I love holding Shauna’s hand.

I love the way her fingers link with mine, the way our arms tug gently with each stride as we walk together.

I love that she still wants to hold my hand, that she still finds affection and security in that simple union.

I love the message it sends people.

I love remembering taking her hands in mine on our wedding day, as we spoke our vows to each other.

I love that she’s mine, that I am hers, that this is till’ death do us part.

I love that our kids get to see us hold hands, that we don’t just do it in private.

I love that we hold hands as equals.

I love the volumes of nonverbal communication that flow between our embrace.

I love the fact that the first time I held her hand, I asked her if that would be okay.

I love that she said yes, of course it would.

I love the little squeezes, the little cues.

I love feeling her fingers twitch to find imaginary frets, wondering what song is playing in her soul as a residual memory from her violin-playing days.

I love the fact that after eighteen years, we still reach for each other’s hands and clasp them tight over mealtime prayers, no matter where we are or who we’re with.

I love that she reaches for my hand when a movie takes a turn for the frightening.

I love how Jesus touches me through her hands, how the Holy Spirit loves to walk alongside me, through her.

I love that I get to do the same.