So I'm sitting in a classroom, just kinda hanging in the back row. It's early September, and the windows are open. I'm wearing a pair of light jeans and a T-shirt. It's a couple minutes before the class is supposed to begin, and the professor (or GA) hasn't deigned to be there yet.

At the front of the room sits a girl with long hair permed in tight ringlets. She's a willowy young woman whose legs never seem to stop. She turns to glance over her shoulder, and I see wide, brown eyes like deep coffee against a china cup.

This, I know now, is my first glimpse of the woman that I will eventually marry. At the time, however, I am aware only that I really want to talk to her. I am somehow attracted to her. One day I stop at the water fountain after class. I drink until she, too, leaves the classroom, then I "accidentally" manage to finish just so we can walk down the hallway in lockstep.

I end up drinking a lot of water that semester.

I find out that her name is Lisa Lincoln, and that she is a descendant of Abraham Lincoln's family. Eventually, she is won over by my charm, despite the fact that I am a year and a half younger than she is. We do the dating thing for a while, and pretty soon it is rare to see one of us without the other present.

How do you know you're in love?

Seriously . . .

Is it that giddy feeling that hounds you in all your quiet moments? (Yes, we guys have those, too). Maybe it's the way you listen unconsciously for the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Or how your heart fills your chest and pushes on your throat when you look at your special person from across the room.

Well?

Is it?

Lisa and I have been married since 1984, our last year in college. We were DINKS for another couple years. Then came Brigid, and everything she entails. Somewhere in there I started to write, and we've had to absorb that into our lives--it is truly an entity in itself.

I remember we used to talk about love in terms like those I described above.

But I've learned a lot in the years-long process of building my life around another person. Love, I've discovered, is about discovery. PITHY PHRASE, eh? So, you might ask, what have I discovered?

I guess the first thing is that I am inherently a selfish person. We can probably all say that about ourselves but the mere fact that I'm a writer with a full-time job defines the extent of my affliction. In the first years of my married life, I never saw myself as selfish. Not that I thought I was unselfish, mind you . . . I just never really thought about it at all.

I've learned that being a selfish person can really harm a relationship--especially because I never thought about it.

I've found, to my utter astonishment, that we are not all alike. You know what I mean? Ever hear anyone say, "Hey, we're all human." Well, at one level, that's certainly correct. But to make that statement apply everywhere is just flat-out dangerous.

I've discovered the difference between "How would I feel if I were in your shoes?" and "How will you feel about what I say? How will you interpret the tone of my voice?" Someday, I may actually become good at distinguishing this difference in real time!

I've learned Lisa is a better wife than I am a husband.

You see, I used to think Lisa was just like me. Of course, I was wrong.

Lisa is not like me. She doesn't think the same things I do. She doesn't need the same things I do. Why did it take me so long to figure this out?

I honestly don't know. I thought I was good with people.

In 1996, we went on a Marriage Encounter. For those of you who don't know what this is, think of it as a forty-eight-hour writers workshop where you get the opportunity to share your deepest thoughts with the most important person in your existence. It was a turning point in my life.

Being a husband is the simplest job in the world.

It is also the most empowering. Most rewarding. Most satisfying. Most stabilizing. Most . . .

. . . frightening.

All it requires is unconditional love.

Marriage Encounter describes love as a decision. Stephen Covey says it is a verb. Same thing. It is active. It is something I do. It is everything I do. Love is oncall twenty-four hours a day. This is the answer. It is a tough lesson. I can argue against it, and sometimes I still do. But it is the truth.

And sometimes the truth hurts.

I thought I was a good husband before our Encounter, and by average standards, I was. I took out the garbage. I mowed the grass (well . . . sometimes, anyway [sheepish grin]). I bought presents at the appropriate times. But the final tally included the basic fact that I was often thoughtless in my approach to daily life with Lisa. And worse, I was totally clueless about that fact.

Lisa and I have talked about things often since that time. Openly. Without malice, but occasionally covering such sensitive areas that we hurt each other in the process. I'm still thoughtless sometimes (No one's perfect!). But I'm learning how to police myself, and I'm getting better.

I don't want an average marriage.

I am in love.

Love is active.

Yesterday, Lisa and I went to a city-wide celebration. Booths lined the streets. Food from every corner of the world. Swiss. Italian. African. Vietnamese. Thai. Lisa stood in line, waiting to buy an egg roll and fried rice. I didn't want any and it was crowded, so I stood back to let other people get in line. It was a warm night in October--probably still in the seventies.

Columbus, Indiana, is a small town. A company town. It is a connected place where everyone knows everyone else. A place where the world seems to fit together.

People filter by. The street smells of barbecue. I say hello to a friend.

Toward the front of the line, Lisa glances briefly back over her shoulder, looking for me. It is a quick movement.

Her eyes are deep coffee against a china cup.

If I hadn't been watching her, I would have missed it. But I am here, waiting for her. She turns her attention to the woman behind the counter.

I smile. Being a husband is the greatest thing in the world.