I wonder if you think that I love an image or idea of you, and not you, yourself. And maybe not just me, but anybody. Do you think that, if you open yourself up; let your heart out of that casket where it's locked away safe from the dangers of love, that you won't be able to live up to the expectations of the one who loves you, because he only knows the outside that you present, or the idea he's formed of you? That he'll be disappointed when he sees your flaws, or finds out about your sins? Or that he'll judge you when he learns that one deep, dark, secret thing of which you're most ashamed?

I do spend a lot of time and words praising you and your many virtues. And I get how it may sound hyperbolous or exaggerated, or even unrealistic, and how it might feel like it's too much to live up to. But it's just the language of love. When I say you're perfect, what I mean is that you're perfect to me, and for me. When I say you're the most beautiful woman in the world, what I mean is that you're my favorite--that of all the faces of all the women in the world, I like yours the best. I don't love you because I think you're the most beautiful; I think you're the most beautiful because I love you. If I go on about the luminous honey-gold of your hair and the sparkling aqua-blue of your eyes, it's not that I love you because honey blonde and aqua blue are my favorites: it's that they're my favorites because that's what yours are. To be honest, I used to prefer brunettes. My "type" was very different from you; you changed it. If your hair was black and your eyes brown; if you were taller or shorter, more willowy or more buxom; if your skin was darker, if your face was different, then whatever you were would be what I love. If you, like most girls, look in the mirror sometimes and think that you're ugly, then I will love your ugliness. If you think you've put on weight, then I'll love your fatness. If you get sick and your hair falls out, then I'll love your baldness. When you get old, I'll love your oldness.

You see, it's not any of those things, nor your charm, your intelligence, your giftedness, your grace, or any other of the thousand things that I love about you that makes me love you. It's you. It's your essence; your you-ness. I love you because you are you, and no one else will do. There's a you-shaped hole in my soul, that no one else could ever fill. I love you because the Voice that said to the Universe "Be," and it was, said to my heart, "Love her," and I did. Or, to be more accurate, He said first, "Will you love her?" It wasn't against or in spite of my will: He gave me a choice. He spoke into my heart one day, as I was kneeling in prayer, and he brought your image before my mind's eye. He said (in my heart, not audibly), "I am not commanding you to love her; I am asking you if you will." And I said that I would. Then He said, "Are you willing to love her, no matter what?" And I considered a moment, then said again, "Yes." And that was that. I made a covenant with God to love you, and He created in my heart a love so strong, so deep, so true, that it cannot be broken or diminished by any means other than His action or my choice to refuse it. It has survived every attack that the enemy of our souls, and all the darkest parts of my own mind, can levy against it. It has survived your rejection and your anger. It has survived the scorn and ridicule of the world. It has survived the judgment and patronizing condescension of everyone I know. It has survived five years of loneliness and isolation. And it has not grown one iota less for all that: on the contrary, it is stronger now than it was when I first told you about it. Much, much stronger.

I know that you're not actually perfect. Everyone has moods. Everyone has flaws. Everyone has sins. Everyone has that secret thing that they're afraid for anyone to know. God knows, I do: all the above, and more. I actually do see some of yours, and am prepared for the inevitable process of learning more, if we were together. But it doesn't matter. What I mean by that is not that I don't care, or that everything you do and are is right in my eyes. I'm not blind, or stupid, or a sap. What I mean is that none of it will make me not love you. I may not like some of it. I may even have a hard time dealing with certain things. But it won't stop me loving you: I'll work through whatever it is, with you, with God's help, and at the end love you even more. And hope that you do the same when you, inevitably, learn the things about me that you don't like.

Because what I really want from you, is just to be with you. What I desire is your presence in my life. Not some idea of what our lives could be, which I will be disappointed if we don't achieve. Just you, in my life, and to be a part of yours, wherever that takes us and whatever it turns out to be. Rich or poor, sick or healthy, in war or in peace, in hardship or in blessing, in grief or in joy. I would prefer rich, healthy, peaceful, joyful, and blessed; but I will take whatever comes, as long as it means being with you. I would rather be poor with you than rich without you. I would rather be sick with you than healthy without you; and if you were the one who was sick, then I would rather take care of you than live with another who was healthy. It's not any particular thing that I want; it's you. Just you. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing else.