Supposedly rain on your wedding day is good luck.

We laughed and shrugged and gave up the idea of pictures in our garden. The jewel yellow and orange nasturtiums that spilled over the cake shone bright on that dim day. We weren’t worried about luck. We had love.

I questioned the idea of luck on our second anniversary when we sat in a crowded Thai restaurant within walking distance from the hospital where our son had been in the ICU for three weeks.

I questioned it on our third anniversary when grief continued to swirl between the two of us, locking our tongues, tripping up our words. As I sipped my water, I understood we were lucky to have gotten pregnant again, quickly and easily, but I had no confidence or trust.

Today as I contemplate the rain falling and remember how hard it came down nine years ago, how people were late because there was so much water on the roads and visibility was so limited, I don’t believe in luck.

But I hold the fullness that we have packed into these nine years

Three children born, one buried.

Months of hospital life and living hours apart.

Family illness, more funerals.

Buying a canoe; struggling to learn to paddle together.

Long afternoons of shushing and swaddling.

Years of not sleeping.

Stories read, made up, remembered, retold.

Chilis bubbling on the stove, chicken pot pies browning up in the oven. Finding our rhythm again in the kitchen.

First tastes of ice cream and family outings in that green canoe.

Dancing—crazy made up swing at our wedding and dancing later with our girls on dark winter evenings in the living room.

Today the storm has passed; the sun is shining, the sky a deep blue. We’ve walked nine years together, sunshine and storm. Nine years, and despite all the statistics thrown at us in the hospital, we’re still dancing, still cooking, still writing our story together. Nine full years, not luck, but life.



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Share your own story of good times and bad. Does one overpower? Or do both parts hold their own?