Seasons

I have ten minutes left in the morning before I have to dash out the door and head to work. He’s sitting on the couch reading a commentary (probably on Romans), his empty cereal bowl rests on the coffee table in front of him and the fresh scent of his cologne hangs in the air. I could empty the dishwasher or double check my inbox one more time or fold that last bit of laundry; but, instead, I find that open spot next to him on the couch and settle in. His hand finds mine and he tells me about how he’s been praying for me and how he’s so glad he married me and all I feel is wonder.  Wonder and gratitude. What outrageous Grace is this that I can call him mine. 

In what very little I know of marriage, having only lived it for four years thus far, it seems that marriages often go through seasons of change. For us, there have been seasons of inexplicable conflict, quick criticism, irritability, and general frustration. (Most often due to my selfishness) And there have been seasons of equally inexplicable peace and oneness, ridiculous fun and laughter, passionate love, and sweet, sweet friendship…  Most of the time this whole thing is really easy, and sometimes it is really hard and always it is really, really worth it.

I know a time will come when other distractions - in the form of heavier workloads, busier schedules or perhaps even diapers - will plunge us into new seasons of spread-thinness and exhaustion and leave little time for quiet mornings on the couch holding hands. So today, I am thankful for this season. For the respite and the shoring up of resources and the mysterious oneness that marriage brings. For the man whose hand I hold and whose prayers I hear whispered in the early mornings and whose warmth I find in the late nights. I’m thankful for the Grace that holds us together on the days when everything else seems to be trying to tear us apart. And I am so, so thankful that I am his.