When I use to ask my married girlfriends how they knew their husbands were "the one," they'd always reply, You just know. It's weird, but you do.
Liars, I'd think. There's no way. But there is.
I think I knew early on that Ty might be it, but the timing and apparent mountains that separated our lives seemed so big. So vast. To know it was him all along seemed like shooting an arrow at a target deep into the black hole.
But that day, in that booth, I knew. It was him. It'd always been him. The one I said, "NEVER EVER EVER" to was the one who swooned and waited and captivated my heart.
It wasn't fuzzy. It wasn't fairy dust. It wasn't a lightning bolt or a giant neon arrow blinking at me.
And while our love is pleasurable and enjoyable and beautiful, that feeling is not what holds up our marriage. If it was, we might have failed a long time ago.
It was a choice. A choice to run hard and fast in the direction that God had cleared for me. A choice to look up. A choice to look around and see who was running next to me. And a choice that said, "We run faster and better together than we do apart. And you're a hottie."
A choice to love, through sickness and health and abundance and poverty.
A choice to fight and break and mend, together.
We made a choice to love.
He's the best thing that's happened to me. And I'd do the whole thing over again with no hesitation.