March 19 would have been my 48th wedding anniversary. It wasn’t, because my wife passed away 18 months ago.
While I miss her greatly, it is OK because the time we had together was good. I never regretted our marriage, and I was fortunate to have known her. I suppose that we will meet again. I hope so.
The words that I feel are ours, are “marriage,” “husband” and “wife.” My wife was a woman. I am a man. We entered into both a religious and legal partnership that was a marriage. The husband in this relationship is a man, and the wife is a woman.
Recently, there is much going on about same-sex individuals becoming married. Bless their hearts, I am all for it. They have every right to join into a binding legal and religious union. No one should die alone.
What I am against is using the words that have always connoted an opposite-sex relationship. A union between same sex individuals should not be called a marriage. Call it something else.
A man should not call another man his wife or husband. A woman should not call another woman her wife or husband.
Those words are ours. They were my wife’s, and they were mine. Let them be.