After nearly a dozen years, I finally have felt happy more often. Peace-filled most of all.
It's hard work, this married life. This growing up life.
Early on, it was a battle between wills. Mine more than either of ours. A war raged between Daddy-issues, and Groom.
A long, painful story birthed Acceptance.
I no longer question, tossing back and forth between sadness for what I had hoped could be and fear for what might be.
Living has taught me there is purpose for story. Even the dark parts.
And so I learned to love through abandonment. Because, no one on Earth can really fill us.
Fathers sometimes let shame move them away. Mothers, too.
Maturity leads us to a rhythm of living that gives others room for their own choices.
Even when it writes us a story of heartache and pain.
We drink freedom to be ourselves in big, refreshing gulps. And we serve portions of grace to those we love.
Fear no longer chokes our future.
The reality of my own imperfection reminds me that we're never fully mature this side of Heaven.
When I struggle to choose love and wrestle my anger to the floor, pride gets strip-searched and I fall naked to the ground in humility.
His comment might hurt and I might be misunderstood, but our own story of togetherness is important.
Just as much as the story of another's choice to walk away.
Two stories aren't the same. Though I finally see how one adds color to another.
Beauty is in the bearing down. In the birthing of acceptance. In the growing of grace.
Frayed edges of our marriage remind us of purpose in story. For where we've been and who we are now.
"Write for five, short, bold beautiful minutes...
Unscripted and unedited...
Without worrying if it's just right or not."
Giving thanks today to write *free* on this Friday for a tad longer than five minutes.