When I hang his shirts next to mine in the closet, there are surf brands, the same ones he wore when he had hair bleached white by the sun and waves. When his skin was tan and his mouth tasted like wintergreeen gum and saltwater. When I spread my beach towel with my arms wide and the tradewinds swooped down and lifted the corners from my fingertips like a magic carpet and I would nestle my body in hot white sand and lift my eyes to the sea and she would offer the lip of a wave for his surfboard and I’d see the arms I loved paddling into the white and blue horizon.
Love was so easy then.
Ok guys, I don’t say this that often, but I love this post. Yes, I know I wrote it and that might seem weird and oddly prideful to say, like giving yourself a high-five, awkward and kind of overrated. But here’s the truth, I’m proud of these words. Today is our 18th anniversary and I wrote this post from a place I never imagined we’d get to at certain points in our marriage. All is grace and learning to love my husband with a deep and abiding posture of hospitality is something I’m committed to. After all, hospitality is welcoming the stranger and so often the person we married in our youth is not the one we roll over to find 18 years later, but then again, neither are we. I’d love if you’d join me at Grace Table to read the rest. Did I mention I really do love this post?