is not in the grand gestures, the dazzling diamond or the flourish of flowers.
It’s not a stunning white dress
a first dance
or a heart carved into wood.
is not wet-eyed sentiment; a puppy or a perfect child.
It’s messy and painful; not scented or neat.
Real love is wiping up Weetabix and changing dirty sheets.
It’s a series of tiny moments
a hand on the shoulder
serving, even when you’re tired
It’s a smile – but also a rebuke
Monday morning as well as Saturday night.
Real love is unromantic. It blossoms in the furnace
It conquers selfishness, not dragons.
Real love comes from God – and nothing can destroy it.