14
trips to California (and just as many to Disneyland),
1
earthquake,
18
jobs (between us),
6
countries,
3
concussions (all yours),
2
ongoing fear battles (flying and things that hop - both mine),
1
major crisis,
11
homes,
4
pregnancies and births,
1
adoption journey,
And
19 years ago I said “I do.”
Numbers. So non-descriptive. So generic.
So impersonal.
Where
is the life in numbers? The expression,
emotion, passion… there is none.
I’ve
always preferred words. Words don’t just tell. Words can show.
Numbers
don’t show a marriage. The number in a bank account doesn’t mean
anything in marriage (thank goodness in our case.) Even the number of years, or number of
children, or number of fights don’t mean anything in marriage.
How
many times have I rested my cheek between your shoulder blades and smelled you
and felt at rest for a moment in my day?
Countless.
What
number would sum up our disappointments over the years? It would seem like a lot – until we compared
the number of joyful moments we have shared.
The
pieces that make up marriage don’t seem to be the measurable ones. Only God who captures ours tears knows how
many are from sorrow and how many from laughter (and how many from cutting
onions).
Miles
and miles have passed as you hold my hand on the console between us and we
discuss anything and everything – just because we like to hear each other.
Funny
thing – I can’t really remember any specific conversations. I remember venting sometimes, crying (of
course), and laughing until we couldn’t see the road.
I
will always remember how you reach for me before we even hit highway speed.
But
a specific number of marriage-shaping conversations? Nope.
You
demand my eyes. When I get lost in my
world of responsibilities and my checklists to be sure my day is going as
planned, you move into my line of vision and insist on eye contact. How many seconds is enough? For you – not until I end up smiling and
forgetting the number of items on my to-do-list for a while.
You
have saved me from becoming professional.
Swinging me back and forth in the preschool chapel till I can’t get my
feet under me, or kissing me in the hallways of the high school, my image to my
students has always been affected by you.
The little pieces of you in those settings have immeasurable impact – on
me and them.
You
are cocky – you know that? Since day 1
(how’s that for a number?). Well,
actually I’m not exactly sure what day of that summer it was. There you sat, hanging off the tailgate of an
old pickup at the ranch – all you guys filthy from the horses and fields. And it was my job to bring you a cold
drink. Me in my white blouse. And you grinned, winked and patted your
knee.
What
if you’d traded in the “young punk” for the “respectable minister” role as many
have urged you to do over the years.
You’d have lost some of Jesus in you.
He too is audacious and daring and funny. As I grow to know Jesus better, I discover
the things I love most about you remind me of Him.
“The best love stories tell the Greatest Story ever told and there
are men who walk like Jesus even now and woo without a word because their life
is their word.”
There are men who
love their bride as their own body, as Christ loves the church. That’s you.
That’s you, winking boyishly from across a room full of people – reminding me that I’m the most important one to you.
That’s you at the Great
Wall of China as you climb behind me, hand on my lower back to reassure me you
won’t let me fall while making a memory for our newest child.
That’s even you not
getting angry when I laugh and tell people why you like to leave your swim trunks showing
around the bottom of your wetsuit (so others will know you have them on).
Standing on the
boardwalk after dark, one dim light shining nearby, I curl my cool fingers in
the buttons of your barn coat and look up as you tell me something – I don’t remember
what, as a moment later you kiss me for the first time. I was 17, you were 20.
How many kisses
since? Thousands? Tens of thousands? The number doesn’t matter. What matters is that they happened.
I thought I loved you
then. September 4, 1993 and I looked at
you uncertainly, choosing to trust that you would do what you vowed to do. But that was the least I’ve ever loved
you.
How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love you in 3D –
depth, breadth and height
To the ends of my
being and to ideal Grace
I love you like the
everyday quiet needs – food, drink, breath
By sun and
candle-light.
I love you freely –
as men strive for what’s Right;
I love you purely –
as one turns from Praise
I love you with as
much passion as I’ve ever felt
As sure as my
childhood’s faith.
I love you with a
love I seemed to lose
When reality stole
innocence
I love you with the
breath, smiles, tears of all my life –
And if God choose, I
will love you better after death.
Adapted
from Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)
