She is not Mother Teresa. Mother Teresa, mind you, was a wonderful, altruistic human being. But she never had to live with someone like me.
My wife does. And she is a saint.
She loves everyone around her. She fills any room she enters with warmth, laughter and playfulness. She cares about the feelings of others. She defends people when others would tear them down.
We are celebrating fifteen years of marriage. For those years, she has been a light to me in dark places, a friend to me when I felt I had none, putting up with my quirks, embracing my oddities, and praising my mediocre writing.
She sees the good in people when others see the bad. I have never heard her speak ill of anyone, in public or private. She has no desire for greatness, does not need all the trappings of wealth, and could not care less about fame. She is easy to please, slow to anger and long-suffering. Fifteen years long, some might say.
One may think I am seeing her through rose-colored glasses. I assure you I am not. She truly is all these things, and more.
The world does not deserve her. I do not deserve her. But I am so glad I married her.
I don’t know where I would be without her.