"I'll be in a red Jeep." I said. "And I'll be in an orange one." Austin texted back. And with that, I was already smitten. We were meeting up for out first date--a blind date-- at Colorado Mountain Brewery. We both were too young to indulge in any IPAs and I, too cheap to let Austin spend a fortune, somehow convinced him to split a small pizza with me. Following our less-than-hearty dinner, we drove up to my favorite overlook and his Jeep, (of which I already professed my love for), did little to keep out the January night. But it was absolutely enchanting. We've since sold both Jeeps. And moved hundreds of miles from that dear brewery and my favorite outlook. We've hiked out to the woods to read Edgar Allen Poe until our imaginations were fueled to assume the worst from every woodland noise. We've driven to four different McDonalds in a desperate search for a McFlurry at midnight, only to learn the grave truth that McDonald's shuts-off their ice cream machine at 9. We've spent countless hours earning and saving money to build a home for ourselves, only to come home and build blanket forts in the living room. And we've made really, really hard decisions. Like living apart and marrying early. But throughout it all, we've grown up together. And I couldn't ask for more than that. So while this wedding is not so much a celebration of a new marriage, it's a celebration of growing together. Of late-night tears, long lonely days, and waking up on the wrong-side of the bed. It's to celebrate the relational epiphanies, the sacred support, and the forgiveness for when my baked chicken becomes charcoal chicken. Because Lord knows I needed a man who can cook. And this is to celebrate you--those who have been there through it all. Love, Harley and Austin. PS. Yes, now I'll change my last name.