In a sentence: Because I'll still wear my marriage when the diamond is gone.
On September 18, 2010 Matthew Dunham led me to a mountain top, waited for the sun to rise, and got down on bended knee to present me with a beautiful diamond ring and to ask me to be his wife. I said yes (several times-- I was genuinely shocked), and let him slide the simple but gorgeous ring onto my finger.
I loved that ring. I still do. I loved watching it refract the morning sunlight on our climb down the mountain. I loved seeing it perched on my steering wheel on the drive home. I loved being surprised to see it when I looked down during the first few days of wearing it.
Last weekend the diamond disappeared. I have no idea where it went or how it fell off. I still have the ring, but one of the prongs on the mount is badly misshapen. It doesn't shine in the morning sunlight anymore. When people exclaim shocked sighs upon seeing it, it's no longer to tell me how beautiful it is or to ask me how Matt proposed-- it's to lament that the diamond is gone. I've had a few people suggest I take it off until we can get the diamond replaced (which is seeming more and more unlikely-- our warranty won't cover it), but I haven't. And, the more I think about, I don't think I will.
When I accepted Matt's proposal and, with it, my diamond, I wasn't JUST taking the diamond, but the whole ring. All of it. Forever. Almost every wedding I've ever been to addresses the symbolism of the wedding ring-- the circle, which represents a commitment without an expiration date-- and, as cliche as it's become, I've internalized that, especially lately.
Having been engaged, and having known several people to get engaged, when people ask you to see your ring afterward, they're really asking to see the diamond. They want to know (even if they don't ask) how big it is-- the clarity, the cut, the carat, etc.
It's exciting. It's new. It glimmers.
But, eventually, vows are exchanged and life goes on and people stop caring about your diamond. It becomes common place, something expected and not anticipated, something good but not new; it's remembered as fondly as last year's Christmas presents.
And so does marriage.
That's right, I wrote it out loud. Marriage loses its luster in the same way a diamond does. It stops being as exciting as it was at first. There are moments when it's not as romantic as you always thought it would be. You come back from the honeymoon and life goes on. And you know what? It's okay. Not only is it okay, but it's normal. Not only is it normal, but it's good.
The beauty of marriage is not the diamond but the ring-- the always steady, never ending, durable hunk of metal that endures washing dishes, changing diapers, manual labor, and paying bills-- the nitty gritty every day things that don't go away just because you got married. The diamond is exciting and beautiful and lusty, but the ring endures-- the ring is the promise-- the commitment to keep being, existing as one unit even when it's lack luster.
There are days when I feel like my marriage is a ring without a diamond, and I'm not ashamed or afraid to say that, because it doesn't mean I love Matt less than I should, or that there's something wrong with our marriage. I'm decidedly thankful for those days, because those are the ones when I'm hyper aware of how much I do, in fact, love him. It's on those days that I know I didn't weave my soul with his because it felt good, but that I did so because I see him and love him still; he sees me and loves me still.
I think if more people understood this about marriage-- if we paid more mind to the "ring" than the "diamond"-- we'd stop having unrealistic expectations of our marriages, and we could appreciate the subtle beauty of something plain.
It is for these reasons I won't stop wearing my diamondless ring.
