Love

When I was in junior high, I had a crush on a boy. He had blond hair and blue eyes and was shy like me. Like most boys in junior high, he probably didn't notice or even really care that much.

I remember how aware I was of everything he did. I would sometimes wait outside before the morning bell just so I could see him walking to school and say hi before he went inside.

When I was in high school, I had a crush on the boy I shared a locker with. I remember being so embarrassed that I am bad at keeping a locker clean that I was religious about making sure I kept my things neat. We sometimes would walk together around the outdoor baseball field and talk. 

When I was in my final year of high school, I loved somebody for the first time. There was a boy who liked me, and he would bring me gifts to my work and we would sometimes walk around the pond and talk about the future. We went out to dinner once, and I still remember wearing a light brown dress and feeling like the most special person in the world.

Then I went to college. While I was there, there were other people. There were bad first dates, bad first relationships, a lot of self-discovery, and even a hasty engagement that started and ended too soon. 

I sometimes would get discouraged because I wondered when I'd be able to meet a person and for things to just work out. No drama, no playing games, but just the ease of meeting and getting to know and falling into step.

And then I found Clark.

Our first date happened three years after I first met him. I met him in the hallway at church when I was in my freshman year of college. Or, I should say, I saw him. At that time, I was too self-conscious to actually talk to people with any degree of normalcy. I just didn't know how to act. I spent my time in high school buried in books and working to get money for college. I'd never been good at making friends, even in elementary school, when making friends should be simple. 

But we bumped shoulders every so often. 

And three years later, after chatting a few times on Facebook messenger, we went on a date on New Year's Eve. We went to see a movie, and we sat outside in the cold on the curb after and ate ice cream together. Neither of us had a car, so we walked two miles together to the movie theater and called a friend for a ride home. I wore this long plaid coat that I loved to death.

As we walked those two miles, the things that struck me most about Clark were how easy his demeanor was and how kind and self-aware he was. I felt at ease, which for me is saying something; I've always disliked meeting new people, and I still struggle to know what to say or how to say things. But Clark is the person where I don't feel that sort of internal tension or wonder what he is thinking of me. I never felt I needed to watch what I said or paint any sort of picture of myself to impress him. 

I think I might have known right then that he was the person for me. 

Clark has been gone this week, and I've had a lot of time to think. No relationship is perfect, and we're not the exception, but I do think love can be perfect even in the face of personal failings.

I don't say the right things sometimes, and Clark forgives me.

I make stupid mistakes sometimes, and he's willing to forget those things and move on.

I'm probably the weirdest person he has ever met, and he laughs instead of making fun.

I get angry for no reason, and he tries to understand anyway.

I often fail at my goals, and he encourages me to keep trying.

I'm often a puddle of anxiety, and Clark doesn't fully comprehend it, but he knows I can get better.

I often think my life, in general, is unexceptional, that my day-to-day routine is simply mundane, and that I can't really claim to be interesting, superior, or inspirational in any way. But I think the reality of love is that steady sense of belonging, that comfortable forward motion that puts the silver lining on the clouds that might cover the seasons of life. It's that two-mile walk to the movie theater in December, where the company you keep during the hike is more valuable than having a car to make the journey easier. It's caring enough to know that an unexceptional life can be made exceptional through hundreds of tiny actions.

In my religion, we believe that families can be together forever. That marriages have the potential to last forever, even beyond til' death do us part. Before I was married, I thought how romantic that was -- you love each other enough to always want to be together. But then, gradually, it meant more to me. Daily, with the small things, we might create a relationship that is prepared for such a lofty goal. Something as simple as choosing not to criticize, giving a word of encouragement, or remembering to leave the onions out of the salad are snapshots of eternity -- an eternity where you're willing to give everything you've got to ensure the happiness of another person, without resentment or fear.