You stepped up behind me at the sink and leaned in to leave your empty coffee mug. You lingered and I and breathed in the familiarity of you. Of us.

Sometimes marriage gets arduous.

Oh, we know neither of us is going anywhere.

But the weight of the promise of forever makes the stakes high and sometimes we lie side by side in the dark and wonder how two such different people could exist in the world.

How do we find common ground? And how do we move past listening so we can hear each other?

Could it be the absence of difficulty is not what knits two souls, but rather the depth of knowing that can only exist through battles fought together?

Could it be we cling most tightly to one another when we struggle hard to honor the oneness?

Could it be the only common ground we actually need is Christ—and He will take care of the rest?

You are not the man I married.

And I pray to God that I am not the woman who stood, veiled, before you then.

We are, both of us, unveiled and exposed in this covenant of marriage. And it is this exact undoing that can provide one of the greatest comforts on this earth: to be known and loved at the same time.

Forget the butterflies.

I’ll take the comfort of your faithful, hard-fought love any day.

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