When my husband and I met, we knew one of us would have to give up our calling: acting in Chicago for him, or teaching in China for me. Due for time back in the states, I gave up China. And because of the nature of marriage and parenting three children four and under, he lay stage acting on the altar as well. Like the story of The Gift of the Magi, I sold my hair to buy him a watch strap and he sold his watch to buy me a comb.
Many years before, a wise married friend and mother of four warned me, “Love is sacrifice.” My best friend, who married at 19, described marriage as a way for God to “chisel us down.” Neither sounded very sexy to me, so I vowed to steer clear of marriage.
Then I met this incredible man.
While we were dating, I wrote him a letter from China (which I then scanned and emailed), confessing my fear that one day I’d be trapped in a tiny Chicago apartment in the winter with an infant. Although I longed to have children, I feared losing myself in the process. Two February’s later, I stood jostling a newborn while staring out the drafty windows of our vintage Chicago apartment, wondering what happened to my life.
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True love involves mutual sacrifice. Love is the montage of running tedious errands for one another, making love when you’re tired, knowing when to stop talking and when to start listening, changing throw-up sheets together at 3 a.m., squeezing hands under the table during stressful family visits, giving one another a night out or a morning to sleep in. Both spouses make sacrifices for one another in what feels like a relay race as we pass the baton down the field, each doing the hard work of moving the team forward.
I admit I now roll my eyes at romantic comedies. In a card for newlyweds, I’m more likely to copy Philippians 2 about Jesus doing nothing out of selfish ambition than I am to write Solomon’s words about many waters not quenching love.
After a mere six years, I still believe in the magic. But it’s not what you think …