I have been married four different times now, each time to the same man.
I am notorious for falling in and out of love with him. My nails claw the pews and I am escorted by trauma every time I walk the aisle. But all the reasons for divorce (he is omnipotent, yet evils occur; omnipresent, yet feelings deny it) melt when our eyes meet. And I remember.
I remember when love was never manipulation, never locked between fear and mortal ambition. I remember when I washed infidelity off my body, not because of theology, worship, or even community, but because I loved him.
I am always on my knees, prostrate, during the ceremony. He always takes me back. My tears over this truism could flood this church. After walking away--away from the people, the rejection, the shame--his hand finds mine. And all he says:
Love.
Keeps.
No.
Record.
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