My husband, Kevin, is a true Southern gentleman. He wears bowties and opens doors. He’s consistently sincere. He’s an incredible listener. He’s focused. He cooks. He irons his shirt every single morning. He’s why the word foodie was invented. And, he is the most disciplined man I’ve ever met in my entire life.

I, on the other hand, am a Chicago-born Irish girl. I was raised to laugh loudly. Sarcasm is my love language. I procrastinate. I hate cooking. I’m artsy. I zone out at inappropriate times. I have zero discipline unless it’s something I really, really want to do.

Kevin is focused; I’m a space-case. He understands his faith predominantly through reading and learning, while I understand mine predominantly through experience and prayer. He spent all of his time in college studying dead theologians in the library, and I spent all my time socializing at the campus coffee shop. I think if we’d gone to the same college, I would have been his worst nightmare.

You get where I’m going with this, right? My husband—my brand-new, only-four-months-of-marriage husband—and I, are very, very different. And while there are things we can definitely learn from each other, I think so far, at least, we’re also at our most complementary when we embrace the enormous pile of differences that make us who we are. After all, it’s what attracted us to one another in the first place.

Even so, the temptation to meld ourselves into one uniformed being is always there. It just feels safer. It’s so easy to shop for clothes where Kevin shops, or try to like the food he likes, because in some small way, I expect this to please him. I will never give up trying to get ...

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