The Miracle of Love

Dean and me in the spring of 1973

Read and reflect on Ecclesiastes 4:9–12

Then the LORD God made a woman…and he brought her to the man. – Genesis 2:22 (NIV)

“Love is a miracle,” I told my husband the day after we attended a wedding.

The groom’s love for his bride shone from his eyes, was etched in every line of his face as he watched her approach him on her father’s arm.

“You must be so in love,” I told him after the ceremony.

He beamed. “Oh, I am!”

Love is a miracle. Think of it—one man meets one woman and falls in love—and she loves him in return. What, with all the billions of men and women in the world, are the chances of that? Yet it happens everyday.

I remember when I met my husband. I was drawn to him instantly—his gentle manner; his tall, slender frame; his trim beard; and curly, shoulder-length hair—but it was those twinkling blue eyes that did me in. That’s why all the love interests of the protagonists in the novels I write have twinkling blue eyes.

What a wonder when I found out that he was attracted to me, too! I mean, I was the girl who, in grade school, could never get anyone to “like me back.” Who wondered in high school if she’d ever go steady (I did). Who, in college, accepted a proposal from someone she thought was the love of her life, only to have him drop her a year later without an explanation. Who, after having her heart shattered, gave up on love and focused on a career.

And then, three months after vowing never to fall in love again, I met Dean. On our first date I knew deep down, where there are no words, that he was “The One.” We married eleven months after we met. The heart, indeed, has a mind of its own.

 I still thrill at the sight of him. Time and life, with all the disappointments and curve balls and tests and trials, have only strengthened and deepened the bond we share. And, wonder of wonders, after experiencing me at my worst, after 48 years, he loves me still!

Some call it chemistry. I call it God.

After all, He is love (1 John 4:16). He created woman for man and performed the first marriage ceremony (Genesis 2:18–25; 1 Corinthians 11:8–9) because He knew that “two are better than one” (Ecclesiastes 4:9–12). He blessed us with the gifts of romance and passion, which, within the boundaries He set, are gifts, not sin (Song of Solomon).

Love is a miracle and miracles are matters of the heart, not the head. If you have to talk yourself into loving someone, it isn’t love. With love, using your head and all your reasoning ability doesn’t work.

The miracle of love. One man. One woman. Loving—and in love with—each other. Wow.

Dear God, thank You for the love that blesses and brightens my life. Amen.

From God, Me, & a Cup of Tea for the Seasons, © 2018 Michele Huey. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

What Is Love Made Of?

And now I will show you the most excellent way. – 1 Corinthians 12:31b (NIV)

Hubby and I don’t do Valentine’s Day. For some reason, it’s never been an important event on our life calendar.

Oh, I tried to make it an event a few times. One year I cooked up a special dinner: roast beef heart and pink mashed potatoes, a meal we endured only once. A greeting card never seems to say what I want it to say, even when I make the card myself.

Perhaps it’s that what I feel for my husband of forty-five years goes beyond words.

And I think the forty-five years has a lot to do with it.

In the early years, I looked for what I could get in the relationship: companionship, love, support, a listening ear, sympathy. What I got was a man who worked 10- to 12-hour days five days a week, provided firewood, fixed things (an unending job because something always needs fixed), and built me a house. He’s been a good father to our three children—a softy, I always called him. But his softness balanced my harshness.

I’ve never seen him angry—upset a few times, but never angry. Even when I tried to pick a fight, he never took the bait. And he’s always supported me in my dreams. I dedicated my second book to him with these words: “To the man who fixes dinner, washes the dishes and clothes, dusts and vacuums, shops for groceries and puts them away, does the ‘kid runs’—the myriad of daily tasks considered ‘women’s work’—so that I could have the time to write. To the man who told me that he felt God’s will for his life was to free up my time so I could follow God’s call for my life.”

Whether I decided to go to work outside the home or quit the job I had, he’s always supported my decisions.

Although he used to “suggest” ways my cooking could be improved, he always ate everything I’ve made, even when I couldn’t. Proving he told the truth when we were dating when he said, “I was in the service. I can eat anything.”

Now that the nest is empty, we’ve set aside Friday night as our date night. Homemade pizza and a movie. But he rarely makes it through the movie. I hear his soft snores around nine. I don’t even bother waking him up to go to bed. It never works and he doesn’t even remember. I just cover him with a blanket, turn off the TV, turn down the lights and softly kiss him on the forehead. He’ll get to bed eventually.

I used to feel sorry for myself when he neglected to say “I love you” every day. But—don’t tell him this—I’ve come to realize I don’t need to hear it. I see it in everything he does. I hear it shouted from the stack of firewood by the wood stove, from the packages of venison and vegetables and berries in the freezer, from the 1997 Explorer that he fixed and fixed and fixed until we could afford to replace it. The walls of the house he built are his arms around me day and night.

“Saturday’s Valentine’s Day,” I said one night a few years ago as we sat at the supper table.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

I thought about for a moment. “Nothing, really. I’m such a homebody anymore.”

He smiled and nodded.

“We never did do Valentine’s Day, did we?” I said. “I wonder why.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes. Then it hit me.

“Because with you,” I said, warmth coursing through me, “I have Valentine’s Day every day.”

Dear God, You gave me the perfect life companion. Not a perfect man, but the man perfect for me. Thank you. Amen.

Read and reflect on 1 Corinthians 13

From God, Me & a Cup of Tea for the Seasons, © 2018 by Michele T. Huey. All rights reserved.