Left to myself, one might never be able to tell the guy who walks beside me is my husband. Or at the very least they might struggle to know I actually like him. But I do. I really, really do.
It just doesn’t occur to me to touch him much. Maybe it’s because I’m so busy touching and being touched by my kids. Or that my hands are so often in the dishwater or laundry basket. I don’t know what it is except sad.
It’s sad because my husband is the exact opposite of me. For him, a touch is equal to bliss. Sheer, unadulterated marital delight. Stress and worry will melt away when I lay a hand on his arm. He’s just wired like that which makes for really cheap therapy. Unless the therapist is distracted, that is.
And if you’ve never met me you couldn’t possibly know just how distracted I really am. If there are crumbs on the counter (seriously, when are there NOT crumbs on the counter) I’m busy swiping at them. If there are dishes in the sink, I’m busy trying to remember who’s supposed to be doing them. If there’s a meal to make, I’m busy scrambling to figure out what it’s going to be. If there’s laundry to sort, I’m busy hiding from it.
I wasn’t blessed with a personality that calmly waits for the next thing. Relaxing doesn’t come easy to me. It’s something I have to consciously force myself to do. This translates well for me as far as my house being clean but the more important things are sometimes left undone.
For instance, my husband being reminded he is loved.
Most moms go to bed at night wondering if they gave enough of themselves to their kids. Yeah well, I do that, too. But I also wake up in the morning worried I’ve barely tossed scraps to the man who loves me beyond reason.
Really, how difficult is it to slow down and truly hug him? Would it be so hard to put the slotted spoon down for a minute and let the soup simmer without me? Who cares if it boils over or scorches the pot so long as my people can see my Jesus in the way I love them?
All questions with a very simple, straight-forward answer and yet I get them wrong all the time. I whiz by my guy, barely noticing how his dark eyes watch me. Just waiting. Always just waiting for his turn.
The priority line up is supposed to look like this: God, Husband, Family, Home. That means my husband was intended to trump even the kids. And definitely the dust, dirt and dishes. We can argue it but we’ll never win.
And for the love of Pete (whoever he is) why would I prefer the company of housework over that of a handsome, doting, forgiving, long-suffering, back rubbing man who not only makes my life easier but fun to boot? What’s wrong with me anyway? Feel free NOT to answer that.
if when you see me holding his hand, you can know three things for certain:
- I love him
- He loves me back.
- It’s totally worth whatever I stopped doing to free that hand so it could be wrapped in his.
Are you making your husband a priority or is this an area where you struggle? Have the years passed leaving their mark in complacency and neglect? It’s never too late so long as there is breath.