At the age of 18, I married for the first time. After almost 24 years of tumultuous havoc that nearly cost me my life, that marriage ended in divorce. I swore I would never again let anyone into my life as a marriage partner; the years of abuse were too painful. For several years, that resolve was easy to keep.
Then one day at church, as I left the sanctuary, I spotted a man a head taller than most. He was bald and wore glasses. In Sunday school, he expressed his opinions freely, his eyes alight with passion. Over several weeks, I became increasingly attracted to him.
One Sunday, he followed me to my car and asked me to lunch. Before the meal was over, we both sensed something special. Less than a month later, he proposed. I accepted, though fear lingered in my heart—I was determined never to be abused again.
Three years of marriage to this wonderful man have brought me immense joy. He has showered me with love, compassion, and care, becoming my husband, lover, companion, and best friend. Through him, I have learned the difference between self-serving, abusive love and the real, self-sacrificing kind. This big, bald Texan helps me find the best in myself and loves me as I am. Sometimes, love is sweeter the second time around.