I have had a rather interesting night. In the apartment below, I can hear the unending fighting and clamoring of the Persian couple, going at it yet again, for something I can't even begin to imagine. They do this as a nightly ritual I think - he yells, she yells, this process continues for at least another hour, maybe three... things start to settle down and then she runs the vacuum for the next 40 minutes. I haven't quite figured out why it takes her so long to run a vacuum, after all, they have hard wood floors just like us, except minus the checker-ish area rug.

I just finished watching the movie The Weatherman. Not an awful movie, but I'm not going to be recommending it to any one in the near future either. It was 2 hours of watching one man do everything in his self-seeking power to mess his whole life over. I strangely drawn into finishing the movie even though it was driving me absolutely batty. It wasn't until I was 45 min. later when I was doing the dishes that I realized I was watching the autobiography of myself as someone lost in a world without ever knowing Christ. The more I thought about it, the more plausible it seemed, until I was finally to a point of wholesale belief that I had just finished watching the what-if's and maybe's of an unfulfilled life. I'm glad that's not my life after all.

In all this, I've been reminded of something very profound that happened to me last night - how desperately I love my wife. She's not done anything outstanding lately to prove her love. She's consistent. That may seem like a real drag of a compliment, but if there's one thing I need love to be it's consistent. Her consistent love is overwhelming to me at times - like last night. We were talking, not making out, not walking, not having a tickle fight in bed... just talking. We laughed a little but then out of nowhere I asked an important question. You know the kind of question I'm talking about -- the kind of question that makes your wife pause for a moment because you've actually asked her something that she has not yet thought about. This may come easy to many of you, but to me it is a challenge and something to be remembered. I asked her, "What would you do if I died? Would you go live with Dee?"

What she said in reply wasn't much of a shock to me. She agreed that she'd probably go live with Dee, or Christie... that she'd take some time living with someone safe until she was able to get her head screwed on straight again. And as she was talking the rusted, stiff cogs in my brain began to creak and turn. I began to think of life without her, and I was so scarred in that moment. It was like I was there. I was in my apartment the day after her funeral. I was walking through the hallway barefoot and I could hear the floor boards moan underneath my feet, but unlike before there was no one to be quiet for. I walked into our bedroom and saw our bed, but she wasn't asleep in it like I've come to expect. The kitchen was clean, but I knew she wasn't going to be doing the dishes anymore. The TV droned on and on, but none of it made any sense, it was like I was watching the Russian TV station - dull and mediocre, with a faint touch of pizazz. I was so hopelessly alone. And then, without missing a beat in our darkened bed, Misti asked me "What would you do?" I didn't tell her what I was thinking exactly, I just said, "I'd be messed over for sure." Not precisely the romantic, touching response you look for in moments such as those, but I use what I've got, and I do what I can.

She asked me to explain, so I told her that I'd really be torn up inside over it. I'd probably lose my mind.

I should probably mention that this wasn't totally a foreign concept to me; I guess somewhere deep inside I've got the morbid curiosity an artist. I've thought about what I'd do, if all my family died in a car, plane, train wreck, going to some far off place leaving me alone in this world. I always fancied I'd go and join the most elite branch of the government and sign my life over to the military... more recently I figured I'd just become a hermit - same isolation as the military side of things, but less militant and more crazy old mannish.

Without thinking too much further I continued my response to Mist, who at this point was lying with her head on my chest, and I said, I'd go away up into the woods of Wisconsin, Minnesota, or maybe Maine or Canada and live the rest of my days as a hermit, far away from the world... alone. This seemed like a brilliant answer to me - Misti, was less pleased.

I don't know if it was what she said next, or how she said it, or how I was listening to her, but when she said to me, "if I was about to die I'd tell you to grab our important papers, take trains, a change of clothes, and go live near Ian and Richard." When the words were coming out of her mouth they were sweet and innocent, so kind and calm. In that moment, as she was speaking I could feel the tears welling up inside of me, I held them back, and what few slipped out were cloaked in the darkness of our bedroom. As she spoke I was transported to some hospital room - someplace sterile and white with ugly wallpaper, and boring borders separating the ceiling from the walls. I could envision her mouthing those exact words to me, serenely slipping into her final moments.

I became acutely aware of one very important thing in that moment, sad, and sappy as it may seem, it occurred to me that I had not known love in it's deepest forms until now -- maybe I still don't, but I know for sure, I'd never known love before then. I had an idea of what love was, I had a glimpse of it, but never had I known love. In that moment, I realized very quickly that love was her caring so much for me in her death that she'd think to tell me to bring trains because it's my favorite board game. She thinks of everything.

Even reminiscing that conversation I'm brought to tears. I'd like to think that it's just my allergies, but I know it's not. I've never loved my wife more than I do right now. I'd cut off my right arm and give it to her if she wanted it (maybe not literally give my right arm, because honestly, why would she ever need my unattached right arm?).

I have midterms this week. I could have taken them before the trip to Jacksonville, but what's a vacation if you don't have major tests looming overhead. I don't know why I felt compelled to write this, after all I do need to study. I guess I needed to write this. I needed to get this out of me, to verbalize what I've felt in the instant. Unassuming, unpretentious, sweet, sacrificial love... I wouldn't trade it for the world. Thank you Misti.