My husband is patient, my husband is kind. He does not envy, he does not boast, he is not proud. He does not dishonor others, he is not self-seeking, he is not easily angered, he keeps no record of wrongs. He does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. He always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
We were in the car and I cried over long ago things that felt surprisingly fresh. Listening to a smorgasbord of podcasts on our road trip, I heard something that conjured up feelings of embarrassment and shame about the older, lonely, strange girl that I was when I met him. Devoted to the faith I was raised in, and therefore its prohibitions, which made me a stranger within secular culture, yet also a stranger within my faith because of my educational level, my career, and my aversion to the dogmatism that permeates the culture of my faith, among other things.
He rubbed my back and hugged me and told me that I was perfect and that he loved me. And then I looked at him and thanked him for being so patient and kind.
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