Four years ago, a boy with long hair, nice arms, a camera, and a tennis racket asked me out via Facebook message. And I said yes.
That summer we fell in love, over late-night phone calls and walks in the sun. He cherished me in a way I hadn’t known existed, and I bloomed.
That fall, he told me he wanted to marry me. I freaked out, and told him we were not getting engaged until he was out of high school. But I wanted to marry him too.
Two years ago, he knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said, marry me, Juliet you’ll never have to be alone
and I said yes.
We married in January, white and red dresses, tuxedos, love poured out.
They thought we were too young, but they gave in anyway.
Several months later, his parents told us that getting married then was a good thing. We’d known it all along, but we were still so blessed by their words, their approval.
Together, we started learning how hard marriage can be, loving each other through the worst parts of self, of life.
God willing, we’ve only just begun.