Lights on the Christmas tree shone as bright as starlight while they glided in a silent slow dance, oblivious to when the music actually stopped. A cat snored in its bed a few feet from them. The children were in bed, though it was doubtful they were asleep.
Her head rested on his shoulder, their arms wrapped around each other, their hearts syncopated years ago. Another day survived. Twelve and a half years thrived. The abundance of life, good and ugly, faced with ferocity to hold to each other. Fate did not seal two halves of the same soul. Love did not come heralded by heavenly bodies. They chose each other, and God held them in the same palm.
There were battles along the way, but love won all of them. Because love wasn’t milquetoast. It didn’t wait on how they felt. It didn’t ask them about butterflies or wondered if they would ever exhale. Love told them they were in it for the long haul. It reminded them that they committed to it, and it was not willing to negotiate. It was stronger, bigger, and fiercer than their pride or fears or anything that dared to turn their eye.
Growing old together was the horizon they sought, and it was still far in the distance.
And so they danced on and on. Warm in the arms of their love. Warmed by the Father who fed and nurtured that love and wouldn’t let it die.
This Story Monday is a dedication to my wife. Twelve and a half years together – a big milestone in the Dutch culture. Our love is a dance that never ends even after the music fades.
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