Human love is not an explosion. It is a series of sparks—and every spark rises to Heaven, for no matter how much you love your beloved, only God Himself can pervade every bit of your being as an inferno in a house.

Sparks. It is ridiculously easy to forget about the worth of sparks when we were created for the inferno of God. But they simply cannot be forgotten, for it is by sparks that we will catch fire. We must love in the little things, preparing ourselves for Love Himself.

Sparks: a tender kiss, fingers intertwined, an embrace by candlelight. But sparks also arise from the hammer honing me into a selfless lover: cutting the cucumber into round slices rather than long because that is how my husband likes them. Sparks: cuddling when I am antsy to write, rubbing his back when I am sleepy, biting my tongue from forming an unnecessary comment, or saying sorry for the second (or third) time today. And then, at times, there is no spark at all—only the steady glowing embers of love constant.

Now that I am a married woman, I understand more than ever that nothing and nobody can fill me in this life. There is a sadness in this, knowing that I must wait to be filled, but it is a happy sadness, because I know I am not alone. My husband is waiting with me.