Recently, I found myself stuck in the waiting line at the Apple Store in the mall—because, of course, when my husband passed away nearly two years ago, he took all the passwords and, honestly, pretty much all the technological know-how about our home computers, iPads, and every other device with him. I am hopeless when it comes to navigating the labyrinth of “general/settings/preferences” on anything in this house. So, there I was, sitting and waiting for someone to help me untangle my Apple ID issues, which were pushing me dangerously close to the point of throwing my computer out a window.
As the tech tried to help me—completely reloading my phone, which, unsurprisingly, didn’t fix a thing—she placed a young woman next to me who needed help with her AirPods. Airpod girl and the tech began chatting, and soon the conversation turned to Airpod girl’s upcoming wedding. You couldn’t miss the massive diamond engagement ring sparkling on her left hand. She talked about wedding planning, dress shopping frustrations, and annoyances with bridesmaids—the classic bridezilla-type moments that, as an older woman, I knew would ultimately mean very little. She rattled on for twenty minutes about things like, “Can you believe they wanted to charge $200 more for the dress in Columbus than here?!” and I sat there, trying to quietly keep my calm.
But I couldn’t. I finally broke. I know, I know—I shouldn’t have interrupted her little wedding planning rant, and I don’t need anyone to remind me now that I should have stayed silent. But I just couldn’t help it. I looked at her and said, gently, “You know, someday you’re going to see that none of this matters. None of the things you’re fretting over now—every annoyance, every small worry—will matter one bit in the end.”
I told her that I was a widow and that I knew a little about weddings but a lot more about marriage, even if it was a little too late for me. I explained that the only thing that truly matters is whether you can see yourself standing beside this person through every possible circumstance—thick or thin, wealthy or poor, with healthy children or sick, with difficult in-laws or perfect ones, and God forbid, even facing terminal illness.
“Will you still look at him with love when he can no longer speak, when his body is frail and failing? Will you still hold it together as you hand him fistfuls of medicine every day, knowing the happy times may be over? Would you say yes to it all over again, even knowing you might only get fifteen years together?” I asked her. “Because, sweet Airpod girl, I was exactly where you are seventeen years ago—obsessed with church flowers, dress fittings, and DJ playlists that might not be followed, worrying about a thousand little things I thought had to go perfectly.”
Nobody told me that someday, none of that stuff would matter. Nobody told me that my biggest regret wouldn’t be the wedding details at all—it would be time. Time to share, time to laugh, time to travel, time to love fully with my kids, time to simply be together.
The health of your marriage, and of yourself, should be your only concern. All the rest is just noise. Sure, it might help if your future husband writes down all his passwords and computer tricks, just in case—but truly, nothing you worry about now will ever matter. What you should treasure, and what you should spend your energy on, is time together—every moment, big or small, simple or extraordinary. That is what matters.
