It’s been a long time since I tried to write you something. Today we finished J’s nursery, and I was standing in the doorway while you positioned the icons above his bed, staring at the ordinary miracle of it – how we built this space, this child, this ark of marriage. How much has changed in the long bend of years. 3 Septembers ago, beloved, we were arguing on Skype about long distance.
And 2 Septembers ago I sat in your parent’s dining room, a bit overwhelmed and overjoyed, my first birthday gift to you tucked upstairs. I had put trash bags over it for the plane ride, but I am so terrible at wrapping gifts, I didn’t even think to tie a ribbon on them. They’re hanging behind me now.
And last year we fought and loved and laughed through the first few weeks of grad school, my anxiety unraveling between us, all those things I’d planned to keep safely tucked away from you discovered so soon. Isn’t that just the way marriage is?
I believe we will measure our lives in Septembers.
This year, this September, our first child will be born. We named him and loved him together far before he was the wildly kicking baby he is now. I wanted to write you something, for this September, this moment in our ever-turning world.
How you astonish me, P. You’re out on the back porch grilling for the family who’s coming for dinner. I see you march in and out of the kitchen with that joy of purpose. And you always, always, always have time for a kiss as you pass me on the couch. You always have time to answer some other question from this little corner where I sit, where Jacks kicks me. You astonish me, you know? I’ve never lacked words except for the words for you.
This September we meet Jackson. And we’re out here in the water with Jesus, P, hoping wild and trusting big. I wish I could tell you what it’s like to drive back from Austin with you in the late afternoon, singing that one praise song, my voice catching again and again and again because I realize that I believe these words – and I look over and there you are, crying too, smiling. Your faith is an anchor in my soul. Your hope in Jesus, as you move through the kitchen, through the rhythm of our Septembers, is a reminder to put my hope in Jesus.
I’m more in love with you now than I was any of our last Septembers. I’m in love with your kindness, how you get me water when I don’t want to leave the couch, how you champion others, how you remember things so many other people would forget. How you love. You remind me of St. Francis. I think you both understand that if we dared to hope it, if we dared to ask, God would show us that God is far more deeply in the midst of our lives than we imagine. I think you both know how we need only ask and the grace of Christ will move in us, will open us to receive Christ Himself. I think you both pray to the God who loves birds and peonies and a green plum in season. How this creation it is good, very good, and we should pray like we actually mean to see and speak out that goodness. I sometimes praise God for the peonies, for the greenness of the backyard, for the Brazos river where we go sometimes to just be together, hands linked like they have been since that first walk that June. That’s you, teaching me.
This September, I am in more in love with you than I could have been, because the gift of being married to you is that I have grown, my heart is bigger, my heart has more room for loving. Thank you, for the gift of you, for the daily, gracious rhythm of life together. For how you teach me to sing praise to God. For how you praise next to me when my voice is faltering.
Let’s measure the turn of the years together, September by September, grace by grace. I believe there will be so many more wonders for us to see. I believe you will teach me to see so many that I would miss on my own.