Moon River, wider than a mile,

I’m crossing you in style some day.

Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker,

wherever you’re going I’m going your way.

Two drifters off to see the world.

There’s such a lot of world to see.

We’re after the same rainbow’s end —

waiting ‘round the bend,

my huckleberry friend,

Moon River and me.

— Music by Henry Mancini, lyrics by Johnny Mercer

Twenty-five years ago I walked down a church aisle to make public a series of vows Matt and I had written in private to each other prior to our wedding. I remember being filled with such joy I had to gather all the willpower I possessed to stop a massive flow of tears, because I don’t cry with elegance. I remember the heat of that summer day in July, 1981, and detecting a surprising charge of energy in the air as we took our places at the front of the church.

And I remember looking into the eyes of the young man I had fallen in love with eight years before and experiencing a heavenly blessing of unreserved conviction: that we could give ourselves to each other — heart, soul, mind and body — and trust each other with the gifts God had given us both at the time of our births.

They were all there: Dr. Balding, the OB/GYN who had delivered us both. Our grandmothers. My dance teacher, the old Broadway performer, who twirled me around the dance floor later that day. Our neighbors, who had watched us grow up. Teachers. Family members. Colleagues of our parents. College friends. To them, in some ways, it might have been experienced as yet another wedding. Perhaps they even wondered privately if we’d be able to keep our promises, for some in the crowd understood what realm of possibilities awaited us as we vowed to become two drifters, off to see the world.

Even we did not fully understand all that we were promising that day in front of nearly 350 family and friends, seated in the pews of our hometown church. How could we? We had only lived in the relative safety of our family homes and college settings. And yet, I know that one of the best decisions we ever made was voiced that very day — in our youth.

Present in our relationship were those relational tensions geneticists claim continue the species: there was spark, no doubt — mysterious and private for only us to enjoy. But there was also sustained friendship, born during high school and developed further when we chose different college paths, requiring us to spend years apart except for occasional visits and scores of letters we exchanged. There was our common childhood history as we grew up just eight houses apart. There was an understanding that we expressed ourselves with different styles and intended to pursue dramatically different interests. There was loyalty, identified as we matured during our formative years and by personality testing conducted during premarital counseling.

Above all else, I know we would not be marking our silver anniversary had we not shared a faith in Christ — serving as the foundation to our relationship as a dating couple and today as a married one. We choose faith because we are sinners, saved by God’s grace. Sound complicated and religious? I don’t intend it to. It’s a basic fact in our relationship: we readily acknowledge that we are as vulnerable and human as the rest. We believe that God brought us together and gave us gifts intended to be used in our marriage, in our efforts to parent children, in our roles as family members, in the lives of our friends, and in our choices to work and serve in our community. Yet there is also a realization that we don’t have all it takes. In spite of our failings God offers us a relationship with him as a gift, not one we earned or deserve. We believe we were both created with deficits that we fill with Christ rather than money, power, or prestige. Or drugs and alcohol or excessive and wasteful time spent mindlessly entertaining ourselves with all that is available with cell phones, iPods, and Internet use. And certainly not aided by a constant look for other humans to fill ever-changing needs.

Our 25 years together have been filled with mountaintop glories and valley trudges through the muck. That’s because faith in Christ does not exempt us from struggle. But when there are rough stretches, we remind ourselves that God is doing something in us and those around us. He’s at work: He’s refining, teaching, preparing us for an eternity with purpose.

In spite of all the changes 25 years has brought us, my heart burst with anticipation on Monday of this week when I surprised Matt with a visit to Boy Scout camp, bringing supplies the troop had inadvertently left behind. I loved looking at him across the camp picnic table, brightened by a Coleman lamp.

We’re after the same rainbow’s end—

waiting ‘round the bend,

my huckleberry friend,

Matt Klope and me.