Burst like white light.

It’s my birthday. And I’m upstairs making pizzas for everyone while my husband is downstairs trying to perfect a song he wrote for me, which is my present, I’m assuming, whenever he is comfortable enough with it to come back upstairs.

And, yes, of course, I’d always prefer the time with him. But I love the notes wafting upstairs. I love how they envelop me even when his arms can’t. I love how I can feel his love even when his fingers are playing his guitar instead of me. I love that he is trying to perfect something that is already perfect as is. That’s what his love looks like. And I’m certain I’ll love the gift he’s giving me, but that alone is gift enough.