I no longer fear being less ‘attractive’ to my husband.

Bodies change. So does love.

Walking through the streets of Perugia last month, my trench coat aggressively wrapped around my body as a shield in the cold, I saw an advertisement for photographer Robert Doisneau, who’s work was exhibited in the piazza. The image used to draw in the crowds was very familiar to me - a classic black and white of a busy street in Paris, a man and woman wrapped in a moment all their own.

Growing up, this photograph hung in my parent’s bedroom for years before a weekend of painting and rearranging, when it ended up in mine. The poster then hung on my bedroom wall, only meeting its end when I moved away from home. I still think it’s positively delightful (Doisneau later revealed the couple was hired models who staged the moment, but that doesn’t bother me). If you’ve been lucky enough to know a moment such as this in real life, to have it captured in such a beautiful way is a delight. 

A moment of affection, of love. Passion? Maybe. But that’s not what I see. I see strength and comfort. Depth. Her posture completely receptive to his.

While in Italy, Stuart and I celebrated sixteen years of marriage. A large number to some, a small number to others. I spoke with my Great Aunt this past summer who celebrated seventy years of marriage before her husband died. Seventy years! To her, our marriage is but a child. To us, it is continuing to age, the years tangled up in piano lessons, math tests, and vacuuming.

Stuart and I delight in having spent the last sixteen years building our family. In that time, we’ve buried loved ones, brought new souls into the world, moved across the country, bought a home, built a business, had times of excess and times of need. We’ve spent moments of absolute desperation on our knees, unable to find the words to offer up in prayer, simply holding our hands and hearts open to our God, trusting he can interpret our groaning. 

Our life in sixteen years has changed as has our love, our marriage, and our affections. I was once told that a good marriage was like a fire: the flames quickly and brightly dancing when it’s first lit, fueled by kindling. After time, larger logs are put onto the fire. But their burning takes time, the logs slow to offer their flames. In time, they turn to coals - the hottest and most precious part of the fire. This is the part of the fire that warms your bones. Both parts of the fire are equally important, of the same essence, but different in nature and purpose. 

In typical fashion, years ago, I began to lament over the fact that having four children has changed my body in irreversible ways. Now scarred and… drooping?… I didn’t recognize the shapes I saw in the mirror. I feared Stuart wouldn’t either. In a particular moment of loss over that-version-of-myself, I came to Stuart and shared my feelings of loss over what was. A natural emotion, really, when one has given their body up for others. Stuart grabbed my hand and said “Why do you care about the shape of your breasts?”. I pondered the question and replied “Because they’re feminine - they’re a part of who I am as a woman.”. 

I’ll never forget this next part.

Stuart looked me in the eyes intensely and simply said “Your breasts have grown our children. Your breasts have done the most womanly thing they could ever do.”

Yeah, I know. I cried too.

I don’t tell you this story to put mine and Stuart’s marriage on a pedestal, but I will happily put my husband on one. He deserves it. In a culture of wives that are expected to be half-rate-p*rnstars, with men who aren’t principled enough to be worth their wives affections, it was a severe moment of clarity. In this moment, it was obvious Stuart has ordered his affections appropriately.

The goal is simple:

Love God. Love our neighbor as ourselves.

Recently, I listened to an episode of one of my favorite podcasts. The host (a 30-something male in a long term relationship) explained to his guest that when he began dating his girlfriend, they signed an invisible contract. This contract (invisibly) said that they would stay interesting and attractive to the other party, both physically and mentally. When he became no longer intrigued by her, physically and mentally, he would know it was time to move on. The end result was lots of pressure in the bedroom. Keep it interesting… or else. Which leads to all kinds of depravity I’m not interested in exploring. 

Though all of my birth experiences were very different, when Owen was born, I was literally torn up inside. The result was massive blood loss, loss of consciousness, and a look of fear in Stuart’s face I will never forget. The trauma of his birth lead to weeks and weeks of bleeding, the most physical pain I have ever endured, and questioning if I would ever be able to do “it” again. Fear set in and I was rocked. 

But Stuart wasn’t. 

He wasn’t interested in taking from me physically. He wasn’t interested in how the scars would affect the way I looked or how quickly I could get things back to the way they were. He was interested in loving God and loving me, which in that moment, looked like a lot of prayer, help, and patience. He never asked from me what I wasn’t able to give because “he needed to stay interested”. That’s not love. That’s consumerism. 

Now here’s the twist: when one is loved in such a way, one is eager and delighted to give. So in a wild turn of events, when a man orders his affections correctly, by laying his life down for his wife and his family, in return he is given generous love, respect, and affection.

It is my delight to please my husband, not because I fear losing his affection, but because he is a man worth of delighting in. And I have vowed to do just that. 

We’re not meant to consume each other, but rather, to love and respect. 

Do you notice the woman’s arm in Robert’s photograph? It is calm, still, and open to her lover. Likewise, his strong arm directs and holds her - eyes closed in deep affection - so close in fact that they can’t physically see each other’s faults. (It’s hard, after all, to point out flaws in your spouse when you’re lip to lip.) 

Stuart loves God far more than he loves me. Praise be to God. He is a man that has gained much because he has given his life for others - able to do so because he recognizes himself as a full-of-faults sinner who has been forgiven for Jesus’ sake. And if Jesus can love a sinner like Stuart so much that he’s willing to hang on a Roman cross for him, then in turn, Stuart can easily love a full-of-faults sinner for a wife. We’re not all that and a bag of chips. Jesus is. And that is why we can love each other, despite it all. 

Though I’m not sure exactly which part of the fire our marriage counts as currently, I delight that we’re still huddled around it together, marked as we are by the journey.

Go delight in your spouse.