Did you know that marriage is hard? I read too many books as a kid. I had all these ideas – wild, bright visions of dancing to vinyl records and sharing gelato in Rome. Maybe you do, or did, too.
In Grace Livingston Hill novels, he was always rich and delightfully devout. He said the right thing, looked at you like you were a piece of the moon he couldn’t believe he could hold in his hands. Husbands were loving, dependable, handsome bits of perfection that never left their retainers on the bathroom sink or breathed in your face in the middle of the night reeking of bad lo mein.
You fall in love with the right one then you stay in love forever.
Right? Wait…right?
Life isn’t a novel. And husbands are not heroes. They’re humans. I figured that out eventually.
I met mine when I was sixteen. It still surprises me to say that. I didn’t see it coming. Because of those 1930s romance novels, I planned to meet my husband at the ripe old age of 25 after working my shift as a stenographer. (Do we even have stenographers anymore?). We’d catch each other’s eye over the bookshelf at a local Books-A-Million and he’s say, “Have you seen a copy of Jane Eyre?” To which I would reply, “I saw one over here! Have you read it before?” And thus would begin the romance to last a lifetime.
But I wasn’t twenty-five, composedly discussing my favorite 19thcentury literature over a cup of tea. I was a tenth grader on the brink of losing my father, devoted to basketball, piano, and (as previously mentioned) books. Heplayed drums in a post-hardcore band, had foofy blonde hair, and was the type to let his alarm play for an hour before getting up.
We had our first date at our principal’s house (Don’t ask. It was a small town), after which I spent the car ride home trying to think of ways to let him down gently. That was ten years ago. Ten.
Sometimes you fall in love in a moment. Sometimes all it takes is a single look or word, a smile across a room. Or so I hear. For me it was a slow fall, timid and suspicious, distracted by his music tastes and criminal fashion choices. But Tommy was nothing if not persistent. And although he’s still never shown interest in reading Jane Eyre, he knew that he wanted me. He fought, for me. There’s a lot to be said for a man who will fight for you.
But in a way I’m glad I didn’t trip down the stairs for him. I’m glad the fall was slow. I learned to love him. I grew to love him, both as I grew into adulthood and as I grew in intellectual and emotional capacity. You see, love is so much more than feeling. It is part emotion, true. You cannot manufacturer attraction to someone. But the fullness of what love is cannot be described with a single adjective. Love is knowledge. It’s seeing and still believing. Love is built through experiences, conversations, sacrifice, patience. Love comes through forgiveness.
We dated for two years as I finished high school. I tried to break up with him for a summer before starting college but the experiment was a disaster. Even though I didn’t feel in love with him for that season,I found out that I really lovedhim. Over time I learned to stop relying just on what I felt, chasing my “heart.” It is true that feelings can be warning signs, especially in unhealthy relationships when your subconscious is actually screaming for you to put on your tennis shoes and run. But all too often, the emotion can be so utterly deceiving.
When you really love someone, continuing to love them becomes a choice. A beautiful choice, but beautiful things do not come easily. I questioned and doubted our relationship, wondering if I was passing up greener pastures for the safe and comfortable. But to truly love is sometimes to love without feeling. You will not always feel warm inside at their touch. Burst into laughter at every joke. Some days you will choose. Some days you will simply have to trust what you know.
After four years of dating, he literally put a ring on it, and after five, we made it official. We stood on a riverbank as a storm swept in from the mountains and promised to love each other forever. The rain forced us to abandon our posts mid-ceremony so we said our vows inside the reception room, family and friends standing around us as thunder threatened to drown out our words.
But by then, I knew what I was promising.
To be patient with you even when you don’t deserve it.
To be faithful to you even when I feel lonely.
To be committed to you even when we hurt each other.
To serve you when I am tired and when I am strong.
And to follow you, whether the way is clear or whether it is dark.
And as Jane Eyre famously said, “Reader, I married him.”
There have been wonderful, glorious days. We shared the gelato in Rome and the Sachertore in Vienna. Fell asleep in each other’s arms while the rain trickled down the windows. We’ve spent hours on walks and bike rides and car trips, tirelessly sharing ideas and dreams and falling in love with each other all over ago.
But he also held my hair while I threw up all night during our honeymoon. He criticized the way I cleaned the bathroom and we spent hours in an outrageous argument. We’ve made mistakes, hurt one another. Felt the aching disappointment of failure. Cried on the kitchen floor after losing our baby.
But day in and day out, I feel the profoundness of my own vows. The words that I said and meant, and because of God’s grace, will always mean.
Because I believe marriage is God’s way of showing us what it means to give another person grace and forgiveness. That’s why I promise to give myself to you whether you deliver on all your promises or not. This is my promise. That whether I feel like it or not, I will love you.
I love you, Tommy.
