Mr. and Mrs. American Fork

Today is my 17th wedding anniversary. I gave Greg two forks in honor of a speech we heard all the way back in 2003 and jointly loved. The speech is often referred to as "The Parable of the Silverware" and the speaker had been married for 47 years when he told this story about his wife:

We started as poor college students, but her vision for our marriage was exemplified by a set of silverware.

As is common today, when we married she registered with a local department store. Instead of listing all the pots and pans and appliances we needed and hoped to receive, she chose another course. She asked for silverware. She chose a pattern and the number of place settings and listed knives, forks, and spoons on the wedding registry and nothing else. No towels, no toasters, no television—just knives, forks, and spoons.

The wedding came and went. Our friends and our parents’ friends gave gifts. We departed for a brief honeymoon and decided to open the presents when we returned. When we did so, we were shocked. There was not a single knife or fork in the lot. We joked about it and went on with our lives.

Two children came along while we were in law school. We had no money to spare. But when my wife worked as a part-time election judge or when someone gave her a few dollars for her birthday, she would quietly set it aside, and when she had enough she would go to town to buy a fork or a spoon. It took us several years to accumulate enough pieces to use them. When we finally had service for four, we began to invite some of our friends for dinner.

Before they came, we would have a little discussion in the kitchen. Which utensils would we use, the battered and mismatched stainless or the special silverware? In those early days I would often vote for the stainless. It was easier. You could just throw it in the dishwasher after the meal, and it took care of itself. The silver, on the other hand, was a lot of work. My wife had it hidden away under the bed where it could not be found easily by a burglar. She had insisted that I buy a tarnish-free cloth to wrap it in. Each piece was in a separate pocket, and it was no easy task to assemble all the pieces. When the silver was used, it had to be hand washed and dried so that it would not spot, and put back in the pockets so it would not tarnish, and wrapped up and carefully hidden again so it would not get stolen. If any tarnish was discovered, I was sent to buy silver polish, and together we carefully rubbed the stains away.

Over the years we added to the set, and I watched with amazement how she cared for the silver. My wife was never one to get angry easily. However, I remember the day when one of our children somehow got hold of one of the silver forks and wanted to use it to dig up the backyard. That attempt was met with a fiery glare and a warning not to even think about it. Ever!

I noticed that the silverware never went to the many ward dinners she cooked, or never accompanied the many meals she made and sent to others who were sick or needy. It never went on picnics and never went camping. In fact it never went anywhere; and, as time went by, it didn’t even come to the table very often. Some of our friends were weighed in the balance, found wanting, and didn’t even know it. They got the stainless when they came to dinner.

The time came when we were called to go on a mission. I arrived home one day and was told that I had to rent a safe-deposit box for the silver. She didn’t want to take it with us. She didn’t want to leave it behind. And she didn’t want to lose it.

For years I thought she was just a little bit eccentric, and then one day I realized that she had known for a long time something that I was just beginning to understand. If you want something to last forever, you treat it differently. You shield it and protect it. You never abuse it. You don’t expose it to the elements. You don’t make it common or ordinary. If it ever becomes tarnished, you lovingly polish it until it gleams like new. It becomes special because you have made it so, and it grows more beautiful and precious as time goes by.  

Eternal marriage is just like that. We need to treat it just that way.

Maybe I loved this because I, too, have full silver service for 12 after registering, saving, and purchasing for over a decade. (Okay, I only have two cocktail forks because shrimp is nasty and I don't need 12 of those.) I have pulled out the mahogany box lined with blue felt and set my silverware next to Waterford and Wedgwood many times...but only for special times.

These forks are going in our box (even though they aren't silver) and are for eating anniversary treats only. This year Mrs. enjoyed a red velvet Nothing Bundt Cakes bundtlet and Mr. enjoyed the lemon version. I had planned on making rustic berry tarts with fresh whipped cream but that didn't happen because I am getting induced today and my mind is elsewhere. Luckily Greg is easy to please.

I will never forget the summer day we got married in St. Louis. We were young, dewy lovebirds at the time and had no idea what complexity and challenges were headed our way. No matter. Complexity and challenges have come but by choosing to work through them together our love has similarly become more complex and binding.

David O. McKay said, "The best thing a father can do for his daughter is to love her mother." I am going to have a son in mere hours. I suspect the converse of the McKay quote is true, that the best thing a mother can do for her son is to love his father. I love my son's father!

Greg is my Eternal Fork and if I start seeing him as tarnished it's my own fault. I signed up for the emotional hand wash and drying of a spouse, I alone can wrap him in the felt of a non-toxic environment of pure love, and it is my sacred privilege to store him (and only him) in a special place in my mind and heart. I would do well to remember all Greg does to keep me shiny and how he rarely speaks of me in a negative fashion.

Bundt cakes, forks, lasting love, and a baby boy. Happy Anniversary to us! 

Full speech here. Buy the cool forks here.