Chick Flicks and Love Stories

I have been obsessed with love stories lately. I mean, staying up at night to watch Netflix chick flicks and period dramas, and dreaming of being loved like that. It’s bad, you guys. I’m not proud, and I’m not usually a movie or show person. The truth is, diving into make-believe or future love stories is less painful than remembering the details of my own. Because my own was so deeply good, and I cannot have him right now.

Why do all of the stories end with the proposal, or the declaration of love? Because, honestly, that’s just skim milk. That just barely skims the surface of the goodness of deep love. Where are the stories of little sacrifices and growing hearts? Where are the depictions of middle-of-the-night love? And I don’t just mean making love, but “I’ll get up with the babies and let you sleep a few more hours,” love, and what that does to your heart on the other side of morning. Where are those walks in golden hour at the end of the day - just up the street in your scrubs and tee shirt - kind of stories? Is it too mundane? Because, oh my God, is it deep. I suppose there are those stories. But so often something has to HAPPEN to make them realize that they need to step up the romance game. Think “Date Night.”

Where are the stories of married couples who look at one another and sigh: “How did we get so lucky?” Where is the comfort under his arm, right there next to his heart, day after day, after day - and night after night after night? That, I know you, kind of love. Where are the steamy shower scenes for married couples? Haha, because, when you are married, you don’t usually get the bathroom to yourself! Sweet goodness just happens more. Where are the stories when you are looking at this person, and sometimes thinking they aren’t the greatest and most exciting human you’ve ever met, but my God, do you love them with your whole entire being. Where you see the flaws, and you see the growth, and you see the choices for better or for worse, and you adore them for it all.

My Trevor Ryan Floyd, born October 10, 1986, was indeed not the most attractive or exciting person I had ever met. I thought he was rude and lacked character at times, and I don’t think I will ever stop adoring that man. (And let me clarify, he became the most handsome and captivating person to me.) I remember so clearly, the summer a few weeks before he died. He was working on the computer, in a chair by the table, one leg casually crossed over the other. Maybe he was watching baseball instead of working. I looked at him, and thought, I don’t know if he is the definition of the “most amazing” man in the world. But oh, I know him, and love him so deeply I could burst. I crossed the room, and kissed the top of his head, long, and hard. He looked at me with those eyes that say “I know I’m loved” and with a chuckle asked, “What was that for?” It was for everything and nothing, all at once. How do I go about explaining the depth and intricacy that I carry in my memories? What do I like most about him?

There will be pages and pages about what I like and love about Trevor. But for tonight, it is his persistence in loving me. For someone who called himself a “jumper,” and made decisions quickly, he was the steadiest person in my life. Once he knew he would love me, he never forgot it or questioned it. He was steady when I was crazy, and anxious, and tired, and whiny, and mean. He was never mean to me, not once. He was as sure that we would wake up next to each other for the rest of our lives, as he was sure that the sun would rise all those mornings. He was sure that we would grow closer and stronger all at once. He knew that our lives would be good. That God had nothing but “better” for us. That kind of security feels so good. Even and especially now. 21 months later.

More to come.