One Year Older, Husband



When you've known someone as I know you, where does one start? With a list of things loved? Things remembered? Things that only our souls, ten years entwined, could appreciate and understand?

To you I first started writing letters ten years ago, when we were only youth ourselves. My heart raced at the thought of you. I told you you had my heart. My fingers tingled in anticipation of holding your hand. I wrote to you and made you mixed CD's with songs that we would later sing together in the car, wind in our hair, sun on our skin, all smiles.

I've written to you longer than anyone and on your birthday I want you to know that my heart is still racing; still belongs to you. Tonight as we drove to dinner our hands still found each other. The motion looked so familiar, like a snap shot I've looked at a thousand times. Our hands are older, the wrinkles deeper, fingers more experienced and worn from changing diapers and wiping tears. The more things change the more they stay the same.

I also want you to know that I see you. I see all in one glimpse who you were, who you are, and who you can become.

I see the things you don't think I see. The ways you quietly take care of this family without ever expecting thanks or asking for anything in return. I see the glances you give the children and the love that shines on your face. I see the millions of little meaningless projects that you finish to make my day just a fraction easier, and I'm thankful. When I notice these things they always make me smile. I see you thinking: quietly caring, processing, and praying for your family and community.

I'm so proud of you. Every. Day. We're still smiling. And I love you.