Two years ago today, I sat across the table from a man I didn’t know. I was intrigued – we had met at a small group event, each wondering where the other had come from. We had done our facebook creeping, exchanged emails for several days, and now the time had come for that awkward, unknown, first date.
I stared at him as he talked, studying his face, hanging on his every word, carefully considering my responses. I don’t remember what we talked about. I do remember that I had fun, but had no idea if he did. I can read people. But this shy, quiet man was impossible for me to figure out, and it was rather infuriating. He was different than any man I had dated. He was totally wrong for me – a small town North Dakota farmboy, an engineer, a deep thinker, quiet and reserved – yet I was drawn to him. Curious. I found myself sad when dinner was over and wondering if we would get together again.
I didn’t know then the whirlwind that would follow, but as I sit here and recall the day I first sat across the table from my husband, my face holds an involuntary smile. Oh, how I love this man. My small town North Dakota farmboy. My engineer. My quiet and reserved deep thinker. I still don’t have him figured out. I still can’t read him most of the time. But I have no doubt that he was made just for me.
When Tim Keller talked about marriage in Orlando, he described the gradual dwindling of that butterflies-whenever-we-touch feeling. It may sound terrible, but it was actually quite sweet. In its place settles a comfortable familiarity. As you know a person more and see all their flaws and failures, you begin to admire them for how they’ve grown, and for how much they’ve been through choosing to love a flawed, failing person like yourself. This is a far deeper love than butterflies – it’s a love that stems from watching someone lay down their life for you, and choosing to do the same for them.
So here it is, two years later, and I get to sit across the table from a man I deeply respect and admire. We will process our flaws and failures and walk through them hand-in-hand. And instead of insecure awkwardness, there is a sweet, comfortable familiarity.
But I must admit – there are still some butterflies.