There's nothing we women love more than a good love story. Sly glances, soft touches, the right words at the right time that tell you that he alone sees you as you really are...and that what you really are is all he's ever wanted. With a household of girls, there's a lot of sighing when Mr. Darcy walks toward Lizzy in the morning mist and says that if she speaks his love will forever be silenced...sigh...
But at 40 I find myself growing less enamored with love at its beginnings than in love that endures. Almost everyone finds the first...fewer than ever, it seems, find that which lasts to the end. Love that has met and faced, fought and striven, lingered and overcome. Love that has wounded and healed, worked and failed, stroked and soothed.
In August of this year, Wayne and I will have been married 20 years so that explains a lot of it. As sizes expand and blood pressures rise...as gray hair increases and winkles appear...confidence of that which once attracted wanes, but what remains is invaluable to me. I was reminded of this today when I read a posting entitled Love in the Time of Prostate Cancer. It's written by a man who's undergoing treatment for prostate cancer. In it he writes of his discovery of this very thing. It really resonated with me. (Note, moms, that it contains things which I wouldn't have Aisley and Brennan read yet.)
And since this is the day before Valentine's, let me just say here how grateful I am to love Wayne. He has endured with me patiently. He has cared for me tenderly. He has argued with me lovingly. He has corrected me gently. He has seen me through sick months and played with me through sunny days. The gift of him to me softened my heart to love my Father more. I could never tell you why Wayne looked at me that night and asked me to dance. But I know why I held on so tight. The joy in my heart today is that I still love to be in his arms everyday.
I love you, honey. Happy Valentine's Day.
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