A friend sent a
link to a story that resonates for me. It helps provide a counterweight to the absurdly prevalent urban legend that true love is about running through the airport for one last passionate kiss. The author writes about her husband, the father of their children, and his integrity. I am grateful for her rich description of the mundane yet somehow holy ways he shows up, with fevered kids, and carrying sleeping children to bed. Her marriage is dimpled with toes touching under the sheets, even when her feet are like ice cubes after scurrying around to turn off the lights and tuck quilts around each sleeping child.
My marriage is ordinary too. I am not sure I remembered to kiss John yesterday, though I did feel a surge of love when he was talking about our extended families in marriage group. I guess I could have gotten up from my chair and leaped the three steps to his chair to throw my arms around him. But it was eight o'clock at night, and I was already sweaty, so I just smiled across the air.
One of the funny things about love is that you cannot always see it. There are decoys out there, like the couples who feign adoration for the screen, and when the scene is done walk to their separate dressing rooms thinking about themselves. It mimics love for the duration of the shoot, but it's fake.
Couples who have internalized their commitment may not make a great scene in a chick flick. But when the exhaustion of the day is spent, and my eyes are too weary for batting, I feel blessed to wiggle closer and feel a warm toe.
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