The Setlist That Made Us

What an average concert taught me about 16 years of marriage

Our wedding day. 08/01/09

Opening Act: Love in the Quiet Moments

A couple of weeks ago, Abbie and I found ourselves in the middle of a packed T-Mobile Center in downtown Kansas City, surrounded by thousands of people waiting for The Lumineers to take the stage. It was our way of celebrating sixteen years of marriage (August 1st), and we were joined by some of our closest friends. The show was fine…not life-changing, but solid enough that we were glad we went (though probably wouldn’t need to see them again). What struck me wasn’t so much the performance itself, but what it got me thinking about while we were there. I looked over at Abbie during one of the quieter songs and found myself reflecting on the sixteen years behind us. There have been seasons that felt loud and exhilarating, the kind of moments you want to last forever, but so much of our story has been written in the quieter verses.

The Bridge: When the Music Slows Down

But what really got me thinking wasn’t the show itself, but how it made me reflect on the rhythm of our life together. Standing there with Abbie, I thought about how much of our sixteen years has felt more like those quieter songs than the big anthems…the ordinary days that don’t make it onto anyone’s Instagram highlight reel. Steady rhythms that sound more like the dishwasher running than anything else. The kind of moments that rarely get a standing ovation but somehow carry the whole story.

What struck me is how much beauty those quiet moments have held. If I only looked back on the highlights…the anniversaries, the milestones, the mountaintop experiences…I’d be missing the heart of our story. The dinners at home where we actually talked instead of scrolling our phones (a minor miracle), the long conversations after the kids were finally asleep and we could speak in full sentences again, the mornings we managed to get everyone out the door in one piece without forgetting anyone’s lunch or homework (victory lap around the kitchen island). These verses don’t always make the highlight reel, but they hold the song together like a good bass line…you don’t always notice it, but without it, everything falls apart.

Verse Two: The Beauty of the Everyday

We live in a world that celebrates the big moments. Promotions, vacations, new houses, picture-perfect date nights that look like they were staged by a lifestyle blogger. Those matter, of course, but they aren’t the whole story. Life is made in the steady rhythm of everyday faithfulness, in showing up when nobody’s watching and there’s no applause waiting at the end. The quiet is not a sign that nothing is happening; it’s where roots grow deep, like a tree that’s too busy growing strong to worry about putting on a show.

August 2024 / Downtown Kansas City

That night at the concert, as the music played and the crowd settled into the experience, I thought about how much of our life has been shaped in the ordinary moments that nobody writes songs about.

It reminded me of the moment in Mark 6 when Jesus fed the five thousand with what looked like the world’s most inadequate picnic. The disciples looked around and saw only five loaves of bread and two fish…basically a light snack that wouldn’t even satisfy a particularly hungry teenager. Nothing about that seemed impressive. But Jesus took what was offered and made it more than enough, turning a meager meal into a miracle that left everyone satisfied with leftovers to spare.

It strikes me that this is often how God works in our lives…not always through dramatic signs or mountaintop experiences, but through the small offerings of our everyday existence. A shared meal that tastes better because we’re eating it together (even if it’s Little Caesar’s pizza again), a conversation at the end of a long day when we’re both too tired to be anything but honest, the kind of love that shows up quietly and consistently. It may not look like much at the time…but in God’s hands…it becomes something extraordinary.

The Chorus: Sixteen Years of Beautiful Ordinary

Sixteen years in, I see that pattern clearly. The ordinary days have been our loaves and fishes…seemingly small and unremarkable, but somehow always enough when we needed them to be. The moments that seemed insignificant at the time have been multiplied into something far greater than we could have imagined. And just like the crowd on that hillside two thousand years ago, I find myself filled and grateful, amazed at how abundance can come from what looked like almost nothing.

The Lumineers Concert in Kansas City 7/26/25

The Final Verse: For Those in the Quiet Seasons

Maybe you’re in a season right now that doesn’t feel like much. You wake up, go to work, fold the laundry (again), pack lunches, answer emails, and wonder if any of it matters in the grand scheme of things. You might feel like the music has slowed to a crawl…waiting for the chorus that never comes. But those moments are not wasted. They are forming something in you, shaping love like a potter working clay, building faith like a foundation that nobody sees but everything depends on, and teaching you what it means to be steady when the world feels anything but.

God is there in the ordinary, even if the lights aren’t flashing and the crowd isn’t cheering, even when it feels more like rehearsal than the main performance. He’s in the quiet moments, in the small kindnesses that go unnoticed, in the faithful love that shows up day after day without expecting a standing ovation.

Encore: The Song Continues

That’s what I realized as I stood next to Abbie while The Lumineers played, surrounded by all those people but focused on this woman who’s been my partner for sixteen years. Sixteen years in, the highlights are beautiful and worth celebrating (definitely keep the champagne handy for those), but the verses are just as sacred, just as necessary, just as worthy of our attention and gratitude. They’ve taught us patience, given us strength when we didn’t know we needed it, and filled our life with a kind of beauty we couldn’t have seen coming when we first started this story together…two kids who thought they knew what love looked like but had no idea how deep it could go.

As the last song faded I looked at Abbie…this woman who’s been my favorite duet partner for sixteen years, who still laughs at my terrible jokes, and pretends not to notice when I sing off-key. Our life together hasn’t been a perfect performance; we’ve missed our cues, forgotten our lines, and occasionally stepped on each other’s toes (literally and metaphorically). But it has been real, beautifully and messily real.

I wouldn’t trade a single verse…not the quiet ones, not the loud ones, not even the awkward bridge sections where we weren’t sure where the song was going. They’re all part of the same beautiful composition, and the music is still playing.

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