This Is How I Love
Total attention directed outward — this is how I love.
When I love, the first thing I do is listen.
I don’t wait for my turn to speak. I don’t listen until I hear an opportunity to turn the conversation back to me. I am not half committed to the conversation while my real focus is my phone. I don’t nod in acquiescence while secretly watching the game. No, I do something quite novel — listen to what she says. I give her my undivided attention. In the culture of eight second attention spans and constant absorption in some type of device, that level of focus — of attention — can be… intense. Because she is the most important thing in the world, I treat her so. And I listen.
If it were only words, listening would almost be easy. The tone in her voice when she’s irritated. The pause in her speech when she doesn’t want to talk about something. Sound of joy when she talks about someone she loves. Her speech gets faster when she’s excited about a topic — as if she can’t wait to get out all the words. The exasperated sigh that comes from her exhaustion. When my passion overwhelms her, if you listen closely, you can hear it — the slight gasp of her breath being taken away. She talks with her body — her hands an equal tool with her mouth. As if, with an imaginary friend as a child, she created her own form of sign language, she moves her hands freely and in cadence with her speech. Her posture changes based upon her mood. And her eyes. If she were completely silent, her eyes would tell the story she wants to portray. In those hazel eyes, I see frustration, exuberance, bliss, joy, and overwhelming love. She’s a beautiful, complex, fiercely intelligent woman. I want to give her the attention she deserves and honor her with it, regardless of the cost. Because she is that important to me, having every channel running simultaneously can be exhausting, and the toll it takes on me real — depleting. But it never feels that way — not with her. The exhaustion is the devotion made visible — the shape love takes when it’s this complete.
This type of listening produces an intimate knowing. I’ve listened to her tone, so I understand her mood. I know when she is exhausted, frustrated, or happy. I can tell when I have said or done something right because I can see the love in her eyes. I ask questions about my favorite subject — her. I know her favorite place to play when she was a kid. The time she got in trouble for lying to her mother. Her boyfriend’s name in high school. Every hope, every dream she’s ever had. In high school, she wanted to be a teacher. She knew from an early age that she wanted to be a mother. As a reaction to family health scares, she values exercise and overall physical and mental health more than most people. She’s a Ginger and a Mary Ann. Elegant and graceful when she’s dressed up — she stops traffic. When she’s comfortable and relaxed, she’s someone you can snuggle with on the couch and watch a movie — infinitely approachable. In either scenario, gorgeous.
I know that no one’s ever cooked her a meal — until I did. Dish after dish of culinary delight, all made with the secret ingredient, specifically for her. She has this full body reaction to food that is delicious. She takes a single bite — this overwhelming joy comes across her face. In this moment, it is as if she can’t believe she is tasting something so good — like it’s some sort of fantasy or a dream — she laughs.
I know every muscle in her jawline — in her neck — that moves as she eats. The curve of her cheekbone. The cupid’s bow of her lips. The exact starburst pattern of her hazel eyes. I know every curve, every line, and every shadow of her face so well that I drew her portrait, and gave it to her on Valentine’s Day. She was so overwhelmed that she wept.
This level of attention applies to her entire body — not as it applies to sensuality or the primal, visceral desire of a man as he looks upon a woman — like a patron at a museum who spends hours admiring a fine work of art. Every curve, line, and shadow has been committed to memory, and when she moves, it sets my soul afire as those lines, curves, and shadows constantly change. I know her body in motion, and it takes my breath away. Her hands as she types on a keyboard like graceful hands playing a piano. The hem of her skirt is just high enough to allow me to see the muscle above her knee fire as she walks — like strings playing the melody. When she talks with her hands — like a conductor — her forearms, biceps, shoulders, and collarbone sing — I am mesmerized by her beauty. I know the way the light produces shadows on her body, and when she moves, like a coda, I turn in anticipation. Her body in motion is a sweet symphony that resonates with my soul.
I know she loves talking to me. So many nights were spent past midnight doing just that — baring our soul to the other. She loves my thoughts and I want to give them to her. I write her notes — pages and pages in a letter. A goal or deadline was never set, but in the process of letting the interior out, I write her over a million words.
She has her mother’s piano and has always wanted to learn how to play. So I research online teachers, and I find the best free teacher the internet has to offer so she can get a feel for it, and see if it’s something she wants to pursue. She marvels over the intricate chocolates in the case of a patisserie. So I make her chocolates to rival them. She laughs as she takes the first bite and cries as she calls the hands that made such a wonderful gift beautiful. She complains that her beloved weighted blanket has an unrepairable hole in it. She laments its loss and talks of how much she loved that blanket. I got her another one for Christmas. She marvels at how I always find the perfect gift for her. Every gift is made manifest by what I have learned by listening — how I know her. Total attention directed outward — in the form of a gift.
Intimacy of her knowledge has produced inside of me a joy I did not know existed, and the realization that I have found the greatest treasure. In Matthew 13 there is a parable about treasure. “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up. Then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.” Jesus is talking about the Kingdom of Heaven as the treasure, but the logic always rang true for me about my love. If I have found the greatest treasure — if she truly is the one — in my joy of finding her — would I not sell everything I had to buy the field? Would I not give my all for her?
This is how I love. I listen. I know her. And I put her before me. In my joy, I sell all I own to buy the field. To the uninitiated this may seem selfless, or perhaps sacrificial. Those who have experienced this love understand — the treasure is worth more than everything I’m giving up. Her before me is the fullest expression of what I want, not the denial of it.
In life, this manifests itself in many ways, but an oath I gave her long ago captures the essence.
My sweat before your sweat.
My tears before your tears.
My blood before your blood.
My life before your life.
Long forgotten in our age, oaths such as these were proclamations given — with honor — stating how a man would live his life. It is something that speaks directly to my heart, and when I hold the oath up as a mirror, I see myself. When I spoke these words into existence, she wept.
A line from Walt Whitman’s Once I Pass’d Through a Populous City has taken residence in my soul.
“Day by day and night by night we were together — all else has long been forgotten by me.”
To be a sojourner in a new city — the odd customs, the strange foods, the unfamiliar architecture, all the magic a new place conjures. And he remembers none of it, but being with her. The words Whitman wrote about his own experience tell me he had found the greatest treasure too. All else has long been forgotten by me — the greatest treasure — the entire oath makes manifest just how precious she is.
With that framework, the first of the oath is simple. My sweat before your sweat. When we are trying to decide between Chinese and Italian — I like both — and she really wants Italian, that is where we go. Being with her is what I truly desire, the food is secondary. If there are groceries that need to be carried into the house, I will carry them. If she needs something on the top shelf, I am happy to get it for her. If there is one chair left, I will stand. When I have had the worst day, and bitter exhaustion set in hours ago, I will still cook dinner so it is ready when she gets home from the gym.
There are people that would condemn me for this and claim I am taking away her power — like she can be diminished by opening the door for her or standing when she enters the room. If you opened the door for your queen, is she somehow less of a queen? You would be disrespecting her by not doing so. This dichotomy is what I do not understand. I know she can open her own door and carry her own groceries. I honor her by doing so, just as I honor a queen by bowing in reverence. If I could take her power so easily, it was never hers.
Tears, here, is about the weight of the world, worry, and provision. It doesn’t mean that she can no longer grieve. But that I take the burden so she may be free of the weight.
My tears before her tears.
Sometimes you must fight — let me be the one to fight. Sometimes life is draining — let it drain me first.
My blood before her blood.
She is the greatest treasure and my life would be nothing without her. If this world demands one of our lives, it would be my honor to give it so she may live.
My life before her life.
This is how I love. I listen. I know her. I put her before me. This can be one-directional. A man can listen to someone who never reciprocates. He can know someone who never asks who he is. He can sell the field for a treasure that would not do the same for him. That is still love — unrequited — it is love through glass.
And then something happened I had no language for, until I found it in an ancient word.
Often, the Biblical picture of marriage has been the example I have used for love. This is such a complex and beautiful image, let me paint it for you. The English translates the Hebrew word yada as “to know”, and it has a depth that is not captured by the translation. Yada denotes intimate, experiential knowing — not merely intellectual knowledge about a person, but knowledge gained through sustained, embodied presence and shared experience. It is comprehensive personal knowledge — knowing someone’s interior life: their fears, longings, patterns, wounds, and joys — not as a static profile, but as an ongoing, ever-deepening acquaintance. But it also carries within it mutual vulnerability. Yada in its fullest sense implies a bidirectional exposure: to be known is to be seen without concealment, and to know is to accept the full weight of another’s reality. Yada is being seen completely by your partner, accepting what you see in them, and living with that intimate knowledge. She did not feel my one-directional love through the glass and ignore it. She opened the door and showed me into the warmth. She showed me the meaning of an ancient word through her love.
The Bible then builds upon this concept by telling us of what this looks like in practice. Women are commanded to submit themselves to their husbands. And husbands are commanded to love their wives as Christ loved his bride, the Church, and gave himself up for her. The man is called to give everything he is, has, or will be, to redeem his bride. He must give his everything to her. He puts her first, always, her before him. And the wife is called to do the same. By submitting to her man, she puts him before her. This is the beauty that most don’t see and why this is the picture of a true partnership. The mutual self-giving is so complete that both partners are simultaneously the giver and the receiver. They give everything their partner needs, while receiving everything they need from their partner.
The English translation “to know” was never going to hold the listening, knowing, her before me, and the bidirectional completion. I didn’t have language for it before this word. This is how I love.
Yada.
For most of my life, I equated yada to a unicorn or Minotaur — magic in a world that refused to believe. Until, that is, I experienced it. As my understanding of this word increased, so did my knowledge of what it means to be in a true partnership, my capacity to love, and what it really means to love a woman. Through her, I discovered me.
For the first time in my life, she opened the door, and let me into the warmth.
And now…she’s gone.
Once again, I find myself at the glass — looking in.
A panic ensued when I realized there was no handle for the door. A great amount of effort and time was exhausted trying to find entry into the warmth I saw on the other side of the glass. Counting the hours turned to days, which extended to years and eventually decades. I stood at that glass until I questioned the warmth’s existence. An oasis of warmth and light as a much needed respite from the bone chilling absolutism of the darkness. It seemed an illusion born of longing and desperate need. In my despair, she looked up — saw me —and then I knew warmth was real.
It was always oasis and not illusion. I’m still unsure which would have been kinder. I have felt the warmth on my skin — her warmth. Now, the cold seems self-aware — it enters, searches, systematically, and absorbs any warmth it finds in me. A chill has entered my bones and I cannot get warm again. Unforgiving, the cold has become complete, and I begin to question the existence of heat — could it have been a dream?
She was real and her warmth was everything I ever wanted. I felt it and I saw her light — it blinded me. Her light rivaled the sunrise itself. Now, the darkness is a black hole. Its gravity annihilating anything until its presence is undeniable — palpable — it tears you apart from the inside out.
Everything in the house is something she either purchased, or we did together. In every restaurant, there is a table in which we sat. The park where we walked with our hands entwined. The museum that we went to for the first time together. The drugstore we liked to go to the day after Valentine’s Day to shop the discount candy. The bench next to the Koi pond where I took so many photographs of her. The spot on my sofa, where I held her in my arms and read her a book whose main character shared her name.
My arms still ache to hold her. In the morning, I wake, realize my arms are empty and turn to embrace her. How does the left hand miss the right? How does half go on without its other? Every place I go, everything I do, and all of who I am, she is missing from me.
I stand at the glass — the absence of heat — it is colder than I remember it when I thought it was an illusion. The absence of light is absolute — it is alive — like a monster in my nightmares in the darkest part of the night. And now, I stand here in the cold darkness, knowing exactly how warm and bright it truly is inside. Everything I see reminds me of her.
It is unbearable.
Standing at the glass, the lure to allow regret and pain to consume you is real and tempting – it’s the easiest thing you can do, for all you have to do is nothing. “No, what happened, happened and couldn’t have happened any other way” — it amazes me the number of ways The Matrix resonates with my soul. Morpheus aims to free us from the prison of what if— and it is a prison. Shivering, alone in the dark, I endlessly play over every scenario and torture myself with what if. But the quote is doing something much deeper — it speaks to the events in one’s life that leads them to this moment, right here, right now. It is like a mathematical equation in which each event produces character that adds up to me. If you change but one of the variables, we no longer get the same answer. I am the collective sum of all my experiences, and the fire that’s refined them — which includes her.
Falling in love is a lot like being struck by lightning. Through suddenness and helplessness, a surge reorganizes everything and leaves you dazed. There will forever be a clear demarcation of your life before and after you were struck by lightning. Visceral in its intensity, it is instantaneous and overwhelming. Falling in love is something that happens to you, not something you do. If not for being struck by lightning, I would not know the joy of sitting and holding her hand in mine. I would not know her in my arms and what home truly feels like. Nor the delight in my soul at the sparkle in her eye when she looks at me. A laugh that can actually lower my blood pressure. Gift after gift that moved her soul enough to bring her to tears. Seeing countless others, like moths, be drawn to her incredible light. I wouldn’t know warmth. Without her, I wouldn’t know my capacity to love.
I wouldn’t know yada.
The journey has led me to here — now — standing at this glass. These experiences were not something given to me and then taken away. My path was one of self-discovery. These experiences are me. I have an incredible capacity to love. And how I love, is yada.
So, I write. And I continue to write. Let my words be a lightning rod — one in which I will stand tall and hold proudly. Not to increase my chances of being struck by lightning again — that will or will not happen independent of my efforts. No, I write to let the interior out. I write to let you know yada does exist. I write because maybe the words will find you standing at your own glass.
And I stand in the open, because it is the only honest refusal of the dark.