After almost 32 years of marriage, I don’t even know how to not be married anymore. I basically make all of my decisions in view of my husband; it’s not that I must, it’s just that I choose to.
Thirty-two years–feels like just a breath, and like forever all at once. We are weaving an eclectic quilt, using many different strands. Some weak and frail, others bold and thick. The fabric is made strong and complex, simple and so fragile.
I remember not liking his taste in furniture when we set up our first home together. But the weaving had already begun. Thirty-two years later, we have somehow blended our tastes. He can go buy anything for our house on his own now, and we will both love it.
The weaving is still in the making. We are a growing entity. He gives me wings to pursue my dreams, and I give him the confidence needed to be who he is called to be. We give each other room to add new colors and textures to the quilt.
And it gets stronger by the day.
And it gets more delicate by the day.
I finger it gently, a feast for my senses. I hug it close to my heart, a comfort to my soul. It is woven with covenant threads, and tears, and sacrifice, and laughter and self-denial. I respect it with my life.
Thirty-two years of stitching, and callused fingers to show it. And if God permits, we will bring it to fruition, and leave it as a legacy for those who were birthed on it, and those who joined the dance later on, and those yet to be born. And though it might fade a bit, the weaving will remain strong, because it stood the test of life.
May it become an anchor to the souls of those who inherit it.