Fingerprint

I moved to Colorado with my kids in the summer of 2017 for a fresh start and a new perspective. My focus at the time was on my kids and, to be honest, just surviving. I had no desire—or money—to be dating. My plans, as usual, were not quite in line with what God had in mind, and I can’t help but smile now at how that played out.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was November 2017, and I had just started a new job in Security / Executive Protection at a large Christian ministry in Colorado Springs, Colorado. I had barely learned how to do the job when I was promptly tasked with teaching a new partner everything I had just learned myself. Fun, right?

Part of my job on campus was access control. During in‑processing, new employees would come to the security office to get their ID and access card. It was during one of these sessions that I saw someone who caught my eye. I was doing my best to train my new partner, all the while distracted and thinking to myself, “Wow, who is this?”

My brain snapped back to the task at hand, and I reminded myself, “No. I don’t date.” My “I don’t date” rule was backed up by an even stricter “I don’t date at work” rule, which made it easy to dismiss the whole thing. As the days, weeks, and months went on, I would see this girl during my normal security rounds. Each time, I felt a flutter in my stomach and thought, “Stop it. This isn’t what you’re here for.” But every time I saw her, it was the same reaction—wow. There was something about her I couldn’t quite name. I was drawn to more than her physical beauty. There was a presence. A glow. Something that was just…different.

As time went on, our paths crossed more often. I found myself having long, drawn‑out conversations with God about my purpose in Colorado. Nowhere in my prayers or plans to move had anyone—God included—mentioned dating. Especially not dating someone at work. But I kept feeling there was more going on beneath the surface, as if God were quietly weaving something together while I argued with the pattern.

As new employees, my partner and I were instructed to attend a two-day class to better understand the ministry's purpose and mission. We weren’t the only new hires in the room, and it should come as no surprise that what I remember most is not the curriculum, but the girl sitting at the table in the front—still somehow both out of reach and very much in the same room.

On day two, things shifted. I had just returned from my office with some information for my partner. He and a few others were talking together on a break, and she was one of them. I handed over the paperwork and did my best to casually join the conversation. I don’t remember much of what was said. I was too caught up in the fact that I was talking with her instead of just stealing glances. At some point, she said something along the lines of, “Must be your beautiful blue eyes.” I have no idea what my face did after that, but I’m confident it was not smooth. I was almost relieved when we were asked to head back into the classroom.

That was March of 2018. One thing led to another, and before we knew it, we were the talk of the ministry. Four months later, we were united in holy matrimony and stepped into what would become one of the hardest stretches either of us had ever walked—blending our families.

Fast‑forward to 2026. This July, we’ll celebrate eight years of marriage. The first five were mostly chaos. Blending families can sound noble on paper; in real life, it can feel like triage that never ends. We were managing kids, work, expectations, and all the history that came with each of us. It stretched us thin, personally and professionally. The last three years have been different. The kids have launched. The house has grown quieter. We’ve been slowly healing from those early years—mending places that were worn thin, relearning how to be “us” without constant noise in the background—and we’ve leaned into travel as one of the ways we reconnect.

Looking back, we would both tell you we believe God brought our lives together. What we didn’t understand at the beginning was how much it would cost us, or how much it would change us. We locked arms and pushed through, often a little bruised, but we kept going. Somewhere along the way, we realized we weren’t just surviving anymore. We were still together. Still choosing each other. A little worse for wear, maybe—but still standing.

All these years later, I look at this girl—now my wife—and I still see what I saw back then. Something different. A quiet “wow” factor I couldn’t define at the time. I remember the day I finally found words for it. I was driving home from work, listening to the radio, when a song by Steven Curtis Chapman came on. The chorus said:

“I can see the fingerprints of God, when I look at you.
I can see the fingerprints of God, and I know it’s true.
You’re a masterpiece that all creation quietly applauds,
And you’re covered in the fingerprints of God.”

Sometimes God uses a 2x4 to get my attention, and it never feels great. This time, it was a fingerprint. A gentle, unmistakable reminder of what—and who—He had placed in front of me. I still get Jesus bumps when I think about it.