When we first started dating, I felt a little unhinged every time another girl smiled at him. Jealousy came easily back then, fueled by insecurity and that fierce, young kind of love that feels all-consuming.
When we got engaged, we would stare longingly into one another’s eyes and swear there was nobody on the entire planet who could ever make us feel the way we felt about each other. Our love felt singular, irreplaceable, almost untouchable.
When we got married, we even joked that if one of us died, the other would stay single forever—because no one could ever take the other’s place. I’m pretty sure I threatened to haunt him if he ever remarried.
Oops. That was… a tiny bit crazy.
This year, on our 13th anniversary, we laughed as we handed each other a “permission list”—people we’d be allowed to marry if one of us died. My list included an old friend, one dead celebrity, and two historic figures. His list? Emma Watson. Clearly, we have very high standards for each other.
But the funny thing is, the longer we live, the more those standards evolve.
Twenty-one-year-old me would have absolutely collapsed at the thought of another woman marrying the love of my life. The idea would have felt unbearable.
Thirty-five-year-old me, on the other hand, mostly worries about how Ian would ever find his underwear or manage his student loans if something happened to me.
For goodness’ sake, this man needs a better half. And if that better half can’t be me, then someone else is going to have to step up to the plate. (God bless her.)
I know that sounds strange.
But I love my husband more deeply with every year we spend together. And the deeper that love grows, the more I worry about his lifelong happiness—with or without me. Loving someone fully has taught me to want their joy, even in futures I won’t be part of.
One of the scariest things about life is imagining the people you love moving on without you.
Yet the bravest loves I’ve ever known prepare for exactly that moment—the moment when our loved ones have to keep living after we’re gone.
As a parent, I pray I raise my children in such a way that when I’ve left this world, they won’t feel lost. I don’t want them to need me when I’m gone.
Miss me, yes.
Need me, no.
As a wife, I pray I love and support my husband so well that he feels confident and secure in who he is. That if I ever leave his side, he won’t flounder, wondering who he is without me. He will already know.
Miss me, honey.
But keep on living.
I pray I love my friends with such a wild, joyful love that when they sit down to reminisce, all they can do is laugh at the memories we shared.
Miss me, yes.
But celebrate the time we had—none of that sad and sappy stuff.
I know it’s morbid to think this way. But isn’t life just a vapor?
I can’t change that truth, no matter how hard I try. Death will come for us all.
So my greatest hope is that I live in such a way that when I’m gone, joy and laughter are all that remain in my place.
No promises left unkept.
No precious moments squandered.
No grudges left unhealed.
Lord, let me live a life that leaves the people I love filled to the brim. Let me leave their cups so overflowing with love that they have no choice but to keep on keeping on—
Just to share the overflow.
