passion

My husband loves me. I know that without question. He loves me in a very gentle, steady, faithful way. No, he is not demonstrative. He is not emotional or passionate. He is solid.

And that is what I want. Truly. I grew up in a home with a unsteady man who had extreme highs and lows of emotion. It is not a good way to live. I am so grateful for this rock-solid man who takes life in stride and enfolds me into his world in an unassuming, comfortable manner.

And yet, and yet…

My fickle, fickle, foolish heart. It wanders, wanders, into flights of fancy. It imagines worlds of adventure, danger, heart-pounding drama. And passion. I don't even mean of a physical, sexual type. I mean that intense protective fascination and delight with another. Breath-taking. Consuming.

Two fatal flaws with this practice:

One: I don't actually want to live that way. The lives people live in dramas on TV, the highs and lows, near-death experiences every week, fiery relationships—no one can function like that. It isn't the actually the life I want.

Two: The reality is that I am loved in that way already. The I'd-die-for-you kind of way. I know Mr. love runs deep and strong, even if he isn't very expressive about it. And beyond that, I am loved by Jesus even more purely, more passionately, than any human ever could. His pursuit, wooing, sacrifice, and desire for me is beyond even my imagination. Better than any movie or book could conjure.

Why, why do I run to fragments of falsehood, something imaginary, when I could instead be nestling deeply into the reality of True Love? When my mind wanders, it does just that—untrue to the two men in my life who love me most.

sigh.