My husband just left to pick up our online grocery order. Instead of the traditional kiss we share before one of us leaves the house, I made a request many of you may question at first glance.

“Please don’t buy me flowers. I think I might cry the entire weekend if you come through that door with yellow roses.”

He understood. Nodded his head in acknowledgment. And headed to the store.

No, we’re not angry with each other. No, our marriage isn’t struggling.

We’re sick. Both of us. Sick as sick can be with some kind of upper respiratory crud [not that—we’re “negative”] that has us simply clicking a remote or turning pages or readjusting our pillows and then needing a nap because of so much “strenuous” activity. We’re trying not to talk, because we both start coughing when we do. Hence, the understanding nod.

We’re fine. We’re soon to be well-stocked with groceries, etc. So please, keep reading, because there’s so much more to this post than my taking the opportunity to whine in writing!

What I really want to talk about is the past seven years—seven years’ worth of learning about love.

So let’s start with my telling you what has me so contemplative while sniffing, coughing, napping, and downing more fluid than reasonable for someone doing so much napping.

This weekend is our seventh anniversary.

To celebrate, dear Joe was going to take me to a hot-air-balloon festival this morning. (I have a long-running fascination with and love for hot-air balloons. I mean, come on, they’re beautiful, float with grace, and seem like the epitome of simplistic, old-school enjoyment to me.) Following a sunrise launch of the balloons, we were going to visit the festival vendors, enjoy being outdoors after his week of having “the crud,” and watch the Notre Dame football game (if you’re new here, just know that I’m a fan…an avid fan).

And that was only the beginning. As for Sunday, we were looking forward to celebrating the Lord’s Supper with our church family, serving as “after-service counselors” with those who seek to talk with someone or pray with someone after the sermon, and then heading downtown to an anniversary dinner at a favorite fine-dining restaurant nearby.

Doesn’t that sound like a glorious way to celebrate—the way love should be celebrated—with memory-making events and delightful conversations during our moments of togetherness? Yet here we sit, recline, or lie down…coughing yet again.

Several years ago, after seeing my parents love—truly love—one another beautifully during what was probably the hardest time in their lives (which ended in my father’s passing away in 2015), I wrote a post that I’d love for you to read after you finish this one. You can access it by coming back and clicking here. I saw them live out God’s definition of love as defined and described in 1 Corinthians 13:4-8, and I knew that theirs was the kind of love I desired.

You would think that marrying for the first time at the age of fifty-five would have given me plenty of time to have entered into marriage fully prepared, having shed my once idealistic view of perfect days and social-media-worthy photos of the kind of love everyone desires. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful beyond words for the days that often feel like that and for the truly godly man God allows me to call “husband.” But weekends like these remind me of something very important.

Love doesn’t always look like watching colorful hot-air balloons drift heavenward at sunrise, holding hands while shopping at a small-town festival, and dining on elegant dinners in a setting that envelops you with celebratory ambiance.

Sometimes, love looks like Mucinex DM, grocery pickup, and a fresh box of tissues.

I love you, Joe Henderson…for all of our tomorrows.