With winter passing I realize how much I’ve been loved… each morning my husband has made a fire for me, before he showers, before his coffee, before the sun comes up. He pads from our bed, down the cold hall, past three of our sleeping sons sharing one room, out the door to the woodpile where he fills his arms with heavy logs. The kindling must be chopped too, the hatchet steady in his hand, steady the way he is under the morning moon. It’s 5:30 a.m.

I can’t remember the last time he gave me flowers. Or a card. Or fastened jewelry on me. The heat from the fire on me every morning, along with coffee on my tongue, two cups left in the pot for me, more than enough. I usually only drink one. This is better than the sparkle of jewelry. This is love gifted daily…

Twenty-two years of marriage gives a spouse perspective. Love making is a process roped together with life making… fire making, coffee making, baby making…

“I like you barefoot and pregnant,” he says from time to time. It used to be his joke. Now he really means it. The legs don’t get shaved that often and he says he doesn’t mind, but I keep my toenails painted pretty. No crazy colors. He prefers natural.

Natural takes work. Brush the teeth several times a day. Eat healthy foods. Exercise, no money and time for the gym. Instead I chase muddy boys through the pasture, clean the house in high gear, weed the yard, it’s about five acres. Walk to the mail box, another five acres, feed the horses slabs of hay on the way. Keep my hair long for him and my body slender. But not too slender. He doesn’t like bony.

Cook his dinner, must be meat in there. Eat by his side at the table with the children. Make his lunch: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches his favorite. Homemade jelly prepared by Oma, my mom. I’ve really got to learn how to make jelly for my husband. I keep saying I’ll do this when I don’t have a baby on my hip, but I’ve had babies on my hip for twenty years now so this summer with baby on hip I will stand in Oma’s sweaty, summer kitchen and watch her make strawberry jam. Again his favorite.

A husband who keeps a fire burning deserves a wife who makes strawberry jam, don’t you think? I also need to master texting since he’s a high school teacher who texts. If it was up to me I would still call him from a phone booth, but he’s into texting as his students do.

Like fires and strawberry jam, real love is painstakingly made. Through sickness and health. In patience and perseverance. In daily talks. There have been seasons where we talk in the middle of the night when the whippoorwill outside our window wakes us up. Some days are just too crazy with kids to always look into each others’ eyes and say, “You know I really love you,” or “we really need to pray to keep our love alive.”

Sometimes love comes easy, other times not. When he shaves his head out on the patio I get upset. I like his hair longer too. When I go blonde he complains, “Where is the little redhead I fell in love with?”

Yesterday we sat down together and chose a dozen of our favorite songs to make a date night play list. When we met twenty-five years ago our taste in music was way different. To my surprise last night we agreed on every song. Fires and strawberry jam are worth the effort.