For the record, my husband was not my first love. I had three boyfriends before I met him and the one before him was the one I thought I'd be spending forever with.
I'm not knocking the romance of marrying one's first love off its pedestal, but I have since come to the conclusion that the important thing is to commit to the one who will be the last. Romantic love, that is. And that is what my husband is to me.
When we met, I had just come to my senses. I was recovering from a very bad break up and had finally begun to realise that my personal worth ought always weigh more; I must be a fully formed being to find my equal and not seek to be completed by someone else. (This is a fairly Biblical thought now that I reread it. About being "equally yoked".)
Finding my perfect complement was going to be the hard part, or so I assumed. There was no way I would settle again after all the heartache I'd just been through.
Surprise, surprise, the Lord led me to him when I wasn't looking. I suppose He deemed me ready for the match. I certainly did not think I was ready to be in a relationship at all!
I married my last love. No matter how many times we disagree or argue, I fall in love with him again and again anyway. And I think that's precisely what all this is about.
This guy who loves to put on cat hats and has now turned our baby into one, this is my last love. And I suppose it's appropriate to call him so because he is chronologically the last and ours is the relationship that will last.
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This post was brought to you by Tegwyn, my beloved iPhone.
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