Today I'm participating in the Mr. Thomas and Me letter linkup. Amber describes it best: [These letters] are written to remember mundane moments that would otherwise slip away, to hold tight to him, and to remember how life looks right now at this very moment with the chance to shed light on your heart.
I, like Amber, have decided to write these letters to my husband, documenting our moments before we have kiddos. And today, I'm telling him I love him (because heaven knows I don't tell him it enough).
I've said "I love you" since the summer of 2007. But I was stubborn. I didn't think love could happen for me. I watched girls at college obsess over guys (they drove me to abstinence by annoyance), get hurt by guys, talk poorly about guys... then you happened. We both know it wasn't "love at first sight" for me; but as much as I like to deny it, I did have "a thing" for you. It took me several months to just go out officially with you, and even at that point I had my reserves. That's why I was so shocked when I started feeling like I loved you only a month or two after we went official.
I think the first time I hinted at being in love with you was when I texted it to you in code—or a different language (like any mature, college freshmen girl would) and didn't want to fully admit it. Being in love meant being vulnerable. It also meant eventual heartbreak (because what are the chances my very first relationship would last forever?). I didn't really expect it, I definitely didn't say it... until our flights got cancelled.
Pensacola International Airport. I can count a million negative experiences at the transit hub between college and home–but there's one good story that makes up for all of the bad ones.
We said goodbye at your gate. All of summer—apart. I could hardly stomach it. But we had no choice. I hugged you tight, then watched you disappear down the onramp. That's when it hit me. I was going to miss you as much as I was because I was in love with you. But it was too late to tell you now.
I sulked back to my gate. Another hour. Sitting here. Missing you. Loving you. Oh well.
"Melody." I heard your voice (obviously now I was really losing it). "Heyyyy, Melody!" No, wait. It was actually you, standing right behind me. Did I really just get a second chance? I think it was something to do with the brakes on your plane—can't remember now; it didn't matter. All that mattered was that you were next to me. But we didn't really have much time together. We just had enough time for... another goodbye.
Yep, you read that right. God gave me a second chance and I totally blew it. We hugged, we stood there awkwardly... in silence, then said goodbye. I kicked myself the whole way to the plane. Why didn't I just tell him? Am I really afraid that the guy that pursued me for months with little to no return of affection DIDN'T love me back? Shouldn't he say it first anyways? UGH. I got in my seat and I glanced at my phone one more time before the flight attendant told us to turn them off. There it was, in a text from you—"I LOVE YOU! I love you so much, and I'm sorry I didn't say it to you."
My heart was pounding. I almost kind of didn't know what to do. I figured maybe I'd just return your text in Houston (as was my typical hard-to-get way). No, no... I need to. "I love you, too!"
With my phone off, I sat in silence, my head spinning... in a plane that never took off. The weather was too bad in Houston to be able to fly into the airport, so my flight was cancelled. We needed to de-board.
WHAT?! I texted you. I told you to come to my gate. Then just like any good chick-flick (pretty sure this was my Notebook moment) we met halfway in the middle of the terminal and exchanged "I love you's" and big, crazy hugs (there was no way in heck I was going to share our first kiss in the middle of an airport with strangers standing around—gotta' draw the line somewhere). There's so much more to this story (that involves us barely getting out of Pensacola, dead phones, and weird taxi drivers)—but I'll leave it there since that was the point of it. The story of when we first said "I love you."
Saying I love you has morphed over the years (just like we have). Love use to just look like romantic talks on piers during sunsets, but now it looks more like cleaning kitchens and watching Downton Abbey together. That doesn't mean that it isn't as important as it was when we first said it to one another. I never want to become guilty of not saying it to you enough, because you deserve to hear it from me every day. And "I love you's" can still look like piers and sunsets–it just doesn't have to.
Saying I love you is a big deal to me. So I hope you know that you're a big deal to me.
I love you.