It's Valentine's Day. My husband is working today, not that we would have had plans to do anything special. It is, for us, just another weekend, simple and ordinary.
Both of us are more pragmatic than romantic in nature. The one time I sent Scott a bouquet, he sold it to a co-worker who'd just had a blow-out with his girlfriend and needed a make-up gift.
He did take me out to dinner with the proceeds of the sale, but the writing was on the wall. We would not be a couple who showered each other with sentimental tokens of love.
My career path into the kindergarten classroom has ensured a steady stream of gifts and goodies, so I haven't missed out. Every year I am inundated with boxes of chocolates and valentines filled with sweet expressions of the undying affection of my five- and six-year-old friends.
I rather enjoy this innocent side of the holiday. Racy lingerie and dirty talk are not my forte. Hand-scrawled hearts and messages of unconditional love and acceptance are much more my speed.
I suspect that this sort of love is more in keeping with what St. Valentine sought to promote in the third century. In every version of his life--and there are many--he was a strong proponent of Christianity, the earliest tenets of which were rooted in an unyielding love of God and an unconditional love of neighbor.
Legend has it that St. Valentine secretly married Christian couples. I know that for many modern couples, marriage is symbolic of romantic love. Yet the golden promise of "'til death do us part" speaks less to the power of love than it does to the strength of commitment.
Divorce rates are high among couples who've walked through the hell of their child's death. Divorce rates are similarly high in couples who have managed one of the spouse's life-threatening illness. In a seven year spate of bad luck, Scott and I buried our baby and survived two bouts of my breast cancer.
The burden of loss was--is--unbearably heavy. It tears at the fabric of every vow you've ever made. Tattered beyond recognition, many marriages split unequivocally and irreparably apart at the seams.
In our marriage, the happy shiny people who enthusiastically promised to love each other in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, are long gone. Gone too is the easy, ecstatic joy of idyllic love, and any hope we ever had of perfection.
What's left is gnarled, grayed by the stress and worry and grief of the darkest times and most difficult circumstances. Yet here we are, two imperfect souls still standing together in bittersweet union, upholding the vows we made to God and to each other.
Our relationship may not be moonlight and roses, but it works. And that's all the external validation of love I need.
Both of us are more pragmatic than romantic in nature. The one time I sent Scott a bouquet, he sold it to a co-worker who'd just had a blow-out with his girlfriend and needed a make-up gift.
He did take me out to dinner with the proceeds of the sale, but the writing was on the wall. We would not be a couple who showered each other with sentimental tokens of love.
My career path into the kindergarten classroom has ensured a steady stream of gifts and goodies, so I haven't missed out. Every year I am inundated with boxes of chocolates and valentines filled with sweet expressions of the undying affection of my five- and six-year-old friends.
I rather enjoy this innocent side of the holiday. Racy lingerie and dirty talk are not my forte. Hand-scrawled hearts and messages of unconditional love and acceptance are much more my speed.
I suspect that this sort of love is more in keeping with what St. Valentine sought to promote in the third century. In every version of his life--and there are many--he was a strong proponent of Christianity, the earliest tenets of which were rooted in an unyielding love of God and an unconditional love of neighbor.
Legend has it that St. Valentine secretly married Christian couples. I know that for many modern couples, marriage is symbolic of romantic love. Yet the golden promise of "'til death do us part" speaks less to the power of love than it does to the strength of commitment.
Divorce rates are high among couples who've walked through the hell of their child's death. Divorce rates are similarly high in couples who have managed one of the spouse's life-threatening illness. In a seven year spate of bad luck, Scott and I buried our baby and survived two bouts of my breast cancer.
The burden of loss was--is--unbearably heavy. It tears at the fabric of every vow you've ever made. Tattered beyond recognition, many marriages split unequivocally and irreparably apart at the seams.
In our marriage, the happy shiny people who enthusiastically promised to love each other in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, are long gone. Gone too is the easy, ecstatic joy of idyllic love, and any hope we ever had of perfection.
What's left is gnarled, grayed by the stress and worry and grief of the darkest times and most difficult circumstances. Yet here we are, two imperfect souls still standing together in bittersweet union, upholding the vows we made to God and to each other.
Our relationship may not be moonlight and roses, but it works. And that's all the external validation of love I need.