Forty Years a Valentine

My husband's valentine this year noted we met forty years ago this coming fall. "Forty years is a long time, nearly two-thirds of our lives," he wrote. "I'm glad God has allowed us to be together for so many years . . ."

I'm glad, too. I almost lost him nearly twelve years ago in a car crash. I've never gotten over the miracle of his healing.

We spent some time reminiscing about our first Valentine's Day date, a banquet sponsored by the college we attended. I called home, pretty sure the tall, skinny guy from Michigan would ask me to go with him. "I'll need a dress," I told my mom, over 800 miles away. Before Barry even asked me, my mom had purchased yards of double knit red fabric, and my grandma had it cut out, ready to sew. The floor length dress arrived just in time for the special event--at the Chattanooga Choo Choo.

Back then we never thought about where our lives would take us. Maybe it's good we didn't have a map of the future. But looking back, there's an unmistakable red thread of love woven through the dark and bright and in-between shades of the past forty years. Forty years in which two young kids turned into soon-to-be senior citizens.


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We know a little more about love now than we did back then. It's more than stars and hearts and flowers. It's grit, acceptance, prayer, and sacrifice. In a word, old-fashioned commitment.

Happy Valentine's Day, hon. I love you.


What's your Valentine's Day story?