Artist Dario Robleto once said, “With nothing to risk, love can’t exist.” Maybe that quote is resonating with me because my husband and I are approaching our 32nd anniversary. Though we’d been together for two and a half years by the time he asked me to marry him, and while we’d talked around the subject a few times and the proposal came as no real surprise, and while I’d already decided I could spend my life with this person, when he proposed, I hesitated. Big time. I paced around the living room for a full twenty minutes and only said yes when he threatened to leave. Poor guy.
In my defense, I’d seen plenty of bad marriages, many of which ended in divorce, in the circles that surrounded me while growing up. All four of my grandparents had been divorced at least once in a time when divorce was uncommon. In fact, just dating someone in any sort of serious manner had seemed scary enough. But part of me knew if I wasn’t able to take a risk, I’d never be able to love.
I took another risk shortly after our marriage and left my job to pursue my love of writing, knowing it would never be an easy path. And I took a risk and had children, knowing there would certainly be times I’d get my heart broken by worry for them. And I took a risk moving to a new city, practically sight-unseen, believing I could find a loving home there. More recently, I took the risk of allowing myself a…
