This week I’m writing about marriage, mine mostly because that’s the only one I’ve been in. I’m still working on the details, so for now I’m just writing a love letter to my stud muffin, the bacon to my BLT, the brown eyed okie boy who took my life by storm, The Kel.
Wow babe, six years eh? Six feels like such an odd number, it’s not tiny and it’s not a multiple of five, it’s just… six.
Six years ago my uncle walked me down the aisle and we cried, you more than me. We slow danced to a song about a broken road, not because it was popular but because it was just right for us.
We had no idea then how many winding roads we would take together and how soon we would fall apart, side by side. In a way we both know that this is a getting up place for us, that for the first time since our cross country move, Noelle’s birth, My Mom’s Funeral and Caedmon’s arrival we have our bearings, maybe, probably.
And yes, we know that it could all change tomorrow…
We’re learning to laugh again, you and I, and we’re daily giving each other handfuls of grace, even on days when the sink is broken and the AC has gone out. We’re learning to look across the table and see each other as perfect in the moment, even in paint stained shorts and frizzy hair and always it seems, with bags under our eyes.
We had no idea what a marathon parenting would be, we dreamed it would happen in soft, hazy blips, but the constant march has been a steep learning curve.
So we’re perfecting at art of the “at home date” and the humor that can be found in just how wrong things seem to go some days. Such as babies who build tacos on their head and then poop on the floor without us noticing because we’re Just. That. Tired.
Mostly I just love you and lately I feel like I love you all over again in a new and fresh way that’s come clean of all my unfair expectations. My heart is full of passion to love you as the man God created you to be. I’m dropping all my silly notions of who you should become.
I’m seeing you beyond my own nose, taking you into my newly tender heart, surrendering to all the ways that I can’t earn or control love.
In year 7 I’ll keep buying you super hero underwear because I want you to feel strong in spite of all the ways the world can tear you up. I want you to wake up and believe you’re able to work miracles in his name, because you are and you do.
As the days go on I say screw the lawn, forget the theological bickering and all the high expectations I used to put on everything. Let’s just draw together, skin on skin in the moments of life, not as we imagined or planned them but just as they are.
And of course I’m half awake writing this, and of course you’re 1,000 miles away finishing up your masters but baby, I love you like whoa.
Bring on 7, 17, and 47.