I’ve read that book on love languages.
It’s pretty good, I guess.
I’ve never quite figured out what mine is….but he has.
He first spoke it during our college summers when he filled my mailbox with letters and called me on a real, landline telephone every Sunday afternoon.
He’s held my hand in a crowd and our newborn daughters in his arms. There’ve been unexpected flowers and more surprise desserts than I can count.
When my tongue’s gotten the best of me once again, he’s kept quiet. When I’ve felt fear, he’s pushed me through.
The afternoon we attended his dad’s funeral, he drove long into the night to take us to my parents 50th wedding anniversary celebration the next day.
He embraces my traditions of walks on the beach and first-day-of-school presents and Christmas Eve dessert. He calls if he’s running late, so I won’t worry.
He sits at our table and reads us the Bible and leads us in prayer.
He’s painted and hammered and cut grass and fixed washers, dryers, and dishwashers, and anything else that plugs into a wall. He’s landscaped yards and built playsets and put bicycles together and hung countless pictures.
We’ve been to the beach and the mountains and the big city and we dream about the next place we’ll go together.
He’s worked hard and he’s worked long and it’s been for me and for us and for our girls.
So whatever my love language is, he speaks it well, – yes, he lives it, and I love him for it.
Tomorrow I’m blessed to celebrate twenty-two years of marriage with the one who speaks my love language!
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