For a girl who always fancied herself to have the heart of Jane Austen, it seemed like a bit of defeat when I just signed, "Mindy," but it makes me smile now.
It was the spring of a relationship. All new. A little nerve-racking. Quite a bit of adventure.
I never could have understood then what I now know for fact-- that every year he has aged has brought me more to cherish, to honor, and to respect. I loved the college boy with all my nineteen year old heart, and yet I love the thirty-seven year old man with all of the heart of the not-so-far-behind-him-in-age, the one that has grown and changed and learned what true love is because of his presence.
It is, after all, this man who has laughed with me over jokes no one else would think funny.
It is this man who took the time to discover my wounds and then stayed to see them healed.
It is this man who has called me beautiful until I became it.
It is this man who has prayed for my children with the same heart of love for them that beats in my chest.
It is this man whose life looks more like Jesus than anyone else I know.
And it is this man who still takes my breath away when our eyes meet across a crowded room.
After our daughter skipped out of the room with her toothless smile tonight, I put my hand on my heart and told him I wished I could pause the passage of time and just live in this now for awhile. He grinned at me and said, "Why would we do that? It just keeps getting better."
My thoughts on his life, exactly.
