Why I love my husband

A few days before Valentine's Day, John brought flowers; he brings flowers every day the week of Valentine's Day. But this is not why I love him. I love him because that day, a few days before Valentine's day, he sat down at the kitchen table and he wept.

He wept because Caleb, the 3-year-old son of a coworker, was dying of liver cancer.

Caleb was born very prematurely; about 2 lbs, I think. There was a great struggle to get the child stable, but after a while, he did, and was able to come home. My hubby was encouraging, and prayed for the child, let the parents know he cared.

Then the baby was diagnosed with liver cancer. Again the prayers, and John got his co-workers to go to one of those places where you can fix dinners ahead of time, and all of them made up meals. John and I visited the parents, and brought the food. I could tell the parents were tired, and the poor baby fretful. John took a personal interest in them, kept tabs on the baby and the family. Caleb seemed to be rallying, and the cancer went into remission. What a fighter that baby was, and that young family so full of hope.

But then the cancer came back. Nothing the doctors can do about it. Three years of struggle, with a few periods of light and hope and relief from illness. My husband came home, looked at me, and said, "Caleb is dying. His father just went to the hospital, to be with him as he is dying." And he sat down and cried.

I went to him and held him, and cried a little too. An empty crib, an empty room, a house empty of a child's voice where there had once been cries and words and laughter. I had hoped the Caleb would be all right--well, who wouldn't hope that? And while nobody should get cancer, you think, a child--a baby--least of all. There's no understanding it, no sense in it. It's something you have to let go after a while, hoping it's part of something bigger, or else it'll make you crazy, crazy with despair. You go down that road of despair, and things just get darker, as if the world wasn't dark enough. A lot of people give into that, and the darkness just grows and swallows up more people.

But I look at my husband, weeping, and I know that he's one who pushes back at the dark, despite the fact that he can get a lot more pessimistic than I do. He cares enough to pray over a baby, ease the work and pain of a young family. He goes monthly to a shelter to feed the homeless. He stops when someone's car is stuck by the side of the road and helps.

He holds up a lit candle in the dark, and tries to light some more. He fights the dark. He is a warrior for the light.

This is why I love him.

--Karen