Valentine’s Day is not a hugely important day in our home—maybe one of those “minor holidays” that fall somewhere behind the birth of Christ and the birth of each other. I mean, we buy the boys a little box of chocolates and maybe a new stuffed puppy and talk a little bit about love and what it means to love each other and what God’s love looks like compared with ours. Sometimes Ben and I go out to dinner. Sometimes we don’t.

But it’s really not a huge, make-the-date-plans, cancel-work-to-celebrate kind of day.

This year, though, as Valentine’s Day approached I started to think about love and what it really means and how Ben and I exemplify it in our lives and to our children and to each other. And when I began to think about love, I began to think about all the ways my husband, on the last twelve married Valentine’s Days and on all the days between them, has demonstrated a sacrificial, knows-no-bounds kind of love. He is an amazing example.

So here are some of the ways I have learned about love, through the actions of my husband, the man who wrote me love-poem vows the day we were married, the day I first had a glimpse of this beautiful love when he held my gloved hands, even after I had to wipe my nose because the tears just wouldn’t stop.

Disclaimer: This is not to say that our love is perfect. We still fight, and we still say things to one another that, an hour later, we regret saying.  I still make him mad, he still makes me cry. We are both still hard to love some days. But I think the difference lies in his commitment to honor the covenant we made Oct. 11, 2003, when we pledged to love each other, with the help of Christ. Love is always a choice, and even on my ugliest days, he has always chosen to love me.

Love is getting up out of bed, even though it’s cold enough to make your teeth chatter, even though you were half asleep already, because the computer monitor light is on and you know I can’t sleep unless it’s turned off.

Love is stepping in when the stress of disciplining wild children has become too much, taking the reins so I save face in front of those children, explaining to them how much we love them but why this isn’t allowed in our home.

Love is walking up and down the stairs more times than you can count on your days off just to make sure I always have plenty of cold water in my stainless steel water bottle.

Love is choosing to believe, when I’m saying those things I’ll probably regret later, or when I’m not saying those things and choosing to play the silent game instead, that this is not really me, that the real me is tucked away somewhere inside this sleep-deprived, achingly uncomfortable, hormone-imbalanced body.

Love is seeing my beauty even on my un-beautiful days.

Love is watching The Help on movie night, even though it’s a chick flick, just because you want to be next to me.

Love is turning off your cell phone and signing off all those social media sites so you can look in my eyes because this, what I’m saying, is really important.

Love is doing the dirtiest work—cleaning the bathrooms and taking out the trash and making store returns—just because you know I don’t like doing them.

Love is volunteering to change that dirty diaper because you know I’ve changed one too many today.

Love is saying the hard things, in gentle and loving ways, that help me gain perspective.

Love is letting me nest, even though it means your honey-do list is pretty endless, even though time is running out, even though I can have some high expectations, and reminding me that some priorities can wait until later, that some things are a work in progress, that such limited time inevitably means limited accomplishments.

Love is listening, not fixing, when I’m having a difficult day.

Love is letting me take the day off when you know I need it.

Love is not pointing it out when I figure out I’m wrong.

Love is patiently waiting for me to find my shoes and fix that hair that’s out of place and gather all my knitting essentials, even though my last-minute searches and fixes and gatherings are going to make us late.

Love is hanging out with me, doing absolutely nothing, during our much-looked-forward-to anniversary trip because an unexpected hospital visit put me on strict bedrest for the duration of that vacation.

Love is planning a day of shopping at Barnes and Noble and Half Price Books and Hobby Lobby for my birthday because you know what kind of day I’d like to have.

Love is believing in me—that I can publish that book, that I have other books in me, that I could make a living out of this—even when I’ve forgotten how to believe it for myself.

Love is not complaining about the tossing and turning, even though it keeps you up at night, too.

Love is massaging my head when the headache’s so bad, even though you need to go to sleep because it’s late and you have an early morning ahead of you.

Love is asking me, every single morning for the last twelve years, how I slept—not because it’s just something you do but because you’re genuinely interested in whether I got enough rest or not.

Love is doing one Pinterest project a month with me because it gives us just one more thing to do together.

Love is staying up (almost) all night so we can launch just a functional version of the Web site I’ve been waiting to launch for a year.

Love is trying that homemade deodorant, even though it has to be applied with your hands.

Love is saving that last cookie for me, even though your sweet tooth reminds you it’s there every time you walk into the kitchen.

Love is camping out with me in the gameroom, on a love seat too short for your legs, just so I can see if I’ll sleep better on a back-supporting couch and I don’t want to sleep in the room alone.

Love is talking sense into me when I feel like my world is falling apart.

Maybe it’s simple enough to say I love him. Maybe it’s supposed to be more complicated than that, complicated enough to say he’s been a pure, bright, unwavering light that has guided me through my doubt and my hesitation and my despair, guided me toward a place of peace and hope and comfort. He is my home, not these four walls we live in.

What a beautiful, unknowingly accurate picture he has been of God’s love for me.

Thank you, my love, for showing me, day after day, month after month, year after year, what it means to really love.