Today after 28 years (nearly 26 years married) my husband and I chose to
love each other again.
He got up and
went out into the cold winter’s morning for donuts. We are together in a new city with our
youngest son. We don’t know where the
good donuts are so he looked up “donuts near me” on his phone. We debated the names and counted the stars
and the number of ratings. Then we made
a decision. 4.9 miles away.
After he returned with the donuts, he and I went into the
kitchen together and cooked pancakes, eggs, bacon. I washed grapes and heated chi tea. I know how he likes his eggs cooked, how much
cheese, how long on the heat. He showed
me the donuts he bought with me in mind.
We ate our meal together. We
laughed together. We touched.
Our family is aging, along with our love.
In 1992, when we headed to MI the first time, we got in the
car in DE wearing shorts and tank tops only to discover that August nights in
Michigan can be like fall. We were kids,
newlywed, bright and in love. New love
is great because it elevates and titillates and giggles and tickles and makes
us feel alive.
In 2018, we have returned under very different
conditions. We have property and kids
and cars and jobs as well as nearly 30 years of experiences that run the
gambit. We have doctors and lawyers and
networks. We have losses and gains,
portfolios, and such. We both have
winter coats, too, at the ready.
This love here knows something about the cold. And it dares to love regardless.
My husband chose, today, to zip up, hat up, glove up, boot
up, to venture out again—providing clear evidence that God still loves this
woman.
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