He’s 41 today, this man of my dreams. We met 17 years ago today, his 24th birthday. I remind him that I’m the best birthday present he ever got. He smiles and kisses me on the forehead. Our relationship has the easy ebb and flow of a friendship that has weathered storms and celebrated joys and seen God’s hand in every day.
We’ve lived in six houses in four cities. We’re raising a daughter and we’ve buried his father. He’s nearly died on me and I’ve sat by his bed begging God for more time. He wrote me a song for our wedding and I didn’t cry when he sang it to me. But he still takes my breath away when he leans over to give me a kiss.
He’s steady and sure. In fact, I’ve never known anyone so comfortable in their own skin. He’s compassionate and filled with grace, which is really good since I lean toward self-righteous and judgmental.
He makes me better than I am … brings out in me the things that often remain unseen. He makes me laugh and forces me out of my introverted shell. He believes in me and pushes me to do the things I only dream about.
Today, he’s 41. And I am thankful.