It was a February afternoon of remarkable incongruity—a winter’s day more suited to spring, with snow melting faster than the good citizens of Kalamazoo or their hapless infrastructure were prepared to accommodate. As runoff gathered in curious rivulets and puddled where it ought not, a sequence of small, well-meaning phone calls unfolded. First to a friend, and then to another. And thus, Gregory Olsen found himself ankle-deep in icy water in the basement of 534 Parker Avenue, wearing an expression that switched somewhere between curiosity and regret. The friend in question, Logan, had phoned for urgent assistance in staving off a deluge in his rapidly flooding bathroom. But in the kaleidoscope of fateful details, the waterlogged situation held one unforeseen saving grace: Katelyn, whose charm and beauty were altogether disarming—even in such waterlogged circumstances. So much so that Greg, as if overtaken by some gravitational force, performed a double take. Then, unable to restrain himself, a third, this one far less subtle. Collecting what remained of his dignity—no doubt swirling somewhere in the water at his feet—Greg introduced himself as a medical student and an acquaintance of Logan's, while making no mention of the fact that he was smitten almost instantaneously. The weeks that followed saw Greg and Logan deepening their friendship in a time-honored manner—through games of cribbage played with unmatched intensity on the back porch. Rarely did Katelyn join them, but when she did, Greg made no secret to himself or his closest confidants of his appreciation for her presence. However, remaining content to simply relish in these small moments was not the plan of circumstance, as Kalamazoo’s infrastructure once again had other plans. October arrived with a crispness befitting its reputation, and with it, another call for assistance. Logan, ever a curator of opportunity, asked Greg to rescue Katelyn from the predicament of a flat tire—an injury to her trusty, if decrepit, car, courtesy of Kalamazoo’s pothole-riddled streets. Dropping everything immediately in the attempt to make another good impression (however if asked, he will use the word “begrudgingly”) Greg rushed to help. Much to his dismay, Greg discovered a tire so obstinate that it seemed less an automotive inconvenience and more a challenge issued by Fate itself. What followed was a battle of wills: two hours, three hammers, one can of penetrating fluid, and the questionable dignity of a spare tire later, Katelyn was back on the road. As for Greg? He walked away with a prize far more meaningful—a phone number. The events that followed lacked the drama of melting snow and stuck tires, but they possessed a quiet splendor all their own: a coffee date, a dinner, countless walks with our dear dog Lucy, and the kind of gradual, profound alignment of two lives that feels both inevitable and extraordinary. Two years later, on a clear September morning at trail marker 2,000 along the Pacific Crest Trail—elevation 7,000 feet—Greg dropped to one knee, a ring in hand, as the expanse of their future stretched out before them. There were tears, yes, but also laughter, joy, and a certain assurance that circumstance and love had carried them precisely where they were meant to be. We invite you to join us as we celebrate the union of two lives woven together by humor, happenstance, and a shared readiness for adventure—a beginning as radiant and enduring as any story worth telling.