It burns like a blazing fire, like a mighty flame

I was 19 when I met Roy. He was 24. I walked into a crowded, loud Chewy's restaurant in Austin, Texas, and spotted him standing near the door with a mutual friend. I noticed him right away. Noticed him the way a woman notices a man she will think about for a while. Noticed him in a way that drew my eyes toward him even when he wasn't speaking.

I was smitten.

He had longish hair and dark-green eyes with smile lines (already?) at their corners. He wore a worn-out leather bomber jacket and a couple of small hoop earrings. We were introduced, of course, but I don't remember that part. I remember how he stood there, handsome and somehow serious and pleased at the same time.

There were several people in our party, many strangers brought together by mutual friends. We got to know one another in short time across our long table. I learned Roy's mind was sharp and his laugh quick. I learned he spent four years in the Presidential Honor Guard. I learned he was studying archeology.

During the give and flow of talk, the conversation moved away from us, and I used the diversion, under hooded eyes, to peer across the table and study his face. What I saw was him looking at me. I'll never forget the almost literal shock of that moment.

That was when I learned the best, the most wonderful thing of all: He was smitten too.

After that evening a courtship of letters began. We attended different universities, so he wooed me, from a distance, with his words. He couldn't have known then how much I loved language, how I adored seeing the depth of a mind pour itself onto a page. So when his letters arrived, full of self-disclosure and humor and romantic pursuit, I felt joy.

We were engaged a year later. Nine months after that, we married and finished college, together finally, at the same university.

A friend once told me he thought it was a little sad, really, the idea of someone being with only one other person -- only having loved that person, only having been intimate with that person, only partnering with that person.

And if someone's that person isn't the right person, well it can be sad.

At the beginning of our courtship, I couldn't have imagined how good life with this man would be. At the beginning of our marriage, I couldn't have imagined how the roots of a love fertilized by friendship and devotion and passion could seize me in such a way that I can't imagine, even for a second, turning my back on it. I've learned, when marriage is right, it does, it truly does get better.

When I met him, at 24, I didn't foresee celebrating his 40th birthday -- today -- with him.




I could fill pages with the things my husband does that make me love him more -- playing with the children, seeking me out for a kiss and a hug in the middle of a busy day, cleaning the kitchen while I bathe the children, endless back rubs, his love of books and learning, his compassionate heart, his artistic skill.

But what it all comes down to is his realization that love, that love (raya, ahava, dode) is not a feeling one simply enjoys as long as it lasts. Love is a decision, a constant series of decisions one must make. He decides to forgive me when I'm churlish. He decides to encourage me. He decides to help me, even when he's tired. He decides to spend time with me and talk with me and seek me out. He decides, every day, to love me.

How then could I not love him back?

-30-