Every time he came into the shop today, he told at least one person she will be my wife soon. I should have gotten used to it, expected it. Instead, every time I found myself ever more undone.
I used to hate that word, wife. It felt degrading, a humiliation. Husband led, planned, named; wife followed, obeyed, answered.
Yet in his eyes, his arms, his voice, I have relearned my broken assumptions.
Wife is a treasure, not to be taken lightly. Wife is a gift, given with deadly-serious joy straight from the hand of the LORD. Wife is a helper, not second-class, but a vital member of the partnership. Wife is refuge; wife is rest; wife is water and new life itself in the dry dead times.
To him, I am not a nice little addendum to his life, someone to quietly cook wholesome meals and clean around the house and wash his dirty socks. I am not a creature to be controlled or dominated or ordered about. Neither am I the controlling factor of his life, someone to whom he grovels before making any decision or around whom his world revolves.
And for all this I am extremely thankful.
To him, I am precious. I don't understand; I do not, I cannot, comprehend why or how he loves me as he does.
But I do know that when he looks at me, blue eyes filled with adoration and delight, and says she will be my wife, that privilege is all I want. To learn to receive his love, and to love him with the power given me by my God. To be his wife. To be his ezer, his helpmeet, his partner, his love.
To be his.
It will be enough. For the rest of my life, it will be enough.
Oh, my Blue Eyes. How grateful I am for the way you have taught me to love. Someday, I pray I can give back to you even half of what you deserve.
How I love you, dearest man.
Showing posts with label t. Show all posts
Showing posts with label t. Show all posts
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
moving day
We danced up and down the stairs, smiling and chatting and teasing, arms full of boxes and fragments of your life. You gave me a light box, and instructions to take it upstairs; you took a heavy box, deep into the basement. On my way down the bright stairs, you surprised me at the landing, caught me with your grin and your eyes.
Hi, you said, grin broadening, hands settling on my hips, forehead leaning into mine.
Oh hey, I smiled back, arms resting on yours, hands in the crooks of your elbows.
The house smelled of new-- fresh paint, fine-sanded sawdust, plaster, hopes, dreams. Your grin was deep and bright and overwhelming, as you spun me there in the sunny landing. Our steps were disjointed and ungraceful, but I laughed, head back in delight. There was so much promise all around, in the new walls and stairs and windows, and in the way you held me, like a treasure. There were so many reasons to smile, so smile we did, into each other's faces and eyes and souls, as we wound our arms around each other like we'd never let go. But soon enough we did, and went back to lugging boxes in and out.
Somehow my heart remained in that sunny corner, laughing and twirling and resting in your arms.
Hi, you said, grin broadening, hands settling on my hips, forehead leaning into mine.
Oh hey, I smiled back, arms resting on yours, hands in the crooks of your elbows.
The house smelled of new-- fresh paint, fine-sanded sawdust, plaster, hopes, dreams. Your grin was deep and bright and overwhelming, as you spun me there in the sunny landing. Our steps were disjointed and ungraceful, but I laughed, head back in delight. There was so much promise all around, in the new walls and stairs and windows, and in the way you held me, like a treasure. There were so many reasons to smile, so smile we did, into each other's faces and eyes and souls, as we wound our arms around each other like we'd never let go. But soon enough we did, and went back to lugging boxes in and out.
Somehow my heart remained in that sunny corner, laughing and twirling and resting in your arms.
Monday, April 23, 2012
forever is a long long time
Pretty bare feet and shining long hair are easy to love--light-coffee skin and slender waist and smooth face with laughing eyes, too. Flashing grins and fluttering eyes and light-trembling words are easy to forgive. Patience and accommodation are easy to endure.
But what about someday, when the toenails curl and yellow, and babies make the waist swell beyond shrinking, and the wrinkles pile up around the eyes and mouth, and the eyes fade and droop shut, and everything--hair and skin and spirit--turns grey grey grey? What about when the heart forgets love itself, and snappy mouth and bitter words are all that's left? What about when patience drains dry, and selfishness sears black?
What then? Will you still grin down into the dull eyes, and will you still wrap your arms around the baby-thickened waist, and will you still press your nose into the coarse cropped hair and laugh warm against the ticklish ear? Will you still wrap fingers round shaking hands and whisper, stop worrying, I forgive you? Will you still pause with tilted head and dark steady eyes and study the face with intensity meant to draw back the soul, to remind it this is not who you really are?
Will you? Or will it be worth it to you, even then?
But what about someday, when the toenails curl and yellow, and babies make the waist swell beyond shrinking, and the wrinkles pile up around the eyes and mouth, and the eyes fade and droop shut, and everything--hair and skin and spirit--turns grey grey grey? What about when the heart forgets love itself, and snappy mouth and bitter words are all that's left? What about when patience drains dry, and selfishness sears black?
What then? Will you still grin down into the dull eyes, and will you still wrap your arms around the baby-thickened waist, and will you still press your nose into the coarse cropped hair and laugh warm against the ticklish ear? Will you still wrap fingers round shaking hands and whisper, stop worrying, I forgive you? Will you still pause with tilted head and dark steady eyes and study the face with intensity meant to draw back the soul, to remind it this is not who you really are?
Will you? Or will it be worth it to you, even then?
Monday, April 16, 2012
to be affirmed
I felt it, deep in my bones, the voice saying,
Yes, do this, it's for you.
But I so mistrust my own hearing.
And then you, standing so close to me,
engaging the conversation, turning to me,
shocked me with the question,
Do you want this?
I do, yes, I said with truth.
And then you, touching my elbow with your fingertips,
blue eyes shining in the sunlight,
floored me with the statement,
I knew, as soon as I heard this, that it was for you.
I was speechless in the face of your confidence.
Really?
I wanted to ask you both.
What is it about this,
about me,
that makes you so sure it is right,
that I am right?
And then I realized
it wasn't me
it was His voice;
that was what made you sure.
I was overwhelmed with gratefulness that
when I am weak
He sends me strong ones;
when I am uncertain
He sends me sure ones;
that He has placed us,
each one,
exactly as He knew was best.
Yes, do this, it's for you.
But I so mistrust my own hearing.
And then you, standing so close to me,
engaging the conversation, turning to me,
shocked me with the question,
Do you want this?
I do, yes, I said with truth.
And then you, touching my elbow with your fingertips,
blue eyes shining in the sunlight,
floored me with the statement,
I knew, as soon as I heard this, that it was for you.
I was speechless in the face of your confidence.
Really?
I wanted to ask you both.
What is it about this,
about me,
that makes you so sure it is right,
that I am right?
And then I realized
it wasn't me
it was His voice;
that was what made you sure.
I was overwhelmed with gratefulness that
when I am weak
He sends me strong ones;
when I am uncertain
He sends me sure ones;
that He has placed us,
each one,
exactly as He knew was best.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
the measure
You are a man,
and I know because you held me in your arms as I sobbed out the frightful words, and you pressed your fingers against my shoulderblade to let me know you were listening, and when I later began to repeat the story to you, you looked me in the eyes and told me, I know; I heard every word you said.
You are a man,
and I know because your eyes filled with pain for my family, for my father; and you nearly wept as you hugged me close and whispered, Hang in there; and you promised to come and repair the stove for us because we don't know what the hell we're doing.
You are a man,
and I know because you sauntered over, jabbed me softly in the arm, and asked, So when am I taking you to look at cars? and you talked to me like a grown-up, and you let me know you were doing this for me because my father couldn't.
You are a man,
and I know because you showed up at the hospital when only my parents were there; and sat next to the bed where my father lay, arms full of the needles you so dread, a cup of coughed-up blood on the table next to him; and you chatted with him and my mother like a friend, despite your discomfort; and you later came to our house, to eat up leftovers with me and my sister, just because you knew our tears would never stop if we were left alone; and you didn't ask us how are you doing? a million times.
You are a man,
and I know because you have been tender and compassionate with my brother, even though everyone else looks at the women in our family and thinks he seems to be doing just fine.
You are a man,
and I know because you weren't afraid to tell my father that you love him, you didn't hesitate to put your hands on him and pray hard, and you took time from a precious vacation to call and ask how is he?
You are a man,
and I know because you showed up at our doorstep with a massive crockpot of soup that you, not your wife, had made.
You are a man,
and I know because when you asked how is he? and I said, I'll cry, you said, okay, and waited.
You are men,
and I know because you stepped up,
raised your hands on behalf of your brother,
stood firm for his wife and children,
did the things he couldn't do but wanted to,
defended those whose father and husband was taken out of commission,
and were the face of God to us in so many ways.
May He ever bless the work of your hands, and may He always strengthen your arms for battle.
and I know because you held me in your arms as I sobbed out the frightful words, and you pressed your fingers against my shoulderblade to let me know you were listening, and when I later began to repeat the story to you, you looked me in the eyes and told me, I know; I heard every word you said.
You are a man,
and I know because your eyes filled with pain for my family, for my father; and you nearly wept as you hugged me close and whispered, Hang in there; and you promised to come and repair the stove for us because we don't know what the hell we're doing.
You are a man,
and I know because you sauntered over, jabbed me softly in the arm, and asked, So when am I taking you to look at cars? and you talked to me like a grown-up, and you let me know you were doing this for me because my father couldn't.
You are a man,
and I know because you showed up at the hospital when only my parents were there; and sat next to the bed where my father lay, arms full of the needles you so dread, a cup of coughed-up blood on the table next to him; and you chatted with him and my mother like a friend, despite your discomfort; and you later came to our house, to eat up leftovers with me and my sister, just because you knew our tears would never stop if we were left alone; and you didn't ask us how are you doing? a million times.
You are a man,
and I know because you have been tender and compassionate with my brother, even though everyone else looks at the women in our family and thinks he seems to be doing just fine.
You are a man,
and I know because you weren't afraid to tell my father that you love him, you didn't hesitate to put your hands on him and pray hard, and you took time from a precious vacation to call and ask how is he?
You are a man,
and I know because you showed up at our doorstep with a massive crockpot of soup that you, not your wife, had made.
You are a man,
and I know because when you asked how is he? and I said, I'll cry, you said, okay, and waited.
You are men,
and I know because you stepped up,
raised your hands on behalf of your brother,
stood firm for his wife and children,
did the things he couldn't do but wanted to,
defended those whose father and husband was taken out of commission,
and were the face of God to us in so many ways.
May He ever bless the work of your hands, and may He always strengthen your arms for battle.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
dancing in the minefields
I see you, the way you curl your knees toward your chest and clench your elbows to your sides. I wonder, as I watch from under my eyelashes, if you were just told too many times when you were little to keep your hands to yourself, or if you spent too much time in middle school tripping and crashing into things with your new height, or if you are so unconsciously conscious of some flaw that you spend your physical energy trying to hide everything about yourself.
You aren't always like this. What is it that makes you try to fold all your limbs into your body, drop your eyes, bow your head?
I wish I knew.
I feel something stir in my heart, and I want, more than anything, to rise from my seat and raise my arms and twirl and spin and take your hand. I wish I could pull you to your feet and help you spread your limbs as wide as mine, and let the rhythm of the music pull us away from this place where we're afraid. I ache to let my spirit unfold in the center of my chest, to let it breathe and expand to touch your spirit, to let them soar and weave together.
What are we so afraid of? Is it the dance, the arms-wide vulnerability, the possibility of being seen?
I think so.
You aren't always like this. What is it that makes you try to fold all your limbs into your body, drop your eyes, bow your head?
I wish I knew.
I feel something stir in my heart, and I want, more than anything, to rise from my seat and raise my arms and twirl and spin and take your hand. I wish I could pull you to your feet and help you spread your limbs as wide as mine, and let the rhythm of the music pull us away from this place where we're afraid. I ache to let my spirit unfold in the center of my chest, to let it breathe and expand to touch your spirit, to let them soar and weave together.
What are we so afraid of? Is it the dance, the arms-wide vulnerability, the possibility of being seen?
I think so.
Monday, January 30, 2012
blue eyes
With him, I feel . . .
no comparison.
no comparison.
This is why
I so naturally fell into being around him,
why his presence is so easy and freeing.
I so naturally fell into being around him,
why his presence is so easy and freeing.
With him,
I can smile,
and laugh,
and be serious,
and be like other people,
and be distinctly unlike other people;
I can smile,
and laugh,
and be serious,
and be like other people,
and be distinctly unlike other people;
and his gaze,
leveled on my face,
doesn't change.
leveled on my face,
doesn't change.
His eyes are the same brilliant clear blue,
no matter what I do . . .
or don't do.
no matter what I do . . .
or don't do.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
not very fine
Wine eyes
are disorganized,
scattered,
sort of frenetic,
yet somehow molasses-slow.
But they are happy, happier than you can see from the outside.
Wine heart
is tired,
a little achy,
scattered,
jumping from emotion to emotion.
But it is full, so very full.
And grateful.
are disorganized,
scattered,
sort of frenetic,
yet somehow molasses-slow.
But they are happy, happier than you can see from the outside.
Wine heart
is tired,
a little achy,
scattered,
jumping from emotion to emotion.
But it is full, so very full.
And grateful.
men like trees
Behind me I can hear him coughing, and it is breaking my heart. "No!" I want to shriek. "I want him to be healed, I want that to be gone! I want there to be magic, miracles!" Gone is my suspicion of prayer-healing, gone is my cynicism toward living whole lives. Instead, I find myself grieved and shaken, wondering what and why God is doing. Why hold out healing, I wonder, only to draw it back?
I don't know. But I do know I would rather have the growing questions about why God's working as He is, than the blank flat droning belief that He does not deal at all in miracles.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
and I'm home
"Pass the peace."
And what terror I feel at those words. There is absolutely no peace in me at the thought of having to greet a roomful of strangers. My sister stands next to me, but in front and behind and beside me are people I have yet to meet. My heart pounds, and I feel sweat breaking out along my shoulderblades.
I have always hated passing the peace.
But I turn, pasting on a fake smile, hoping the fear in my eyes doesn't outshine the friendliness I'm fighting to project. The two men that were next to me are already out of the row, down the aisle and shaking hands with people they know. I look over my shoulder, but the people I came with are in conversation over part of the service and I don't feel like interrupting.
Even before I turn back around, I know he is there, and I turn to find him in my row, not even a foot away, smile wider than the ocean. He spreads his arms just as wide, eyes twinkling blue-grey, and pulls me into a hug as he laughs and greets me by name. I put my arms around him and smile, unclenching my fear in the face of his delighted joy.
And in his arms, I find everything in me letting go, and the peace that was missing rushes back in as he holds me close and tells me how glad he is that I'm there.
There is nothing flirtatious about the way he wraps his arms around me, which makes it even more precious. This is an embrace to surrender to. I rest my chin on his shoulder and lean into him, feeling so grateful.
And it is just a moment, but it seems like days of fear have melted away by the time he releases me and moves on to grin and laugh and hug my sister. Somehow, I cannot shake away the bubbling freedom he passed along in those few seconds.
I want joy that communicable.
And what terror I feel at those words. There is absolutely no peace in me at the thought of having to greet a roomful of strangers. My sister stands next to me, but in front and behind and beside me are people I have yet to meet. My heart pounds, and I feel sweat breaking out along my shoulderblades.
I have always hated passing the peace.
But I turn, pasting on a fake smile, hoping the fear in my eyes doesn't outshine the friendliness I'm fighting to project. The two men that were next to me are already out of the row, down the aisle and shaking hands with people they know. I look over my shoulder, but the people I came with are in conversation over part of the service and I don't feel like interrupting.
Even before I turn back around, I know he is there, and I turn to find him in my row, not even a foot away, smile wider than the ocean. He spreads his arms just as wide, eyes twinkling blue-grey, and pulls me into a hug as he laughs and greets me by name. I put my arms around him and smile, unclenching my fear in the face of his delighted joy.
And in his arms, I find everything in me letting go, and the peace that was missing rushes back in as he holds me close and tells me how glad he is that I'm there.
There is nothing flirtatious about the way he wraps his arms around me, which makes it even more precious. This is an embrace to surrender to. I rest my chin on his shoulder and lean into him, feeling so grateful.
And it is just a moment, but it seems like days of fear have melted away by the time he releases me and moves on to grin and laugh and hug my sister. Somehow, I cannot shake away the bubbling freedom he passed along in those few seconds.
I want joy that communicable.
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