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As a husband, father, and member of a community, I strive to honor those closest to me with love and respect and to create a home that is a haven. I want our house to feel to others the way the homes of A. O. and Aubrey Smith and June Elam felt to me. Some days, I believe I’ve reached those ideals; other times, I’ve been an abject failure. But the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of the people you care about most is a blessing itself. I had to learn to love that way, to understand both what you get from it and what you give to it. My wife, Diane, has taught me more about that than anyone.

After I graduated from Harvard Law School in 1982, I headed off for Los Angeles to clerk for Stephen Reinhardt, a recently appointed judge on the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit. Judge Reinhardt was a gruff, rumpled, often surly, sometimes high-handed man who chewed off the ends of his pencils while he worked and could not even make coffee on his own. He was also brilliant, with a deep sense of justice and powers of concentration that I had never seen before. Clerking for him was a challenge because he tested and reexamined every aspect of every case, trying to get it right, and he required that his clerks be just as assiduous.

I made my way in this new job and new city and ever so slowly began to make some friends. One of the outgoing clerks was a delightful old soul named Robert Hubbell, who had recently married a generous, good-humored firecracker named Jill. They invited me to dinner with a friend of theirs, Debbie Barak-Milgrom, whom Rob had known in law school. Not long thereafter, the Hubbells and Debbie invited me to a Halloween party and insisted that I dress in costume. I reluctantly agreed.

I wore a full-length caftan from Nigeria and no shoes, smeared war paint across my face, and carried a Masai spear. I thought I looked pretty good until I walked into the party and realized that I was the only one in costume. The joke was on me. Little did I know that the surprises were just beginning.

The entire party was an elaborate scheme for me to meet Diane—to engineer a chance encounter—and I was the only one out of the loop. Debbie was Diane’s close friend, and she thought Diane and I were meant for each other. However, my clerkship was for only one year; I was then heading to San Francisco to join a big downtown law firm. So Debbie, moving quickly, helped arrange the Halloween party. Diane knew why she was there and had been told all about me, including that my time in Los Angeles was limited. Everyone else knew the purpose of the party as well. I, on the other hand, dressed as a mock African warrior, was blissfully ignorant.

The light finally dawned during the pumpkin carving contest, when Diane and I were paired. The prize was a single bottle of champagne, “to be drunk,” according to the hosts, “at some private time.” We won, of course, but the contest was shamelessly rigged. We could have stabbed the pumpkin with my Masai spear and won.

I can’t deny that I was delighted by my good fortune—how often are you set up with a beautiful, educated, friendly woman, smartly attired in a black silk pantsuit and pearl earrings—but I was also shy and a little embarrassed by my appearance. I didn’t ignore Diane, but I was too timid to pay her any special attention. When the party finally wrapped up, we were at the door and Diane had our bottle of champagne. I guess she was getting impatient.

“Listen,” she told me, “I’m going to take this bottle, and maybe one day I’ll call you and we can share it.”

“Sure,” I said, “but I’ve got a better one at home.”

I was shy, not clueless.

I got Diane’s work number and called after a few weeks of screwing up my nerve. We got together for lunch at a Japanese restaurant. I was nervous and clumsy, chattering on about myself and getting precious little information about her. But my favorable first impressions were all confirmed: She was bright, a wonderful listener, serious, warm, and down to earth. She drove me back to the courthouse on her way to another