It’s just a little scrap of paper. It has doodles on it. A jagged edge from being torn out of a spiral notebook. It’s torn in places and it’s been folded so many times that I have a hard time unfolding it for fear that it will break into pieces. It mostly stays in my wallet, and I mostly don’t even remember it is there. But every now and then I see it and pull it out and remember.
We were sitting in church, Micah and I. We were engaged. I was in school, he was working. I was extremely stressed about the wedding and being in school and probably moving to Hawaii right after the wedding as well. I don’t really remember what was said or done, but I started crying. And I know I wrote a note to Micah trying to explain what was going on in my head, but I don’t remember what I wrote or really what was going on in my emotionally compromised state. There was some talk or mention of prizes and winning or something — probably in whatever was being said in church. And the reason I know that is because he wrote something on his little piece of paper, tore it out of his notebook, and handed it to me. And that’s when I’m sure I started crying more because he wrote:
- the prize is you.
(Bullet point and everything. Except the dots on the i’s.)
I folded it up and tucked it away in my wallet and it has been there ever since. (I should probably find a safer place or hope my wallet never gets lost or stolen — which I hope anyway, of course.)
But I was reminded of this because a friend sent me this link yesterday and got me thinking about the writing I do. Blog posts, essay ideas, journal entries, story ideas, shopping lists. I haven’t written a letter in years. And yet I think a lot about writing, I do a lot of writing, and suddenly it seems as though the most important writing I could do, the greatest legacy I could leave to my children and grandchildren and great-granchildren in writing would be love notes to my husband. But of course that is not the reason I would write the notes. My posterity would benefit, I am sure, but the notes are, or would be, for Micah. For our marriage and our love and our life.
The things that I write about — and the way that I write them — shape the way I think and feel and respond to my world. Often I feel like I write about being a mom so that I will be a better mom. I write about running so that I will continue to run and to love running. So what better way to improve my marriage, to keep me looking for ways to be a better wife, to remember how much I love my husband, than by writing about it? To him.
Just something to think about as we enter the month of love . . . .