I Love You in Iambic Pentameter

for William

The first time he wrote a sonnet for me, I was finishing my senior year of college and struggling through a Shakespeare class. This was after he bought a book of the bard’s sonnets and tore a page from it every time he wanted to tell me he loved me. Sonnet 116 was an obvious favorite. Eventually the William who wrote plays and poetry came up short for the William who gave me a ring and his life. For the past sixteen years, my husband has written a sonnet for me for every Valentine’s Day.

I keep them in a stack, tied with a yellow ribbon, and tucked into a corner of my nightstand. The early sonnets speak of the hopes and dreams we had those first years together. Many are heavy with sorrows and grief, recounting the ways our dreams broke open in a heap of failures and unattainable hopes. A few made me look hard for the bright spots of God’s faithfulness when our marriage was the only shelter we could find. The stack of sonnets chronologize our life together with all the ‘for betters’ we’ve celebrated as well as the unexpected times of ‘for worse.’ The sonnets of winter make the ones of spring feel especially warm.

It’s terribly romantic, I know, to have a husband who never forgets to write for me a poem in form. (He follows the  ABABCDCDEFEFGG sonnet form, if you’re wondering.) And if all he did was write poetry, the fifteen-year-old version of me would have found him to be all I ever wanted. But the truth is, he is all I ever want. And that’s not just the poetry talking.

When I met William, I remember thinking, “Lucky the girl who marries him. She’ll know she’s loved.” I never imagined I would be the lucky girl. He didn’t really notice me so much at first. When we began a friendship years later, I was struck less by his desire for a wife and more by his desire to speak of Jesus at all times. By then I was twenty, and I had one item at the top of my prospective husband checklist I’d not been able to tick so far: must love Jesus more than he loves me. Nearly sixteen years of marriage with this man, and I can tell you with absolute certainty: my husband loves me, but he loves Jesus more. This is the glue that holds us together. And I could never write a sonnet that could show you how much that matters to me. But let me count the ways, if I can.

When the second line never appeared on the hundreds of plastic tests over the years, my husband grieved with me every time.

When the adoption papers required dozens of signatures and even more probing essay questions, William eagerly signed and answered them all.

Anytime I’ve ever been afraid to have hope, he has pushed me toward the anchor of hope we have in Christ.

When I’ve fought and lost the battle with anxiety, he has awakened in the night with me and helped to calm my racing heart.

He encouraged me to write songs and pushed me to let people hear them.

He gives up dozens and dozens of days off, a precious commodity for a pastor, to parent alone so I can write.

He plays with our two boys, listens to them, corrects them, loves them, reads the Bible to them, and shows them daily what it means to be a man like Jesus.

William prays for me.

Without complaining, he took a second job when finances were tight because of medical bills. He is nearly always exhausted but works without grumbling to provide for our family.

He loves the church he pastors though his ministry has not been an easy one.

He regularly talks me off the ledge when I think I can’t, I won’t, I don’t know how, I’m failing.

He kisses me in the kitchen when I’m cooking dinner, especially when the kids are watching. They always know their dad loves their mom.

He studies the Word and loves Christ more than anyone else I know.

He answers all my theological questions and makes me think about Scripture from angles I’d never arrive at on my own.

He is gracious with his time.

He encourages me daily to use the gifts God has given me, and he puts weight to those words by giving me time and space to do so.

He corrects me when I’m wrong. Gently.

He won’t buy prearranged bouquets of flowers for me but asks the florist to let him go behind the counter to pick out what he wants.

He goes to a nursing home every Thursday morning to teach the residents and sing hymns with them.

He visits strangers in the hospital just because a mutual friend or acquaintance asked him to.

He apologizes when he’s wrong. He forgives me when I’m wrong.

No man or woman or marriage is perfect. We have our tense moments of disagreements and the awkwardly silent days when we just seem to be missing one another in the chaos of parenting, jobs, church, and commitments. We rarely have date nights because we don’t always have the time or money or childcare for them. Most of our date nights involve our children piled on top of us on the couch with popcorn and a movie. Sometimes we feel like we’re perpetually handing off the baton of parenting to one another so we can each keep commitments to disciple, teach, and minister.

Much of our life together isn’t what you’d normally expect in a sonnet. But, that, I think is why I love my husband’s poems so much. They capture the things I want to remember from a year, but they mention the things I’d like to forget. It’s the exterior struggles that we face in marriage that keep us united, and the interior struggles that help us grow. If we forget how we’ve had to love hard, we forget we’ll need to keep loving hard.

Love that is tried and wrung out and stretched thin is stronger for the trouble it has endured. Love that apologizes for wrongs mends more than a bouquet of flowers. Love that corrects is tougher than acquiescence. Love that sacrifices for the other’s dreams proves that it is not self-serving. I treasure the stack of poems in my nightstand. They catalogue our life together in a unique way. But, more than that I’m thankful for the man who shares his life with me, in wide-open generosity, care, support, and sacrifice.

William’s sonnets say I love you in iambic pentameter, but his life says I love you like Christ.