By Esther Lee

In high school, I believed that the criteria for the perfect future husband could be neatly packaged into what my friends and I called the 3-Hs: hot, holy, and Harvard. By the time we were ready for marriage, we imagined that the world would be teeming with attractive, Jesus-loving, intelligent men ready to sweep us off of our feet. 

This belief was prevalent among the second generation Korean-American teen girls in the suburbs of Northern Virginia. Of course, all of our parents were completely in on it, too. To them, admission to an esteemed institution like Harvard was just one step below admission to Heaven. And don’t you worry, they assured us—a man bound for Heaven and Harvard would certainly be “hot enough”. 

For much of my adolescence and early adulthood, I nurtured this idealized vision of my “other half.” I also dedicated myself to becoming the best version of the 3-Hs that I could be, while waiting patiently for my counterpart to come along. When we found each other, I theorized, we’d fit together perfectly—like complementary pieces of a puzzle. 

***

After graduating from college, I began a job at a large corporate firm in downtown Chicago. My new abode was a condo on the 23rd floor of a swanky high-rise across from Millennium Park—a true novelty given my suburban roots and the middle-of-nowhere vibes of my college town. From above, I could see tourists snapping photos of the surrounding iconic monuments. Inside, I felt just like one of them: naive and starry-eyed, taken by the beauty of a city I did not yet know. 

What I also did not yet know: In a few months, I was about to meet my future husband who lived just a ten-minute walk away from me. 

Our love story began when a coworker flagged me down at work to tell me about a local Bible study group that meets in the city. I was hesitant to be “the new girl” at yet another venue—that is, until she forwarded me the email that the group leader had sent ahead of the meeting. I learned, then, that his name was Jeff, but my first thought upon reading the email was: Paul. This guy sounds just like the Apostle Paul. 

His email opened with: “Greetings All,” and ended with: “I’m looking forward to savoring and enjoying Christ with you guys this Friday.” If that was all I had read, I still would have known that this was not your typical 25-year-old guy.

But he also wrote of asking Christ to change and conform us to His likeness. Amen! He encouraged us to seek Christ’s example in Scripture. Let it be so. He wrote about wanting to share his vision for the group over these next several months. A man with a vision? Yes, a million times, yes! He asked everyone to come prepared and ready to discuss the assigned reading. His tone of authority was downright thrilling. 

And just like that, my introverted self gave way to my determination to meet Jeff—my first official crush in this city. 

It was Jeff who opened the door when I rang the doorbell that fateful Bible Study Day. Frankly, I was surprised to see that he wasn’t wearing a toga à la Apostle Paul. He looked exceedingly normal—wearing blue basketball shorts and a white t-shirt—a contrast to my expectations that produced, at once, both intrigue and relief. He also looked much younger than he was, with eyes that smiled into half moons and a boyish grin that radiated kindness. When we shook hands, it left a warmth that lingered. 

It was time for the Bible study, which Jeff led with a fervency that could only be described as, well, Pauline. I was immediately drawn to his apparent spiritual giftedness and planted myself about three feet away from his face—as if by proximity, I could get some of that giftedness for myself. 

It was a done deal when I learned that he was a fourth year medical student at Northwestern University. Obviously, he’s super smart. As far as I was concerned, Operation 3-Hs was underway because here he was, my 16-year-old dream in the flesh: hot, holy, and Harvard. 

***

We only had eight months together as a couple before he would leave for Atlanta to start his residency program while I stayed behind in Chicago. Those months of our budding romance in the Windy City (as fleeting as it all was) took place in slow-motion. I savored the long walks on the lakeshore. I soaked in Michigan Avenue with each of my senses as we walked hand in hand, going from his home to mine, mine to his. The glorious summer days before he left Chicago, when we rode bikes to Evanston and enjoyed outdoor concerts at Millennium Park, are forever stamped into my memory. 

Long distance had its challenges, no doubt. We missed each other. It took extra measures of hard-sought intentionality to grow together without the comfort of a million insignificant but shared moments that we would have had in person. 

Yet, in spite of all the odds, our love grew on what I thought were the grounds of our excellent compatibility. After all, our circumstances—per the 3-Hs—hadn’t changed. We were both following our own career trajectories, growing spiritually, and keeping busy in our respective cities. While our relationship was in this holding period of being committed but not yet married, we were free to carry on with our individual lives with the added benefit of daily phone calls and prayer to help close the distance between us. 

That distance did soon close. When it did, life took on a series of accelerated, “fast-forward” turns. We got married, I started telecommuting from Atlanta, and then came four babies as my husband’s grueling medical training took our growing family across four different cities over the course of seven years. 

It was an easy decision to quit my job when I had my first baby because motherhood had always been my dream. It also went without saying that I, and our growing number of children, would go wherever his training took us. Still, I was not prepared for all the ways becoming a mother would chip away at the things I had worked so hard to achieve since my adolescence. 

The degree from that fancy private college and the big-city job experience felt meaningless in this role that did not add a single bullet point to the résumé and, in fact, made a fool out of me repeatedly. There were many days that I wore self-pity like a sackcloth as I doled out steady offerings of sacrifice and long-suffering upon the altars of motherhood and my husband’s cardiology career. 

My once spry body was now perpetually tired and worn. I found myself avoiding mirrors on the daily. My sinfulness was on full display while parenting my children at home all day. I wondered how quickly my intellect was deteriorating with every rereading of Green Eggs and Ham. 

Meanwhile, my husband managed to put in the time to grow his passion and knowledge for both Scripture and theology. He seemed to produce every fruit of the Spirit while I felt like a wasteland barren of goodness on many days. He thrived at being a lifelong student, choosing to study more cardiology after being steeped in it all day—even passing up my invitation to play mindless board games in favor of going through educational powerpoint slides. And how dare he have the gumption not to look a day older than 25 when he doesn’t even wear sunscreen? 

The way I saw it, my current state was a backslide from who I was a decade ago. I was practically unrecognizable. Meanwhile, my husband was becoming a better version of the man I first met. The very things that drew me to my husband, initially, had become hard to bear in contrast to the way I was feeling about myself. 

***

“We are not compatible anymore,” I told my husband, expressing my fear of the widening discrepancy between us. 

He’s rarely at a loss for words. Usually, our arguments sound like counseling sessions between a very reasonable husband and a very emotional wife. But when I rattled off all the ways we were mismatched—according to the criteria I used to live by in my adolescence—he was no longer a counselor but a truly confused husband. He had, after all, never heard of the 3-Hs—the measuring stick I had used to deem him my perfect companion all those years ago. 

He thought for a long while. “It makes sense that ‘finding your match’ would be the answer to a happy relationship. Isn’t there even a dating website built around that whole concept—match.com?” Jeff’s clear, steady voice cajoled me off of the edge of the cliff.

“But compatibility is so overrated. Compatibility is not what our marriage needs. We need growth.” I rolled my eyes, not wanting to give him the pleasure of knowing that I was, in fact, rapt, listening to him speak much-needed truth into my heart. 

The end of our conversation pointed to this: despite all the ways we seem mismatched—at least superficially, our identities as children of God, our fundamental need for Christ and the shared hope we put in our Savior is, in fact, what makes us so very compatible. 

Regardless of first impressions, my husband doesn’t love me for my accomplishments or the way I look, but for who I am. Similarly, I no longer see him as merely the Bible study leader I admired from up close and afar, or even the embodiment of my teenage dreams. I see him as he is: the man I love. 

***

Our daughter is only three, but will almost certainly be crafting her own version of what makes an ideal husband one day. Maybe there will be an occasion for me to tell her that the things she loves about that perfect boyfriend of hers might threaten to diminish the strength of their marriage later. Like me, she may take every opportunity to feel less than. She might ask me, someday: Do we even belong together, Mom? When she does, I’ll tell her: “Dear Daughter, compatibility is so overrated. Let me tell you a story about when I first met your daddy… ”

Guest essay written by Esther Lee. Esther is living her dream as a proud wife to one super-husband and homeschooling mom of four precious children: three sons and one daughter. After graduating high school in Northern Virginia where she was born and raised, she went to Northfield, MN for college and to Chicago for work. She also spent time in Atlanta, Pittsburgh, and Cleveland before coming, full circle, back to her hometown of Northern Virginia where she hopes to stay for a very long while. One of her favorite stories is that she birthed a child in each of those last four cities. She is rediscovering a long-buried passion for writing things down and finding a little bit more of her own words every day. This is her first personal essay and was written in Exhale’s Writing Intensive with Callie Feyen.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.