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Monday, December 26, 2016

The Meaning of Love

Two nights ago, on Christmas Eve, my husband and I were plotting for the biggest surprise we had ever given to any of our children: the gift of a car.

I'm not talking a Mercedes or a Porche (or any vehicle's name I cannot pronounce). I'm talking a PT Cruiser, and a beater at that.

But to this kid, It might have well been plated in solid gold and ran on fairy dust.

Yes, as the child gets older, the price of the toys goes higher.

Late that evening, and into the early morning, I'm wrapping gifts. My husband sits in the chair opposite me to hand me gifts, tags, pens and the use of an occasional index finger in order to tie a ribbon.

I opened my mind to him and started to talk about, well, me.

I discussed my hopes and aspirations, and my fears. Self-doubt sometimes raises its ugly head into the realm of my consciousness and messes with my feelings of self-worth. Lately, I reflect, it's been an uphill battle and something I've been having to beat down.

I tell him that I've been waiting to hear from a literary agent, and my present outlook is not a good one. Speaking my thoughts out loud, I say that I will probably self-publish, publish the sequel then drop it and never write another word.

Without batting an eye, my husband replies with the most awesome thing he has ever said. He tells me, "I don't see you giving up your dreams, not in light of the fact of how far you've already come. I think you should continue to try. It's something you enjoy. If no one else reads your stories, what do you care? You're already a success because you've set out to do something you've always wanted to do. You're not a quitter."

This man gave me the best gift I could have ever received.