I Met You When I Wasn’t Looking, and I Lost You When I Loved You the Most

I had whispered a few prayers, yes. I had told God, “If it’s time, let it be kind.” But I wasn’t actively searching. I wasn’t heart-open, arms-wide. I was minding my business, piecing my heart back together in quiet ways, tending to my own garden, relearning softness. And then—you happened. Just like that. Soft, steady, disarming.

You came like peace after a long season of noise. I didn’t expect you to happen—especially not so suddenly. You were different. So wildly different from the kind of love I had known. You didn’t come in with flowers and a long note. You didn’t flood me with words. But you were present. You stayed. And you listened.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with it—how to hold it, how to trust it. I was scared to open up. I had my own stuff I was still dealing with. Hurt I hadn’t fully unpacked. Walls I had built so high I forgot what it felt like to rest my head without tension. So when you came with your calm presence and steady rhythm, I didn’t know how to move. I didn’t know how to believe it could be this easy. But I was trying. Every day, I was trying. Because I wanted you to stay.

You made me laugh. Oh, how you made me laugh. The kind that comes from the belly and makes your chest lighter. The kind that rolls into the night, past 1am, with conversations that didn’t need direction. We talked about everything—faith, work, dreams, childhood, absolutely nothing—and yet it felt like the most important dialogue I’d ever had. You weren’t romantic the way I had imagined romance to be.

I knew how you liked your meals. I knew your goals—the big ones, the scary ones. I knew the names we wanted for our children. I knew how you couldn’t stand complacency, how your mind always ran faster than your words. You were vision and ambition. You were purpose walking.

You were the type of person who’d rather talk purpose than feelings, and yet, your actions screamed love in ways words never could. You remembered the tiniest things I said. You made space for my quirks—my randomness, my questions.

I thanked God for you so often. You were my hallelujah for the year. My quiet miracle. My answered prayer—even if you didn’t come in the wrapping I expected.

I loved you. Big. Deep. In full color and full volume. I still don’t know how it happened—how you slipped into my heart so completely—but I was all in. With all my softness. All my faith. All my fear. And maybe that’s why it hurt the way it did. Because I had finally stopped second-guessing. Because you had become home.

And then… I lost you.

Not in the beginning. Not when it was still light and surface. But in the thick of it. Right when I loved you the most. Right when I had started to believe this thing could truly go the distance.

I had to go back to Pa and ask him why He let this happen. Why He gave me something so good only to let it slip away. I wrestled with the ache, the questions, the silence. But then—He comforted me. In small ways. In unexpected ways. Through whispered reminders that love is never wasted. That even the things we lose are part of a greater story. That what is meant to shape us will stay, even if only in the quiet corners of our hearts.

Some loves don’t end. They just stop happening. And I think I’ll love you for a very long time. Not in a desperate, holding-on kind of way. But in that honest, quiet way. Where I remember you with softness, not bitterness. Where I still pray for you. Where sometimes, you’ll still feel like home.

There are days I come back from the world, and I just want to call you. Tell you about the random thing someone said. The annoying email. The outfit I almost wore. I want to talk about everything and nothing. I want to be heard by you again.

I miss us.

I miss the night drives. I miss holding your hand and praying with you—closing our eyes and centering ourselves in something bigger than us.

Sometimes I’d ask myself, “Am I disturbing him?” But the truth? I wanted to disturb you. To disrupt your rhythm, your flow, your peace—with my voice, my laughter, my nonsense—just because I could. Because you loved me. And I loved being yours.

I wanted to show up for you, with you. I wanted to build something lasting. We had already started. We had imagined our life. Planned the work, the cities, the rest. We had a whole language, a rhythm, a shared faith that wrapped us together in something sacred.

But now I just carry it all with me. The ache. The gratitude. The memories.

You were the love I didn’t expect. And the one I wasn’t ready to lose. But here we are.

I met you when I wasn’t looking. And I lost you when I loved you the most.

But in between those two truths—we lived something real. And even now, when I think of home… sometimes, you’re still the first thing that comes to mind.