For
sometimes, the heart lives outside the body.
What does love look like? There are endless collections of books:
secular and non, sermons, retreats, seminars, websites all dedicated to this
very question. [And no, I’m not going to
touch headship, or submission, today.]
I’m seeking a picture of a love between husband and wife, one in which
God delights. Because I want my marriage
to be a love story woven through with scripture, breathing the Spirit’s
influence, hemmed in with Christ’s grace, and glorifying God. But to which narrative in scripture do I
turn? Is the garden an ideal portrait? Or do I find this in Song of Solomon? Need I look for paper mentors in Priscilla
and Aquila? Abraham and Sarah? The blessed parent and step, Mary and
Joseph? Ruth and Boaz? Or the newly popular Ester and Xeres?
The trouble with each of
these examples, no matter what your personal stance, is that each is a human
relationship. Therefore, each is flawed. Flawed, like my marriage. Because I’m a human and I fail every day. And I’ll confess to you, dear one, that of
late I’ve failed far more than my fair share.
Hence the declaration. In the
very recent past, I’ve exalted myself and my desires and my goals and my plans
and my “needs” so that they have engulfed what love is meant to be. 
Regardless of whether you’re a complimentarian
or an egalitarian, we are all called to love one another well. And the only formula I
find in scripture for that love is sacrificial.
Treating your spouse as greater than you; placing their needs and well-being
above your own. Dying to myself so that
I can give more of life to him. Taming
tongue and reigning in emotions; feeling them, yes, but not allowing them to
rule in me. Standing when he can no
longer, fighting for him when there’s nothing left in him, and encouraging him
in everything to which he is called. Just
as he has for me.
In a perfect world, this goes
both ways. Sadly, ours is a fallen
world. We will wound one another. We will fail each other. We will give into our flesh and become
selfish. And we will abandon each other
in a million little ways, both overt and with more subversive means.
But for God.
If I can keep asking God
to give me the grace He was lavished upon me, that I might pour it out upon my beloved,
He will provide it. If I can keep
begging for forgiveness for all the wounds I inflict, and trusting that my
beloved will give it, freely, then I will experience it. If I can recognize that his love is unique
and different from my native tongue, but no less true and full, then I will
know it. If I can keep asking God for
fresh eyes to see my loved as rejoiced-over, delighted-in, beloved child of the
Almighty, God is faithful to give me exactly what I need.
I can look across the
table this very moment and see the face that for literal years I prayed to wake
to. I can reach out and touch the hand
that I ached to hold in mine when he was so far away that all we had was a
common star, set in the sky billions of years ago, by a God who knew we’d need
to it to find one another someday. I can
sink deep into the eyes that have seen more of life and the world and its
consuming darkness that I ever want to know.
And I can see why God chooses marriage as a picture of His love for His
people. For while God is perfect, even
in our love for Him we fail. And He must
continue to forgive us, continue to love us through our selfishness, continue
to see the best in us when we’re at our worst.
And continue to stay. Right
beside us through it all.
Because love, both Holy
and human, requires of us more than we think we have to give. Yet in living this love, dying to ourselves
and seeking the best for someone else, we become more than we ever thought we
might. 
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