Loving is a choice. And having been wounded in the battle, so to speak, it's not an easy choice for me to make.
Loving is the only thing we are truly called to do as Christians, as the body of Christ.
And I've made the choice to love.
It's different this time.
This man met me when I was at my worst physically, spiritually, and emotionally. I was still drinking, much to his dismay. I was a mess in all ways.
Yet he saw something of value in me.
He listens to me when I speak, and he has apologized to me when he did something that wasn't just. He prays over me and taught me to pray for myself in supplication and with longing for Jesus to be my warrior. He offers words of affirmation about things that most matter to me; he told me I have a heart for Jesus. He accepts all my weirdness, and celebrates it. He shares his ideas with me and listens to me when I agree - and when I don't agree. He wraps me up in his arms and keeps me close to his heart. He protects my heart. He is so proud of me; he talks about what I'm doing and expects my success at every turn. He thinks I am beautiful, inside and out. He makes me laugh. He buys me the most ridiculous things - a part for my car, a charger for my phone, a pair of jeans, a silly piece of yarn. He lets me tell him about my freaky dreams. He wants to build me a house. He is careful with my body; he would be crushed if he left a mark on me. He feels real anger for people who have wounded me.
I don't need any promises; those I've heard before. I don't need to talk about the future; right now is all we have. I don't need him to be something he's not; I've been deceived by men.
This is new and different and good. And in the goodness, there is restoration of hope in my heart.
Peace,
Kari
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