Love in a Red Sack

Photo:  Maria Peterson Photography

This picture my friend Maria took hints to me of love. Blooms and candlelight and music. Expectancy.

I've wanted to write about marriage even though I don't have relationship credentials. But do prayers count? Do tears? Does faith?

I've stood at the altar with friends who vowed to cherish eachother forever. I've wept with those same friends as their vows deteriorated into ugly words, sexless nights and shattered plates.

Most times there was no unfaithfulness, no beatings, no addiction; just a slow death of love. 

"I feel like he walked out of the marriage long ago," said one friend.

Once passionate hearts turned to hearts of stone. Irreconcilably broken. The enemy of love whispers, These are my friends. I'm so much like them. Will my marriage die, too?

Statistically, I'll never marry. The stats say I'm too old, too black, too educated. I read this Washington Post article, Marriage is for White People, that said, "African American women are the least likely in any society to marry." 

Given the odds, you'd think I'd be jaded about marriage.

But I'm not. See, I think marriage was meant to be the closest representation of heaven on earth; to reflect the very heart of God singing a song to our heart. When God banished man from Eden, He made sure he wasn't alone.

So I don't just see a woman shopping in the photo. I see the bright bloom of possibility. Expectation. Hope fulfilled. Overflowing from a cheerful red sack.

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