Renewal of wedding vows

I married you on a day when I did not really know what I was promising. I know now.

I take you again — the same person, and not the same person at all. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. I have seen most of those now, and I would choose you in every one of them.

This was my vow. It still is.

Everything I promised you, I promise again. Not because the first time didn’t take — because it did, and I would like to say it out loud in front of these people one more time.

I’m still yours. I intend to stay that way.

Twenty-five years ago I told you I would love you for the rest of my life. It was a nice thing to say and I had no idea what it meant.

Here is what it meant: three house moves, one bad year we don’t talk about much, two children who are better than either of us, and roughly nine thousand ordinary evenings.

I would do all of it again. I’m saying it again. I love you, and I’m staying.

I, [name], took you, [name], to be my wife, to have and to hold from that day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.

That was my solemn vow. Today, in front of the people who have watched us keep it, I make it again.

I promised to love you, and I do.

I promised to be faithful to you, and I have been.

I promised to stand by you in the hard years, and there have been hard years, and I stood.

I make all of it again now, knowing the weight of it in a way I could not have known then.

[Name], I married you in front of many of the same faces I can see now. Some are missing. Some are new. All of them have carried us at one point or another.

In front of them, I promise you again what I promised then: my love, my loyalty, my patience, and every ordinary day I have left. I am grateful beyond saying that you said yes the first time.

[Name], I reaffirm the vow I made to you on [date]. I take you as my husband for the rest of my life, and I intend to keep every word of it, as I have tried to keep it since.

I chose you. I choose you now. I will keep choosing you.

That’s the whole vow, and I mean every word of it.

I promise to keep loving you, keep listening to you, keep turning towards you instead of away. Same promise as last time. Better idea now of what it takes.

Everything I said then, I say again now, and I’ll say it again in another twenty years.

No guests, no fuss, no speeches. Just this: I’m still glad it was you. I would do it again tomorrow. I promise you the rest of it — the whole unremarkable rest of it — and I can’t think of anything I want more.

Ten years ago you married someone who thought he knew what he was doing. He didn’t. You were patient about it.

I know you better now than I knew anyone then. I like you more. So I’m making the same promise with better information: I love you, I’m with you, and I’m not going anywhere.

A quarter of a century. Long enough that most of my life has had you in it, and I can barely remember the shape of the part that didn’t.

You have been the steadiest thing in it. I promise you the next quarter-century, if we get it — and the same patience, the same loyalty, and the same terrible jokes.

Fifty years ago, in front of people we loved, most of whom are gone now, I promised to stay.

I stayed. So did you. We have buried people together and raised people together and sat in silence together more evenings than I could count, and the silence was always good.

I have nothing new to promise you. I only want to say the old one again, out loud, while I can. I love you. I always did.

It isn’t a landmark year. There’s no particular reason to do this except that I wanted to, and I’d rather tell you now than save it for a number.

I love you. I’m still in. Everything I promised you stands, and I wanted these people to hear me say so.

We have not made it here easily, and everyone who loves us knows it. I’m not going to pretend otherwise in front of them.

What I will say is this: I chose you again on the days when it would have been easier not to, and I am choosing you now, in daylight, on purpose. I promise you the work, not just the words.

“In sickness and in health” is a line everybody says and almost nobody has tested when they say it.

We tested it. It held. I want to say it again now that I know what it costs and what it’s worth: in sickness and in health, for whatever we get, I am yours.

I’m not asking you to forget the last few years, and I’m not promising they won’t happen again.

I’m promising that if they do, I will be in the room. I will not go quiet, and I will not go away. That’s the vow. It’s the only one worth making twice.

When I married you there were two of us. There are [number] of us now, and every one of them is the best argument I have for the promise I made.

[Names] — you were the answer to a vow your mother and I made before you existed. I’m making it again today, and this time you get to hear it: I love your mother, I’m staying, and this family is the thing I’m proudest of.

I married you and I got a family, and I have never once thought of it as a trade.

I promise you again what I promised then, and I promise it to [names] too: I am here, I am steady, and I am not going anywhere. You are all mine to look after and you always will be.

[Names], your dad and I made a promise before you were born. Today we’re making it again, in front of you, so you know exactly what it sounds like.

I promise to keep loving him, keep this house standing, and keep the door open no matter how old you get or how far you go.

When I married you I promised to love you for better or worse. In the interest of accuracy, the worse has included your driving, my cooking, and eleven years of a sofa you swore you liked.

I’d take all of it again. I love you. I’m re-signing, with no amendments and no complaints. Well. Few complaints.

The original agreement has performed well and I am exercising my option to extend it indefinitely, on the same terms, with no renegotiation.

You are stuck with me. I’m delighted about it. I love you very much.

We got married in eleven minutes at a courthouse with two strangers as witnesses, and I have regretted exactly none of it except that none of you were there.

So: same promise, better venue, and a considerably better lunch. [Name], I love you. I did then. I do now. That’s all I came to say.