The idea of love for me has always been something like a verb: to be obtained.  

When we’re younger, love is that folded note passed between the aisles of science class, having your best emotions nervously expelled from your pen to her heart.  Or love is raking the leaves in autumn before Dad gets home so he can say how proud of me he is.  No matter the situation, or the delineation of the word, love for me has always been an action synonymous with work.

It has only been recently when the breakthrough came that love is not something to strive for, but rather something that is there.  It is not an action at all, but rather a personification.  Love exists as air in an elevator; where the very thing I need most consumes me, yet I can’t wait to rush out of opening doors to get to my floor.

I’m learning too how bad we are as a society of accepting something for free.  I feel a lot better when what I own is something I’ve earned.  For me, it keeps the balance at Even between work and accomplishment.  For me, I always feel off when I’m just given something, and can’t pinpoint where in my life I earned whatever this “thing” is.  My inner voice likes to remind me quietly “Okay, now you owe them one.”

But scoreboards don’t exist in love…

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(Source: jasonotoole)

What must it be like to hear your heart beating through a computer screen?

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(Source: jasonotoole)

I desire my wife.

I want to meet her and her be here with me. I want her to say everything’s okay, and to be able to hold her whenever I want. My desire is to stare at her like she’s the only woman I’ve ever seen and tell her she’s beautiful. And she lights up.

There’s something about being with one person to grow old with. Someone to share this life with. I don’t want to have to go through it alone anymore. I have friends. The best friends in the world, but there’s nothing like falling asleep with someone you’re in love with. Knowing that you’re holding on to more than a warm body. You’re holding on to the person you’ve dreamed for. My one. Someone who I can speak straight to, and know that they aren’t judging me, and it’s not a battle of pride but of pure love. A reflection of God. Someone to affirm me. Someone to say I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Someone that doesn’t just see me, but sees the man I will one day be sculpted into. I desire the woman in the car ride home with me at night. Not someone on the phone, and not a friend’s house I just left—someone in the passenger side laughing with me about the party we left, until we get back to our place.

I want someone to share these covers with.

Growing up is a hard thing, and it’s even harder to do it alone. And living for my own life gets tiring after a while. My picture frames are growing tired of housing just me.

This isn’t an attempt to woo, or to express a need for pity. This is a real emotion being felt by a real person. I love people and I love Christ, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still desire my wife. I am Adam in the garden right now. I am creating and naming things, but there is still something missing. I have all this love ready to be written about and experienced, but I haven’t found the one to write it down for. This journey for my life and happiness—I’m already on it. I am happy and excited about where my life is going; but tables for one are getting harder to ask for. Too many jokes and everyday events are going by for her not to be there to remember when we get old.

So I say this to you, my better half. I am here waiting. I am not out with other women. I am not pursuing anyone else. Instead, I am waiting to see your face. I feel in some strange way that I have already seen it in faint remembrances of daydreams. It’s like I can piece together your eyes and the flow of your hair, while the rest still remains a blur.

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(Source: memoir.jasonotoole.com)