The girls are making a cake for Valentine’s Day. The two were plotting planning a surprise for the husband and I. When they asked me to purchase a cake mix the gig was up.
I’m listening to them chatter on about how many cups of flour and what type of cocoa powder and will daddy really like this cake. They whisper about putting our names on with red icing. Hearts. It must have lots of hearts. I pretend I cannot hear their conversation; it’s too precious.
My heart is bursting actually. A year ago, there was no Valentine’s celebration. There were no hushed whispers about mom and dad’s date and them kissing too much. There was no “Mom, you have to see this new pin” moment. There was only a veiled silence and a brooding heart. A girl in her room writing how how she wanted her life to look if her parents divorced. There was just fatigue and determination to stick until ‘the children are grown’. Love? There was not love. Not that kind.
He bought a card. A sweet card actually. I wanted to believe it was true … but I kept my heart stubbornly locked behind a fortress.
It took a different kind of love story to change things. It took my will being broken and finding the lover of my soul. It took naming every broken and shattered piece of my heart and nailing it to a cross. It took submission to a plan greater than my own and choosing to love even if I bled. It was the love story that I heard as a little girl finally reaching the deep wound in my spirit.
The problem was that I wanted the husband to fix me. To love me so much that all the bad things no longer mattered. I wanted him to replace the one who loves me; the one I was made to love. Embracing my Jesus … fixed me. He loved me so much, the bad things no longer matter. Because I love HIM, I love the husband.
I celebrate love this weekend. Not because I need a day to remember to love the husband. I celebrate because I found love. Love: it’s worth celebrating!