting. You are soft where the world is hard. You are strength wrapped in kindness.

This is a letter for you, but also a window for others who might wonder if love can last. If it’s worth it. I say yes. Yes to the questions. Yes to the scars. Yes to the awe. Yes to every single step—as we walk side by side.

Happy Anniversary, 

Chris