I remember the little things about our life more than the big ones.
The way you walk into a room and somehow make it feel warmer. The way you laugh when you’re genuinely amused, without worrying about how loud it is. The way you always smell good, even after a long day. The way you look at me when I’m talking, as though what I’m saying matters.
I remember thinking, God, You really knew what You were doing.
You were never perfect. I never expected you to be.
But you loved God.
Not just in the way you spoke about Him, but in the way you lived. I saw it in how you treated people when there was nothing to gain. In how you handled pressure. In how you apologised when you were wrong. In how you prayed when you didn’t have answers.
You had dreams, and you were serious about them.
You were financially responsible. Ambitious. Intelligent. You loved building things and solving problems. You carried yourself with confidence, but you never needed to make anyone else feel small to feel like a man.
You were masculine, but gentle.
Strong, but kind.
You knew how to lead without controlling.
And somehow, with you, I never felt like I had to compete with your strength. I felt safe enough to be soft.
I remember the conversations we’d have late at night.
Sometimes we’d talk about business, sometimes about God, sometimes about the most random things that somehow became the funniest conversations.
You made me laugh.
A lot.
You also knew when I wasn’t okay, even when I said I was.
You’d look at me and ask, “What’s really going on?”
And I loved that I didn’t have to pretend with you.
You listened.
Not just to respond, but to understand.
And when we disagreed, you didn’t use silence as punishment or anger as a weapon. You knew how to communicate. You knew how to say, “I was wrong.”
That meant more to me than you probably realised.
I remember watching you pray one evening.
It wasn’t elaborate.
You simply bowed your head and spoke to God about us.
And in that moment, I understood something.
I didn’t want a man who simply wanted to be the head of the home.
I wanted a man who understood what it meant to love like Christ.
Because Christ didn’t love the Church by demanding that she become smaller.
He loved her by giving Himself for her.
And that changed the way I understood submission too.
I didn’t want to submit because I was afraid.
I wanted to submit because I trusted the man leading me.
Because I knew your leadership wasn’t about control. It was about responsibility. Sacrifice. Protection. Love.
You made it easier for me to understand why God designed marriage the way He did.
And I hope you knew that I didn’t take that for granted.
I loved that you were considerate.
You noticed the little things.
You remembered what I liked.
You celebrated my dreams.
You didn’t ask me to shrink so that you could feel bigger.
You wanted to see me become everything God had called me to be.
And I wanted the same for you.
I wanted to be the woman who could stand beside you, pray for you, encourage you and build with you.
Not perfect.
Just willing.
Willing to grow.
Willing to communicate.
Willing to choose you, even on the ordinary days when love wasn’t butterflies and beautiful moments.
Because eventually, I realised that love isn’t only found in the grand gestures.
Sometimes it’s in someone making you tea without asking.
Sometimes it’s in sitting quietly together after a long day.
Sometimes it’s in praying together when neither of you knows what tomorrow holds.
Sometimes it’s in choosing kindness during an argument.
Sometimes it’s simply knowing that there is someone beside you who is committed to building a life with you.
And I remember thinking:
This is what I prayed for.
But there is something I haven’t told you.
Something you probably haven’t noticed yet.
None of this has happened.
Not yet.
I haven’t met you.
I don’t know your name.
I don’t know where you are.
I don’t know what you’re doing right now or what God is teaching you in this season of your life.
Maybe you’re somewhere becoming the man I’ve described.
Maybe you’re learning how to love.
Maybe you’re building your career.
Maybe you’re growing deeper in your relationship with God.
And maybe, somewhere, you’re praying for a woman you’ve never met too.
So why do I remember a life I’ve never lived?
Maybe it’s simply a dream.
Maybe it’s hope.
Or maybe…
it’s foreshadowing.
Perhaps one day, I’ll look back at these words and smile.
Not because everything happened exactly as I imagined it.
But because somewhere along the way, God allowed two people who were becoming separately to finally meet.
Until then, dear future love,
Keep becoming.
I’ll keep becoming too.
And if our story is already somewhere in the hands of the One who knows the end from the beginning, I’ll trust Him with the timing.
Maybe one day, I’ll read this again and realise I wasn’t imagining our story.
I was simply reading the first page before I knew how the story would unfold.