I’m still learning to love you. When we argue, I’m still learning to listen. When you encourage me, I’m still learning to believe it.
After all these years, I still fail to bless each time you sneeze. Today I'll diligently practice nursing your illness. That's bad for you, but good for me because it gives me practice loving you.
When I am looking out the front window and see you drive up, loaded with bags, I’m still learning to put on my boots and come quickly to your aid.
I seem to have learned the art of warming up the car and scraping the windows for you; there is consolation in that. I'd like to learn to do that every time without need of reminder. Forgive me when I forget or seem apathetic.
And then there are those other imperfect matters. I am that man you married that gives you the chance to practice grace. Yes, that's me...
Forgive my impatience and forgive me when I speak without regard.
Can this imperfect man possess a soul perfected by grace? I’m beginning to think God’s greatest creation was and is paradox—and evermore shall be. How can it be that this jailbird retains innocence? The heart says I am free, but the mind cannot grasp it. The spirit understands liberation though the intellect cannot untangle it. Yes, I am that flawed human made spotless by nothing other than grace. And you are and we are, too.
God’s grace and your grace and my grace and our grace are all that’s needed, I suppose. What freedom!
Marriage is not perfect—not with God nor with you and me—mostly me—for my part, I’d have nothing more for the rest of my life than to practice loving you and our Father.