An Ordinary Love Story
I’ve been opening all our books to the beginnings – to the part with the inscriptions, where the author dedicates pages and pages of words with half a sentence. “For Kate…” This only seems appropriate because we’ve been married for less than 100 days – we’re barely to our inscription in this story. And after moving in together, we can hardly fit all of our books onto our bookshelves.
Never have I felt love and pain so acutely for another person. I’ve been looking for words for this phenomenon and I stumbled upon them recently: I want the whole Earth to be for you, and I want you to experience the beauty and glory and goodness of each day.
Even in the beginning when we were in the car on our way to our first date and I told you about my love for secret societies and writing, there seemed to be something that was for us, something working to always bring us together. Now, years later, that’s changed into me wanting the best in the world for one human. My goodness, is this how God feels about us?
I suppose I feel this way because I experience the most ordinary moments with you – the golden before evenings, you sitting at the kitchen table preparing to teach another week of sixth grade, and me sitting on the couch grading my college freshmen’s papers. The air coming through our windows feels like high school football and sweaters. I glance at you for a few seconds and know I will remember this forever because I am in love with a teacher during the most school-like time of the year.
It’s also because I experience the most extraordinary moments with you. The times when the space between us is rife with anger and hurt and it feels like neither of us can budge, and then something shifts. And one of us chooses to move toward the other – that choice houses the power to crumble walls and fear. We’re no longer learning the stories of forgiveness and grace – we’re dynamically a part of them, as we always have been. It just seems much more real now.
I want our eyes to be wide open to collect all the moments where we learn the art of loving one another. To be able to delight in memories that only you and I are witness to, but will soon forget.
Even though I want to scratch out all the inscriptions to all the books we own and write “For Scott, to know life and love and pain and grace,” I won’t. For we have our own first page. So it’s with the limited wisdom from all the volumes and chapters of stories that have happened in our own separate lives, and the lives that have lived before us, that I’m writing this inscription to our marriage:
“For God, the Incarnation of hope and love,
and for Scott, who chooses this love every day.”
I found this in an old notebook from right after we were married. I’ll always remember our first Fall together.