This week I spent a good deal of time unpacking the final boxes from our last move almost four years ago, and some of those boxes hadn’t been unpacked in almost ten years. We’ve had to move so many times over the years I sometimes feel like I’m living the life of Mrs. incredible, but without the superpowers.

In the middle of all the nicknacks and useless things I can’t seem to throw away, I found several journals. Though I love to write, I’ve never been a consistent journaler. My real life isn’t nearly as interesting as the characters in my books, so finding the motivation to catalogue one more boring day takes a dedication I can’t seem to muster.

While flipping through the pages of one particular journal, a small, yellow note fell out. It was the first note my husband ever wrote to me after being married for only a couple of days. The note was just a simple thank you for cleaning the house that day. I gushed in my journal about the thoughtful man I married. Our anniversary is coming up next month. And I can say, that even after twenty-one years of marriage, his consideration of me and my feelings have never lessened. How blessed am I? There’s never been a day since I married him that I regretted my choice.