You are Beautiful.

Unconditional love meant parental love. It meant God’s unyielding love when I told a lie, blew up, or made a grievous error. Unconditional love meant being told I was someone’s child and daughter and that nothing would change that fact, but never had I seen this face of Unconditional love before.

This face of Unconditional Love said “I love you” at the most random of times, showed “I love you” at the strangest of moments, acted out “I love you” at the most unseemly situations. This face of Unconditional Love said Unconditional with a Choice, without blood bonds, and that surprised me, I think.

This week, a whole battery of events happened which made me realize, that your Unconditional means Unconditional for a reason beyond a parental bond, or a familial tie. Your Unconditional means “I love you” because you chose me, because you believe God chose me for you. And I believe that too.

Last Monday I went to my usual hair salon. Because the last time I visited it was a good 8 months ago, because they were having a promotion, and because you suggested it, I went to curl my hair. It turned out to be a disaster (though I ought to qualify that statement by saying my mind tends to exaggerate imperfections) and I felt ugly for days after that. In spite of the promotion, I was still, completely rigged off. One night, the thought of us marrying with my hair feeling like dead snakes on my head upset me so much that I called you in the middle of the night. And instead of invalidating, minimizing, or mocking how I felt, all you did was listen and tell me over and over, that I was beautiful. Even though I felt ugly. Even though it was awful. Even though I had spent an inordinate amount of money which I never would have had I known.

“You are beautiful.”

You tell me that randomly, frequently, all the time because you want me to know that you do. That with all your heart, you do. And that you would marry me and think I was the most beautiful person in the world even if my hair was a disaster- permed, straightened, colored, frizzed, dreadlocked or otherwise. Whatever you do in anger or desperation, just don’t cut it, you warned, half-seriously, if not, I will send out cards and tell everyone the wedding is postponed until Wai Jia’s hair grows out. You have always liked your girl having long hair.

Mid-week, I made an error at work. I was called up by my senior consultant and told very sternly but also very graciously that I had overlooked a point. Having already felt down and ugly for days, and having premenstrual hormones wrecking havoc in my veins, I tried very hard to make it through that rough day, only to find you sitting outside the clinic after work as usual, with your laptop on your lap as you designed our wedding invitation, with a big smile on your face and eyes which said, “You are beautiful”.

Even though I felt like a mess. Even though I wanted to bury my head and ask myself how a bad hairday could possibly upset me so much since there are far more important things in the world. Even though you should and could’ve been upset with me for allowing myself to be ripped off.

On Saturday after a perfect morning ride, I went to visit my elderly aunt who designs cheongsams because she offered to let me choose one from her store for me to don for our wedding dinner. As soon as I got into her car, I was reminded that I had put on weight, that my posture was terrible and that my hips were loathsome. I was asked why we were marrying so soon, how I could possibly “allow” myself to be “so easily” married to you and whether or not I realized how pertinent it was for me to start losing weight starting from now. By the end of the hour-long fitting session, with her hands constantly squeezing my hips, I felt like a steamroller had just run over me. Then I met up with J, M and D, my three dear friends and wonderful wedding planners, who brought perspective back into focus and reminded me again, that I was, am beautiful.

Even though my hips had been condemned to damnation in the past one hour. Even though I was overwhelmed and quiet about the whole wedding fanfare. Even though the week had just been one pre-menstrual roller coastal ride.

Then I met with you again, and we went furniture shopping for our new home with my dad. And you reminded me how much you enjoyed us roadcycling 40kilometres together that morning, how fast I was, (and cheekily) how much you liked that my legs and hips were exactly the way they are.

And you and I both know, how journeying together is fraught with opportunities for anger and spite and impatience and frustration. But each time I throw a tantrum or sulk, or am upset or short-tempered, you just hold your peace and hold my hand to let me know you know I’ll be upset with myself for not being perfect and that’s it’s okay because even when I’m crying or frowning or being a complete prick or post-30-hour shiftwork, you still think I’m beautiful.

You’re crazy.

I won’t forget what you did for me that day, holding up that neon-pink cardboard sign with my name written with rainbow colours at the airport at midnight when I returned from a medical conference in Florida, with tousled hair and flaky skin and ptosed eyes, looking as if you had just struck the lottery.

Through you, I saw, am seeing a different face of Unconditional Love. This face of Unconditional Love says it’s late at night and I’m not being reasonable but you can lend me a listening ear; this face of Unconditional Love says I’m not perfect but you can pray with me and forgive me; this face of Unconditional Love says I might feel ugly but you still think I’m beautiful.

 

“You are beautiful.”

 

You tell me that right when I knock off from work. You text me that in the mornings. You remind me on gmail chat before I go to bed.

 

“You are beautiful.”

 

You tell me that the mirrors are wrong when I tell you what I see. You tell me you see differently. You tell me you enjoy the arms that swim and legs that bike at your pace.

 

“You are beautiful.”

 

Over and over, you show me the face of Unconditional Love.

 

I love you, too.

 

Enjoy this: When Love Arrives.