Hate Valentines Day, but Love the Love

Anti Valentines. Pro-love.

If you came here because you hate Valentines Day, you may want to stop reading this post and read my post from earlier in the day.

In that post, I resolved to table my bitter feelings about the commercialization of love (because my bitterness wasn’t making the world or this holiday tribute to Hallmark any better). And I determined to spend my energy stirring real love in this world.

For me, in this stage of life, that includes marriage. A husband. And a little boy who looks an awful lot like my husband.

I know saying even that much tips my hat toward sappiness (and, fair warning, it’s going to get worse), but know–single friends–that I spent years being single. And that (trite, trite, trite) the time I spent alone genuinely did help me grow into a person who could better enjoy my own life and the relationship I find myself in today. (It’s true even if it sucks.)

I know that sounds empty when you’re frustrated by the pace of life and love and I pray God stirs recognizable love in your world today in spite of it.

But I can’t, as I think about real love in this world, shortchange those who bring good to my day. It would be dishonest to withhold the marriage part of my love story from the story of my life that spills onto this blog. Because in each expression of love–whether it be the kiss of a child, the affection of a puppy, the call of a friend, the comfort of God or the vow of a spouse–there is also hope.

A Love Story Within A Love Story

My husband, Chuck and I met the first day of college. We were 18 and it was NOT love at first sight. He thought I’d probably be snobby and I dismissed him as an oversimplified jock.

We became friends only days later, had over a dozen classes together (we were even biology partners), and served as Resident Assistants in college housing at the same time. Four years later, we had not dated…each other…even once.

But following graduation, we reconnected (I thought just for catching up after coffee, but he tricked me into dinner out) on March 3, 2001. And we never looked back. Dating career over. Just. like. that.

Every day of our marriage isn’t perfect, inspiring and/or failure free. But the great majority of them are perfectly “us”–the graceful rhythm of two people whose warmth forms the sort of steady belonging that can see a person through life. And the kind of love story that fits best when it is safely embedded in the bigger love story of God and his value for human life on this earth.

Chuck and I do the things “they” say you should do for a marriage. We go on date nights. We plan vacations to escape together. We do nice things for-no-reason-just-because. We set aside tons and tons and tons of quality time–time for watching videos, making macaroni and teasing our son–together.

(And if it makes the singles among you feel a little bit more free, you should know we also fight, argue, insult and annoy the crap out of each other sometimes too.)

But the days that scream love loudest to me are never straight out of the marital advice column.

They’re the days we barbecue on the deck, snuggle around the fire pit, or drink iced tea on the porch all summer.

They’re the unexpected moments where I catch the eyes of someone ridiculously familiar in a crowd–and it’s my spouse. And we both can’t help but smile.

It’s when we serenade each other, loudly, even when you don’t know all the words, every road trip. He can rock Whitney Houston, R. Kelly or–sighhhh of disgust–country. I only get drawn into the soft love ballads like Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow. (But I can’t help but be won over when he belts out Little Moments, a song a husband sings about being endeared to his wife’s flaws.)

It’s the day we chose not to do the touristy thing and climb a monument, but just laid under the Eiffel Tower and looked at the sky.

It’s the bazillion times he’s beat me in Rummy. (Destroyed. me. in. Rummy.)

It’s all the Saturday morning donut and chocolate milk runs we make before anyone’s changed out of their pajamas.

It’s the times we crewed awkward paddle-boating excursions with a toddler Emperor who refused to stay seated.

It’s not bliss every day. It’s not the sustained emotional high of a movie. But sometimes, once in the while, right in the middle of normal, routine life and chores and bills, God lets you share a story that is richer and deeper and better than a fairy tale.

Chuck Cunningham is so often the best part of my day.

Sometimes I find myself talking about him like I have an 11-year old boy crush.

But he is actually a generous, authentic adult who lets me chases my dreams, gives me the freedom to grow, and bestows on me the gift of a life free of paranoia and jealousy.

He is the only reason I understand the statement “Love is friendship on fire.”

I am thankful in the imperfect moments that our love belongs to a bigger, holier love story, and that it plays out in the context of stunningly loving family and friends.  That makes love what it should be–bigger and more perfect than us…because it is love that reflects off of a God who holds our highest devotion.

That is real non-Hallmark love to me.