Loving Abundantly: For No Particular Reason
For years, I have asked my husband why he loves me. His answer has always been, “I don’t have a particular reason. I just do.” And for years my feelings would be hurt. I wanted a reason.
I wanted more than a reason. I wanted the words, the flowery testimony of how wonderful, beautiful, transcendent and ethereal we are together. My love language is words of affirmation. I crave the words.
Last night I figured out a powerful truth which fits with the part of this project in loving abundantly. HE DOESN’T NEED A REASON. He simply chooses to love me.
Reasons such as size or age, the money I make or spend, what I do for him in or out of the bedroom. All these are reasons which, over time or through neglect, can change everything.
He doesn’t need a reason because a long time ago, in the face of a tearful, overly-dramatic English and theatre major, he made a decision. He chose to love me. And he hasn’t stopped choosing every day of our lives.
Do we always like each other? Nope. Plenty of reasons to fight, feud and stew. Do we always act like we love each other? Nope, I’m pretty sure my affection for sarcasm, sweatpants and his addiction to sports and sasquatch shows prevents many lovey-dovey moments.
Through depression, debt and disappointment he still chooses. And for no particular reason, I do too.
Who do you love abundantly and for no particular reason, just because you choose to?
Less. More. Abundantly. 
Kimberly – Understand completely. It is the same with my Dear Hubby, Tarzan, and I. Sometimes it feels like an old bad habit (like during fishing/hunting season) and sometimes I marvel at how blessed and fortunate we both are. There is no good reason for him to put up with my all night writes, my penchant for collecting stilettos that I cannot walk in, or buying a crate of slinky dogs to give away on my blog, or my habit of droning on and on about characters in my novels…etc., etc., etc., but he does. And i know he loves me, he just does. And he knows I love him, I just do, except during hunting season (or when he blow dries his boots and burns up my hairdryer again), but he knows I’ll love him again after. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be pretty. It just has to be.
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