I always feel a little weird about Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. It is not because I don’t think we should celebrate the late civil rights icon. We absolutely should celebrate his work and the work of so many others. His passion for justice, his commitment to nonviolent resistance, and the light of his theological imagination should be guides for us even today.

I still remember reading his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” for the first time. It was like he had unlocked something I had not yet understood about the link between the Christian faith and justice. And about how the silence of white churches was as complicit in racial inequality as those who defended Jim Crow with billy club, burning cross, and unjust law.

What makes me feel weird on this day is the way in which his words and legacy are boiled down to little inspirational aphorisms. Everyone does it. Many who make these posts do it with sincerity. Yet there are many corporations and politicians that do it because that is what you are supposed to do. We slap his picture and a quote about choosing love or doing the right thing and it makes you for a moment seem righteous.

My Granddad came to pick me up one day after school when my parents were out of town. I was probably 13 or 14 years old. I had a CD player in the front room with me and being a very earnest mid-90s evangelical who wanted to be seen as mature, I was listening to Caedmon’s Call. You don’t need to know who they were just that the song that was playing when my Granddad came in the house had the refrain “This world has nothing for me / And this world has everything / All that I could want / And nothing that I need.”

As we got in the car, Granddad asked what I was listening to and I began philosophizing about the song. In my best attempt at profundity, I explained that our minds as Christians are supposed to be solely on heaven and when our gaze is on the eternal then we realize that this world indeed has nothing for us. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. In a very humble, straightforward way that likely had been with him since his farming days in Florida, Granddad simply said, “Well, there are loved ones.” After a moment of silence I mumbled, “Oh…yeah…you’re right.”

That conversation is never far from my mind. It is a core memory for me. Granddad believed fervently in following God in all that he did. My dad told me during a recent stint in the hospital that Granddad, while in great pain, would be praying and thanking God for the doctors, the nurses, and his children. Yet he never believed this world had nothing for him. Granddad demonstrated throughout his life that one of the main ways you love God is by loving the people around you.

I keep catching myself with a stupid grin on my face this morning. The Atlanta Braves won the World Series. This was not supposed to happen.

They never sniffed a winning record until August 6. One of their star pitchers never saw the mound all season due to injuries. Their best player who was in the midst of a MVP-caliber year was lost in July. Their general manager overhauled a decimated outfield at the trade deadline when other teams, teams with better records were selling out to wait for next year.

They ground it out, hung around in a weak division, started to string together wins, and found their way to NL East pennant in the last week of the season. That was supposed to be it. At 88 wins, there were teams that missed the playoffs with better records than Atlanta.

So no one really expected anything out of this team in the postseason. Few predicted they would make it out of the first round against Milwaukee. Not to mention they were Atlanta team and Atlanta teams have become known across sports for their ignominious playoff failures. Every time the Braves lost, sportswriters and fans knew that the other shoe was dropping.

Except every time Atlanta lost, they came out the next game and won.

So here’s the thing that you need to understand about being an elementary school kid in the late 80s/early 90s: we were led to believe that drugs were going to be constantly pushed on us. Our teachers told us this. Nancy Reagan told us this. TV shows told us this. Cartoon characters told us this a lot.

I still remember the PSA starring the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles where they showed a video of a kid named Tommy being offered weed. Donatello and company talked us through how to say no. That’s where I learned that “I’m not a chicken! You’re a turkey!” was going to be the kiss-off line that would save me from some mullet-headed, jean jacket-wearing fifth grade drug kingpin.

This is not to make light of drug addiction nor to gloss over the complicated legacy of the War on Drugs, both of which are serious issues. It’s just that I was told that I was going to need all this drug-resistance education because I would one day be bombarded with every illegal substance known to humanity. Except it never happened.

Until today.

My first concrete memory of EA Ferree was the night I turned 19. We had met before then but when you get chucked into a lake with a person that memory tends to take primacy. It was tradition at Furman—the college we both attended—for one to be forcibly thrown into the campus lake on his or her birthday. When my time for this ritual came, our mutual friend Justin remarked that E.A.'s birthday was 3 days away. Two birds, one stone, a bigger splash.

It was probably half a year later before I would have thought of EA as a good friend. Another four or five months after that when I started falling hard for her. Summer after our sophomore year, I did such a horrendous job asking her out that she had to ask for clarification. Three years, 2 months, and 16 days after the lake, we got married and that was 16 years ago today.

I was 19 when this amazing woman came into my life and now I am 38 and change. We crossed a threshold. We have now been part of each other’s stories for over half our lives. For some reason, it is wild for me to reflect on that. It becomes more difficult to remember life before EA and I cannot imagine a future without her.