Copper and Wool

On August 27, 2005, Anna and I were joined by a big group of friends and family on a bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. While there, Anna and I made promises to one another and exchanged rings that we still wear today.


I wish I had kept a newspaper from that day to remember some more of the details. It would help to paint the picture. It was hot and humid, and there were a few clouds in the sky. I would have hoped that I could remember every detail about the Earth’s rotations, ebbs, and flowings that day, but I don’t.

Instead, I have very particular memories about people and feelings about that day—probably like you do about the best days in your life.

I remember my brother, Gary, T, and me searching for the key to the house that we were staying in (I don’t remember if we ever found it).

I remember hugging each of my buddies that made the trip to be in my wedding. I remember my voice cracking at one point during the ceremony, and I distinctly recall promising my soon-to-be mother-in-law that I would take care of her daughter and feeling that she actually believed me.

But, most of all, I remember Anna making her appearance from across the green and the way I felt. It was so strange to be in front of two hundred or so of my favorite people on the planet and feel like no other person was around but the white-adorned beauty slowly floating towards you. There are other memories (admittedly, most of the day is a blur), but none of them as easily recalled and felt to this day as that one.

Seven years have now passed since that day. We recently visited the place where we were married. There is still a slight wind that constantly twists across the bluff, and the grass is still slightly worn where others have no doubt stood and made the same sort of promises we did. But in our most recent visit, I had the opportunity to walk with Anna across that same green from seven years ago—this time with our children in tow. There are some things you will never forget.

Happy anniversary, Anna.