I met my husband nearly eight years ago. We were both students at a small University of the Nations campus in Switzerland. He was quiet at first, and would always sit at the back in community gatherings with his arms crossed over his chest, observing everyone with those starry blue eyes. He had dreadlocks, and (lucky for him) I was in a bohemian phase. It wasn't love at first sight, but he did catch my eye. Even more so when I noticed him sitting in the corner of the dining room, reading a novel.
If you know me, you know I love books. I love reading books, I aspire to write books. When I reemerge from a wonderful story, I feel more named, more whole.
So, not only was he painfully good-looking (True story: I went to a conference in Amsterdam a few years back and when the director introduced me as being married to 'the handsome Belgian', everyone knew who he meant), he was also literate.
Turns out, the book thing was a fluke. In our entire marriage, he's read exactly two novels. I thought he just didn't like to read, so imagine my surprise this last Christmas when we had a conversation like this:
Him: Why are you taking the kindle into the kitchen?
Me: In case I have time to read while I'm cooking.
Him: You're a fanatic.
Me: You would understand if you liked to read.
Him: I do like to read, I just don't want to spend time finding books I like.
I was speechless. How could you live with someone for six years and not know that? So, to make up for it, and to prove to myself I do know my husband, quite well actually, I made him a list of books I thought he'd like.
The man has read seven novels since Christmas. Seven.
Now we have conversations like:
Me: You need a kindle to play with the baby?
Him: I can play with her and read at the same time.
Me: You're a fanatic!
We are letters from Christ, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts.