Loving Out Loud

There is a Christmas tradition in the Ukraine where a man prepares black bread, slices it very thin and spreads comb honey over it. He stands in front of his wife, with his children watching, and tells her all of the hopes he has for her in the new year, then they kiss and eat the bread together.

I imagine a leathery brown Ukrainian farmer, facing his wife, who although scrubbed and combed and polished for Christmas, is a tired, creased version of the girl he married. I imagine them surrounded by their many children, giggling and shy as they watch this intimacy between their parents.

"This is how I love you," he is saying through his fumbled sentences. "I am loving you in these words of hope for your future. I am loving you in knowing who you are and what you long for. I am loving you in courage enough to speak your dreams out loud so that they may become my dreams too. I am loving you in front of our children so that they know you are my heart, that I long for your happiness, that I am not ashamed of loving you."

They kiss. Their hearts are vulnerable in this intimacy and so they kiss to reassure each other.

Her kiss says, "Thank you. Thank you for hearing me. Thank you for seeing that in me, even when the days have been busy and disappointing, when we've fought or been too tired to fight. Thank you for reminding me of my dreams, of who I am under the skin of this daily life. Thank you for noticing what I need, for wanting what I want, because you love me."

They eat the bread, he offering her food he has prepared with his hands, saving her from a task that she does in seemingly endless repetition all other weeks of the year. He serves her.

They mark their year in hope, in reassurance, in serving, with their children watching on, learning how to live, how to become, how to love.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.