There are moments in life that settle into memory so firmly that they might as well have been written there by hand. One of my earliest is the sight of a new girl stepping into Mrs. Cope's third-grade classroom on the first day of school. I remember the way the morning sunlight spilled across her face, lighting up a spray of freckles scattered like constellations—marks of someone who had been dropped into the world for an adventure. There was something about her—something bright, something impossible to ignore. I was only eight years old but utterly entranced. I didn't have the words for it then, but if I had, I would have called it love. At first, love looked like a childish rivalry—comparing grades, escalating prank wars, and a bee sting that left me sidelined in the nurse's office, where she sat beside me all day. It looked like drifting apart and finding our way back again, like the unlikelihood of an eighth-grade humanities class and a Washington, D.C. trip where I realized, with quiet certainty, that she had never really left my mind. It looked like moving across the alley from her and walking my family's dog by her house so often that even he must have suspected something. By the fall of 2017, love was no longer something we danced around—it was something we named in the form of, "Will you be my girlfriend?" But our story has never been a fairytale, and our love has never been perfect. Our first kiss was in the parking lot of a Panda Express, our first "I love you" came just before a season apart. We have walked through fire, learned what it is to hold fast, and grown into something that is not about just the two of us, but about the One who holds us together. The Lord, in His kindness, has made a way for us through seasons of distance and closeness, immaturity and growth, laughter and hardship. He has brought us back to each other again and again, teaching us how to love with something deeper than feeling—something selfless, something steadfast. On January 8, 2025, I led Margo to the top of a mountain in Beaver Creek. She marveled at the beauty all around us, but I could only look at her, feeling that same wonder I had in third grade. And when I knelt, when I asked the question I hoped I knew the answer to, I knew with unshakeable clarity that I had made the best decision of my life. This story is not ours. It is a testament to a God who redeems, who sustains, who delights in giving good gifts. We are humbled and overjoyed to step into this next chapter, and we cannot wait to celebrate with those we love—the ones who have walked alongside us, prayed for us, and witnessed the miracle of being led, again and again, back to each other.