I’ll call her Julie. Julie parked the car in the prison-visitor parking lot. Her hands were shaking, but not from nerves. More from excitement.

Julie and her mother entered the correctional facility together. Both women underwent a series of body scans and inspections. They had both undergone criminal background checks, too.

The chaplain was waiting for them; he still had a lot of paperwork to go over. The DOC wants all t’s crossed and all i’s thoroughly dotted.

“You’re on the visiting list, right?” the chaplain asked Julie’s mother.

“We put her on the list last month,” said Julie.

Once they passed all checkpoints, they were led to the visiting room. It was a plain room. Small and sterile. Harshly lit. The tables and chairs were low to the ground, like preschool tables, to prevent visitors from passing items.

After a few minutes, Robert was led into the room. He had lost a lot of weight since she last saw him, which was only a few months ago. People age faster here.

There was no touching allowed. But the DOC allowed the couple to sit side-by-side. And—if you were fortunate—your state might even allow you to hold hands.

The chaplain finally said it was time. And the ceremony began. Julie wasn’t crying. Robert wasn’t crying. They were relaxed. Smiling. Holding hands.

The couple has known each other since they were toddlers. They have been best friends since childhood. They rode bikes together. Built forts together. They had never been romantic. Not until Robert was inside. One day, Julie simply realized that she loved Robert.

Their romance was not fast. It was slow. It took years to develop. Prison romances are different. There are no worldly possessions included. All couples have is their bond. Which is tested each day.

The chaplain could see this one-of-a-kind connection between them. He noticed the knowing looks they exchanged, the inside jokes, the private sarcasms. These were not just lovers. These were pals.

They wrote their own vows. The vows were like none you have ever heard. The language was different. Words are more carefully selected during a prison wedding. Each word is food. And this food must last you.

For Robert’s vows, he recited some of the lyrics to the 1917 hymn, “The Love of God.”

Julie started crying halfway through her vows. Julie memorized her vows. She said life was a battle, one they would always fight together.

They were allotted time for prayer. Their prayer was silent. They were allowed to kiss. But briefly.

It was the first time they had ever kissed.

A photographer was welcomed into the room, another inmate. The couple was not allowed to kiss during their photo. Their hands remained visible at all times.

Then, it was over.

Robert was led away. No reception. No corsages. No bouquet. No cake. Julie wore jeans. Both rings were under $100. No precious stones allowed. No diamonds. The whole ceremony lasted 15 minutes.

Robert was released three years ago. They have been married 11 years.

The love of God is greater far than tongue or pen can ever tell; it goes beyond the highest star, and it reaches to the lowest hell.

Happy Valentine’s Day.