A Letter To St. Valentine

Once upon a time I fell in love with a redhead boy who was thoroughly romantic. He was the kind that left roses in my locker. But he was also a bit rough around the edges, the say-whatever comes-to-mind kind. And he had this spirit. I fell in love with his spirit. It was strong and bold and full of sweet Jesus faith. I was neither strong nor bold. I was the quiet girl, the naive kind. I was the insecure one. But the sweet one, the willing to love one.

We stole away to quiet corners and whispered I love you. We raged with baby making hormones and succumbed in secret under a full moon. It was sweet and awkward. We were eighteen. Clothed in Bible Belt guilt, we told our parents of the babe inside. A date was set, our planned futures altered. Our wedding was nice, but it wasn't our own. It was a show of decorum. A chance to set right. We jumped into marriage together but landed broken. We were a lovely shell covering hurt, guilt, and anger. Then we had a son. My mother heart emerged strong and my calling was set. A sweet Jesus faith arose within and I thanked Him for this gift. My husband loved us both and we set out to move on as a family. His heart was sure but his head was conflicted. He wasn't ready for this life stage but we held tight to shared love.

He worked and went to school. I raised our child. We loved and made another baby. We were twenty two. This baby I carried was fragile and he held my hand and we prayed. Our daughter was born well and sweet and our hearts loved this young family of ours.

We were growing up. We were different than when we began. The broken pieces weren't fitting back together exactly like we had envisioned. We were not alike in any way. But we fit. We complimented each other in our differences. We loved. Another baby was made. We were twenty three.

We moved. He went to law school and long hours were spent in learning. We fought and we made up. We parented our three as well as we could. We celebrated milestones. We struggled with what we should look like. We didn't fit any mold.

We moved again and he disappeared into work. We fought harder and made up less. I raised our children and he worked. Without really meaning to, we hurt the other's heart. He dealt hurt in forbidden kisses. He questioned shared faith. I dealt hurt in walls built, in hiding away. It was a climax of inner confusion still wrapped nicely in a beautiful outer shell of unity and love. Our hearts still loved but we hid it from the other out of spite.

Then the shell cracked. He lost his job and he came to me to be held. I opened arms and dropped one wall. It's funny how one event in so many can slap you back to perspective. We were broken again. It allowed us to stop. To breathe. To think. We let it all out in the stress. We yelled and we remembered. We spoke of who we wanted to be, who we could be. We spoke of how we had changed and why those changes had come to be. We spoke of the love we had hidden away. We spoke fondly of the boy and the girl and learned to love the man and the woman. We said to hell with some mold that we are supposed to fit. We have loved and made a beautiful family.

Ten years have passed. My heart loves this man. He isn't who I thought he would be. He isn't perfect. But he is good. And he loves me and these three we've made. That is enough for me. I'm not who he thought I'd be either. But I'm still the one willing to love. We have freed each other of restraint. We finally allowed each other to embrace what the broken pieces became because we are starting to realize that we are better than who we thought we'd be. We are more present in our relationship, in our life, in ourselves than we have ever been. We stumble. We make up. We work it out as we go. We are parents. We are friends.

We stole away and we loved. No baby was made...yet. We are twenty eight. And we're still writing this story.

This is love. This is the love I want my children to know. It is honest. It's messy. It isn't perfect. But it's good. And it's worth it.