Three Years: a letter to my husband.

'Has it been only three?'

we always say.

So much has happened~

We are not just an 'us,'

we are a family.

I love you as my husband,

and as my children's Daddy.



We are making a home now~

The Lord has built it

by the hands of prayer.

We dream about all He may do there ~

the good works He's prepared for us,

now laid out before us.



In three years we've cried a lot,

haven't we?

Had losses break each of our hearts --

and both of our hearts ---

The slow healing seems to be stitching

us together, though.

For that I am grateful.




Of course we've laughed a lot, too.

More than cried.

You always make me laugh as I cry~

For that I am grateful, too.

We've been so silly together;

No one brings out my silly-self more than you do,

nor loves that silly-self more.



I think in three years you have seen my worst.

From the love in your eyes and the tenderness in your arms,

I know even then you are seeing my best.

Those must be the eyes of Jesus searching from your heart into mine.

They have to be.

Only His eyes could search me and find beauty like you do.




In three years,

I have loved you and I have hurt you.

I've amazed you and disappointed you.

In three years I have wished we could bypass these early days of struggle and strife.

Yet in three years,

Not once would I have left you, given up on us, or questioned why we married.

I know why, and it remains so:

God joined us together.

'We' belong to Him.



I am so hopeful for our future; so joyful to think of the years to come.

To see where our Father leads us,

whom else He adds to our family,

what other trials and tribulations He will carry us through to make us stronger and more like Him.




I see Glory in our future ~ glory shining in the reflection of His mercy and grace.

I praise Him and I thank Him;

because of Him I love you now

more than ever before.




Happy anniversary,

my husband,

my beloved,

my friend.

LifeSong: the Introduction

From the kitchen I hear the front door slam shut (last Spring's paint still makes for a sticky close), and I turn over my shoulder to see the light turning on in the stairway. My husband is home, and I sigh the same contented and glad sigh as every evening.

The old stairs groan with each step; by the time he comes through the door, I've returned to the dishes, allowing him a few minutes' solace. He hangs his coat and scally cap, slips off his shoes and on his slippers, and breathes out thanksgiving to the Lord for being home.

Over the sink, I wait and am not disappointed: he sneaks in under cover of light Fernando Ortega and running water, and brushes my neck with his lips. I turn in his embrace and breathe him in. Will those sparkling blues melt me when we're eighty the way they do now? I know they will still sparkle. It is the boyish coy in a man that allures us most, is it not? A boyishness that does not age.

"How was your day?" Somehow this question comforts - even with its repetition that could so easily bring indifference if we let it.
"Sweet, truly. Still not crawling, yet. He's waiting for you, I think." Derek smiles. I know this makes his heart swell, silly as it may be. "We missed you today. I showed Oliver videos of you on the computer, and he smiled, glancing back and forth between the screen and the photo of the two of you beside it."
"No way, really?" Derek loves it, and I love the heart of a father that God has so clearly placed inside him.

"Where is the little man?" He is sleeping, of course. As Derek finished up his night at the hospital, noting his care of the day's patients, I bathed Oliver, wrapped him in his puppy towel and kissed his puppy nose... ("Bundle you up, 'cause you're my bundle of joy," I sing to my rosy baby). I savored this remaining time when - dressed in his fleece pjs - he willingly snuggled up to me and comforted himself at my breast before bed. Filled with nourishment, he drifted off to sleep and I layed him down in the crib that is too fast becoming too small.

Derek tiptoes into the bedroom, to the nook that has become Oliver's nursery. He smiles over his slumbering son, and I know without looking that tears come to his eyes. He whispers a prayer praising God's faithfulness and asking His blessing and keeping of this little life we've been given. My heart joins his silently, and adds a thanksgiving for a man who loves his Lord and his family so well.

"Goodnight, Buddy. I love you." It is spoken low, and matches the gentleness of his fingertips that rest for a moment on the tiny chest.

This is my husband: the man I asked God for years before I met him. And this is our child: the life we rejoiced over before he was even conceived.

This is our story. It is a story of God's grace and generosity, and it is a song of thanksgiving to the Giver of all good things.