Open mouths, satisfied smiles, and soft snores filled the dimly lit living room. I grinned softly as I gazed at my four year old in a yellow tutu, sound asleep, with her halo of blond hair splayed across her father’s chest.
This is it. I thought. This is what’s important.
As my heart swelled with pride for the father of my children, for the man whom I loved, I remembered a commercial on television from the night before. At the same time I absently glanced at my left-hand, ring finger, and I knew He didn’t go to Jared.
The scenes from a Zale’s commercial I had seen the night before flitted through my thoughts as I made morning coffee, and although many advertisements on television are eye-roll worthy in my opinion, this one took the cake.
It had shown young, handsome men nervously describing the stresses of picking the perfect engagement ring, describing it as the most important thing imaginable, as if the weight of the very proposal rested on what diamond they chose. They all agreed that this monumental decision required the best piece of jewelry one could imagine to satiate the woman they wished to wed.
As I rounded the couch again and saw my snoozing spouse my heart filled to overflowing as it usually does when confronted with the wonderful father my children possess. And I was also reminded of the gift I have in a spouse who equally shoulders the responsibility of childrearing with me.
The rings we had chosen five years prior still rested on our fingers as a symbol of the covenant we had taken on the altar half a decade earlier, but if asked at the moment I wasn’t even sure what carat my setting contained.
It didn’t really matter. I received my ring before it was cool to post a picture of it on Facebook, and though my proposal story was pretty awesome, it also was of little significance in the grand scheme.
My marriage was so much more than a cleverly crafted proposal or the diamond that rested on my hand. Those things were wonderful, and pleasant memories, but didn’t mean much in the face of sick kids, medical bills, or car payments.
The important things couldn’t be snapped in a photo for the world to see. They were my husband’s gentle spirit, his heart for me and The Lord, and his unwavering commitment to our marital vows. His strong character and undying love were visible when I looked longingly in his eyes, but they weren’t put to a cute, choreographed video. And they didn’t come in a princess or round cut.
Indeed things like the “perfect ring” seemed unimportant when faced with the real life of a long-term commitment. The perfect ring mattered little when your spouse lost their job. Or your mother died. In fact, when you stood at the graveside grieving you noticed only how solidly he held your hand, not the jewelry that adorned it.
Whether he went to Zale’s, Jared, or Walmart didn’t matter. Not one bit. Not really. What mattered was the man behind the ring box, behind the bended knee.
As I looked at the loving man sleeping on a pallet on the floor, holding our daughter in the crook of his arm, I knew what really mattered. It was this. Not the ring, but the life that came after. That’s all that had ever mattered.