on certainty

I know and have known for a long time that love is not the lurch in my belly, the thrill, the rapid heartbeat, the flicker of passion. It is, instead, the deep part of the ocean, where the water is always dark even if the sun is high and hot on the surface of the sea. Where no current yanks and thrusts, no tide sucks and rips, no wave spits and slaps. It is calmer, unmoved, unchanging. But it is easy to miss. I can’t actually see it. I forget that it is even there.

Love, I think, is certainty. That is not all that it is, but that is some part of it that I am deeply grateful for. My mind whirs and spins and I have yet to learn to how to be still and rest, but there is no part of my mental frenzy that can be blamed on my husband. I worry about everything, about the the grit in my teeth that might be more fillings crumbling out, about the eczema splattering my daughter’s skin with angry red rashes, about how furiously time charges forward and my body is etched with proof of its passing, about missing the life I am living because I only ever focus on what looms so far in the distance.

What I do not worry about:

That he still loves me. 

That he still desires me.

That he still wants to be my best friend.

That he believes in me.

That he will betray me, leave me, or keep secrets from me.

That he will change for the worse. He has only ever changed for the better.

I know nothing is guaranteed, but I also know there is a certainty in love. And I often miss it, and forget to be grateful for it, because it is the deep dark ocean and I’m stuck on the surface, sprayed by salt and foam and sand, peeling the seaweed off my ankles, dodging dead jellies. I am not looking down very far, and I’m distracted by the noise, the clamor off shore. I’m blinded by the sun on the sea, the water like a broken mirror, flashing shards of light when the wind blows. 

But this is what I know is true: I will be loved, desired, befriended, believed in, devoted to, and it is not because I am lovable, desirable, or friendly. It is because of his character. My husband may be a sinner, but he is also a saint. He is not perfect and his love is not perfect, but he is perfectly loved; he’s learned what that looks like. And here I am, drenched in the benefit of marrying a man who knows that he is not his own. Here I am, married to someone to knows what is good and real and true, who has learned to be brave, who has learned to love. 

Love is worth celebrating, to be sure. But so is the certainty of it. 

I know that I cannot count on most things. But, Timothy, I can count on you.