A reflection on returning to love after a long season of solitude, and the tender courage it takes to open again.

After Years Without a Real Date

He asked. She accepted.
Butterflies, fluttering like elephants in her guts.
She hasn’t gone on a real date in years.
Keeping it old school feels remote—a relic.
She thought she folded those hapless desires away
in her hope chest, slid them under her bed—
out of sight, out of mind. Really?
She imagined it, visualized it, prayed for it.
She formed a cocoon, gently preparing
for something real, beautiful, enduring.
For him to hold her hand and depart the planet
on the Cadillac plan.
She hasn’t gone on a real date in years.
The romantic landscape looks like a moonscape—
no light, no gravity, just debris floating in the air
of hookups and hiccups, promises kept, promises broken.
Always compromising, negotiating the unequal distribution of wealth—
yours, mine, ours.
Holding on so tightly you end up giving it all away,
the gritty, rough, tumbling stuff of life.

She hasn’t gone on a real date in years.
She’s grown accustomed to her space in time.
She loves her tribe, her vibe, her hive, her way of moving—
then she sees him, that look, that slight arch of brow,
and her whole system flares.
She gets duped by those conditioned thoughts,
subtle expectations and demands
of how this is supposed to be, with the strident refrain:
You’re not doing this right—right, right?
Which can bury any seedling of a relationship.
The gritty, rough, tumbling stuff of life
seated deep in the soul that wants only to be,
to breathe deeply,
to lean into the possibility,
to feel safe with you.

A reflection for two hearts learning how to tie their lives into one rhythm, one promise, one daily yes.

Tying the Knot

They say love is simple —who on earth says that. For some, it’s a knot. For others, it’s a Gordian knot.

Anyone who has ever tried to build a life with another knows that simple is the last thing love is.

Love is a knot —not the tangled kind, but the kind of cord you learn to twist on purpose.

The kind of knot that holds. 

Gigi’s mother once told me a story-about wanting to learn to sail at Camp Fireside. She was ready for the wind, ready for the water, ready for the feeling of being carried by wind and water. The knots, the sails, the helm — all of it looked cool.

But she never left the dock. Not that day. Not until she learned the knots. Because anyone with time on the water —whether on a sailboat or a ship —knows this truth: you don’t get underway until you know how to secure what matters.

Every beginner learns a few essential knots —the figure‑eight, so nothing slips away; the bow-line, so what you fasten stays fastened; the cleat hitch, so the boat stays steady when it’s time to rest.

These knots keep the craft secure. They keep the line where it belongs. They keep the sailor safe. 

And love works the same way.

You don’t raise a sail until you know how to fasten it. And you don’t trust the wind

until you trust the work of your own hands.

Because, beginnings aren’t always gentle. Some couples start on calm water. Others begin in a season that tests them early —a season that asks quiet questionsabout steadiness,about presence,about choosing each other when the future tilts. 

And they choose. 

Quietly.

Steadily.

Without spectacle.

The kind of choosing that doesn’t need an audience to make it real. Some couples learn their knots in gentle weather.

You tied yours in the wind.

And today, Eugenia and Ryan, as you stand here —already married, already bound by life, already weathered in ways that have strengthened you both —you are choosing again.

Choosing each other. Choosing the life you’ve begun. Choosing the people who stand with you now. Choosing the horizon, you’ll face together. 

Because a life like this, isn’t held together by chance, but by intention,by the work of your own hands, and by the grace that meets you-in places you cannot control. 

And as you prepare to tie the knot, let this truth be spoken plainly:

A cord like this isn’t held together by human love alone.There is a third strand —the One who eases the strain when the wind pulls hard —the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete, the Presence who stands at your back, watching the waters behind you, steadying what you cannot see when the storm shifts, and splicing strength into every season you’ve lived and every season still to come. 

So as you stand here now, with the cord in your hands and the people who love you at your back, may you remember this: 

Love is not a feeling you chase.

It is a life you make. A steady choosing. A quiet returning. A daily knotting of what is good, noble, and true.

And may that daily knot holdfast in every season to come.

Amen.