Thursday, 30 July 2015

That kind of love.

We all long for that kind of love.

The kind of love where he looks at me like he sees someone different from the person I see in the mirror every morning.

You know, the person with the nose that is slightly too wide, with one eye permanently smaller than the other because of a stye when she was 9, with marks on her cheeks which are too deep for her liking, caused by years of physically battling with acne. The person with jawbones that are too masculine, teeth that are too far apart. Who can never seem to be the ideal weight. Yeah, that person. I'm sure you know her too.

I want that kind of love that when he looks at me from across the room for just a second longer after I catch him, I wonder what he sees that I don't. Then when he looks deep into my eyes and tells me that I am beautiful, I would find it hard to believe him, because surely he can see the scars within by now. Or when he says that he loves me, I would struggle to understand how he found that part of me which I had lost for so long, within minutes.

I want that kind of love that is imperfectly perfect.

I want to bake cakes, muffins, pies, which would taste horrible (at first), but which he would gobble down any day, and still say proudly to everyone who would listen, that I made them. And that I am his. I want to get stressed in the kitchen and get mad at him for not helping, then for him to walk in calmly because he knew that I would get stressed up the moment I sent out those dinner invitations, and to gently hold me and plant a kiss on my forehead. I want to sit across from him at the table and secretly glance at him while someone tells a story, and ask God for the millionth time if I was dreaming.

I want the kind of love where he massages my swollen feet, and buys me the most ridiculous things to satisfy the cravings that I get. And to see the same love in his eyes as I waddle about. The same love, but more. His days at work would feel really long, to the three of us. The nights would be filled with excitement, and nervousness, and about 20 trips to the bathroom. And he would be there, worry written across his face as he sees the pain within me and somehow wishes that he could take it away even for just a moment. But his hand holding me and his silent prayer is enough; we would realize with a bit of surprise that the bundle of joy that we've heard so many friends tell us about truly is a bundle of joy, but also so much more! It's a bundle of Love, joy, and peace.

That when that little bundle becomes somewhat a bouncing ball of angst, we will still be praying together for wisdom, and everything that we need to stay sane.

I want to know his scent so well that when we accidentally swap pillows, I would fall asleep smiling. Yet neither of us would ask to swap back. I want to one day walk into the living room whilst in the midst of doing the laundry, and for him to ask me to come sit down next to him for a moment - "I wrote you a melody". And while he plays, "If you were a melody, this is what you would sound like." He used only the good notes. That's how I know. I know he still always only sees the good in me.