Joyce Ore55 years of for better and for worse


Fifty-five years ago today, my other half and I were asked if we vowed to stay together for better and for worse. With stars in our eyes, friends and family in church pews and ice cream and cake waiting for us downstairs, little did we know what that simple “yes” really meant.

A few years ago, I broke my right arm just below the elbow. The two of us were sitting in the reception area of the doctor’s office with a lap full of papers asking us for the same information we had filled out during our last visit. When did I have my appendix removed and my tonsils take out? Really? Long before I forgot what I had for breakfast this morning.

With the documents in our hands, we looked at each other and laughed. He couldn’t read the tiny print, and I couldn’t write. For better and for worse.

He drove into the driveway with a vehicle he had seen in the car lot he passed on the way home. Really? I asked. That car lot was on the other side of town. Where did he think we lived? Kansas? I loved the car and years later still think of it as one of the best buys we ever made. For better and for worse.

I love country music and mystery novels; he tolerates George Jones and reads nonfiction. I like vegetables; he likes sweets. I like to dance; he would rather jump off a cliff. He is not above throwing a load of laundry in the wash; I’m not above helping to wash the truck or trim the bushes. I discipline Annabelle, the furry member of the family; he lets her do pretty much anything she wants. For better and for worse.

We brought three daughters into the world and there is not a day that goes by that we aren’t proud of who they are and the values they hold. We would like to think their growing up days were filled with far more of the “better” than the “worse.”

We entered this union two young people with no idea of the conflicts we would face, the sorrows we would share. Neither did we know the joys, the love, the blessings that simple “yes” would bring.

For better and for worse.



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