I post pictures of date nights with my husband, but it doesn’t mean we are all smiles.
Nine years and I’m still trying to figure out how to live with a man.
And like life and mothering and pain and pieces of happiness, such is marriage.
I love my husband because I choose to. Sometimes I feel it, and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes we don’t even like each other.
Sometimes we really like each other.
We are tangled together in this mess of marriage, figuring it out week to week. When it’s really hard I remember that, Lord willing, on our 50th wedding anniversary we’ll look back and say, “I’m glad I did this with you, this life.” It’s hope.
Hope holds us together.
Hope gathers up the broken parts so they don’t stay on the floor.
Hope is the push.
Without hope, we live in the dark; we live stale. We live mediocre.
And so we pick this thing up called love and we try to stretch into it, even though sometimes we don’t fit.
We keep trying.
We remember that this skin is temporary and there is so much more than what’s in front of us; more than our desires and our aches. There is more.
Let’s find it.