It could have turned out different, I guess. Truth is, Amber and I almost called it quits twice in college. In fact, while we were engaged, we broke up for about fifteen minutes. I'd tell you the whys of that particular split, but it'd be too long, and boring, and probably a bit embarrassing. After a spell, I looked at Amber and said, "did we just break up?"
She looked at me. "Yes, I think so."
I thought for a moment, gathered my breath. "That's stupid. You want to get back together?"
We sat on the couch, laughed, and she said, "yes."
"That's good," I said. "I'm not sure what I'd do if you'd said no."
It took us a while to shake these wandering ways, the creeping notions that we might be better off alone. We carried wayward hearts into marriage, allowed them to be the devil on our shoulders, to threaten our vows, even. But the truth is powerful, and the truth is, all the wild horses in Montana couldn't drag us away from each other.
Ah yes, this is powerful stuff.
Last night, Preston Yancey commented a bit about his hope for a good love. I've been thinking about that, this being Valentine's Day and all. Good love doesn't come easy, and the process of becoming one is a painful refinement. I've never seen it play out any other way. But in that refinement, there's joy--faith and hope, too. (Not to mention children, and one day grandchildren, Lord willing.) And more than that, there's the working out of a grand metaphor.
But I'll leave that one for you to untangle.
Amber's away today, visiting her old stomping grounds to attend to some family business. I miss her something awful. I've abused this song lately, but if there's one thing our refining process has taught me, it's that the sun could fade, and... well... you know. Happy Valentine's, Amber!
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