Yes

You had planned to propose to me in Pittsburgh, at the point of confluence where two rivers join and make a new river.  It's a beautiful place--a towering fountain marks the spot, and a peaceful memorial park sprawls over the pointed bit of land where a mighty fort once stood.  It's a place full of romance and symbolic imagery.  It's a perfect place for a proposal.

But what happened was so much better.

You woke up sick on a Thursday and couldn't go to work.  I wasn't having the best day either, and I was sending you commonplace texts while I was at school.  I was hoping I would get to see you, and I wanted to bring you some leftover peanut-broccoli-and-chicken stir fry that I made the night before.  I didn't think it would fix your head cold, but it was all I could think of to show you I loved you and wanted you to feel better.  

After class I packed up the stir fry and drove to your place.  When I came in the door everything was dark, and I barely got the tupperware to your kitchen without tripping.  I turned around and saw you smiling at me in your sweatpants and T-shirt, and you reached out for my hand.  I stumbled across the room toward you with a tired smile.  I was happy to be with you.

I didn't know you had been talking with the Lord a few moments before.  He was telling you that this is real life, and this is what marriages are built on.  He was telling you that most days of married life look like this one--someone has a head cold, someone has a frustrating day at school, someone has stir fry to share.  He showed you that if I said yes to you in sweat pants and with a head cold, then I would say yes to you for the rest of real life.

So you looked at me for a long time, and I started getting suspicious.  You whispered, "I want to spend my life with you."  Then you knelt on the carpet and picked up a box beside you, and your voice broke just a little when you said, "Will you marry me?"

I didn't even see the ring.  I was on my knees with my arms around your neck as soon as the words left your mouth.

Yes.

We sat cross-legged in front of each other and laughed and talked and cried.  It was a quiet day.  We listened to the rain and smiled sleepily at one another.  It was the best day I can remember.

The point of confluence is not always marked by fountains and memorial parks.  Two lives become one in quiet ways, in the dreary and normal events of real life.  I remember seeing the narrow stripe of current where the two rivers meet in Pittsburgh.  If you weren't paying close attention you might miss it.  Just a thin slice of water that sometimes catches the sun and shines silver.  Quiet, small and constant.  That is the point of confluence.  The fountain is just the symbol.    

Yes.  Yes to rainy Thursdays, yes to head colds and peanut stir fry.  Yes to mountains and valleys, to the ends of long days and the beginnings of new days.  Yes to loving you at the big fountain and in a dark apartment.  Yes to life, rich in all its ups and downs, its pains and tender joys.

I love you.