I always dreamed of getting married.
I imagined walking down the aisle.
I imagined a near-perfect life.
I imagined bliss and babies and smiles and laughter.
I imagined never getting frustrated.
I imagined an always-clean house.
I imagined the void of desiring all these things to be filled once I said
I’m not going to say these things aren’t true, because all of these dreams take place in my life and marriage.
Our life isn’t perfect, but it’s perfectly us.
The bliss, the babies, the smile, the laughter: they are all a part of the big, beautiful picture.
The frustration? It happens, and it’s usually my mess and junk and selfishness causing it.
And my house. The clean. I’ve decided that clean is a relative term.
But that void? That’s where I had it wrong.
In my head I understood that my identity needed to be found in Him alone, yet I found myself relying on my husband and life’s satisfaction for all these things.
So easy to say, yet so difficult to do. And do consistently. Every day.
This is an old post I found hidden in my drafts. I’m not quite sure when I wrote it, or why I let it sit.
Yesterday evening when I glanced it, it made me pause.
It challenged me in a new way. As if someone else had written it.
I needed to hear it again.
I always will.
I needed to hit publish.
So I did.