At approximately 2:45pm on December 20, 2013, my co-worker Lori Burk poked her head around my cubicle wall at the Salt Lake County Health Department and said, “Gay people are getting married across the hall.”
“Wait… what?” I asked, blinking.
“Gay people are getting married… across the hall,” she repeated.
“For real? To each other?”
“Yes. For real. Thought you might want to know.”
I walked out of my office and looked across the hall to the Salt Lake County Clerk’s Office. Sure enough, four same-sex couples were standing in line outside the door. Seth Anderson and Michael Ferguson, the first couple to be married, were inside, accompanied by Salt Lake County District Attorney Sim Gill.
I stared, stunned. Is this really happening? I thought.
I went back to my desk and quickly pulled up the Salt Lake Tribune website. The top headline confirmed it: “Judge Strikes Down Utah Gay Marriage Ban.”
At 2:51pm, I texted Kalina Duncan, who was stuck in San Francisco on her way to Salt Lake City for the holidays: “Judge strikes down Utah gay marriage ban!”
Her reply came almost immediately: “!!!!!!” followed by, “Wait… does this mean gay marriage is legal in Utah NOW?”
“I guess so… people are literally getting married across from my office right now,” I wrote back.
I returned to the hall. In just a few minutes, the line had grown from four to around 25 couples. By the time the afternoon rolled on, it would swell to over 100. Salt Lake City Mayor Ralph Becker arrived as the first handful of marriage ceremonies began. The second floor of the south building of the Salt Lake County Government Center was filling with joyous anticipation, a mix of disbelief and hope hanging in the air—could this really be happening, and would it last?
Excited friends and family gathered around couples who had just received their marriage licenses, cheering as each newlyweds exited the office. Every 2-3 minutes, eruptions of laughter, applause, and tears would echo through the hall as one couple after another exchanged vows. The initial apprehension faded, replaced by pure, unbridled joy that seemed to ripple across the entire building.
I called Michael: “You need to come to my office on your way home. Gay people are getting married, and it’s AMAZING to witness.”
I watched about 20 couples marry while the first-floor atrium overflowed with ceremonies and well-wishers. Just as Michael arrived, we ran into BobbiJo Kanter and other friends in line. We casually socialized, waiting our turn, the excitement building with each passing minute.
By late afternoon, as the clerk’s office neared closing, tension began to creep into the crowd. Couples worried they wouldn’t make it inside in time. Speculation swirled—would the office close and leave some people without their chance? Would anger or disappointment boil over?
I returned to my office, grabbed a small stack of marriage license applications, a clipboard, and several pens, and walked the line, encouraging people to start filling out forms early so as many as possible could be processed before closing. My county employee ID badge around my neck made me look official—perfect cover for helping coordinate this historic moment.
Just before 5pm, the deputy clerk stepped out and addressed everyone. “We will remain open as long as necessary to serve everyone in line by 5pm,” she said. Later I learned the clerk’s office employees had all volunteered to stay late, even though it was the Friday before Christmas, ensuring no one was left behind. Protective services marked the end of the line at exactly 5pm.
I was back in line with Michael and our friends when I overheard someone whisper, “Governor Herbert is trying to get the court to issue a stay. If he gets his way, this all stops.”
A wave of panic swept over me. What if this all ends? I thought. Michael and I had been together nearly three years, and I was certain about him—but was he ready? Was now the moment? I realized we needed more than just driver’s licenses—we needed our passports for IDs—but we weren’t close enough to the front yet. I could run home, grab them, and still make it back.
All these thoughts swirled, but I didn’t speak them aloud. Instead, I shoved the clipboard at Michael. “HERE! Fill this out!” I said, and dashed off to get our passports, leaving him in line with our friends. He looked at BobbiJo, confused, and asked, “Was that… a proposal?”
Of course, the trip home took longer than expected. Michael reached the front of the line alone before I returned, letting several couples behind him go ahead, answering jokes about being “left at the altar” with a grin: “I don’t know,” he said.
When I finally returned, we approached the counter, and I quickly signed my portion of the application. Handing it over, I thanked the clerk’s office employee for staying late, and she smiled warmly. “We’re so happy to be here to do this for you,” she said.
Then came the moment. I pulled a small ring box from my pocket. “I was going to give this to you for Christmas,” I said. “But Judge Shelby moved up the timeline by five days… so… will you marry me?”
Michael’s jaw dropped, and thankfully, he said yes. I’m not sure he would have if he hadn’t seen the rings. It was clear this proposal wasn’t just taking advantage of a historic moment—it was something I had planned long before, something genuine and true.
We left the clerk’s office with our precious marriage license, encountering more friends and loved ones—including Doug Balli and Rob Blackhurst, who had just married moments earlier, and our minister neighbor offering services to anyone in need. Doug and Rob became our witnesses, and Reverend Heron performed our ceremony.
And that’s how it happened—five years ago tomorrow, I got married in front of the women’s restroom at my work, on twenty minutes’ notice, wearing my county employee ID badge around my neck.
I wouldn’t change a single moment of it.
