Thirty-One

I woke up this morning with a husband pouring on the sugar. With phrase after phrase he expressed the deepest gratitude for me and for our life together. It would be nauseating for me to recount his words to a broader audience. After a few minutes of listening, some unwelcome tears sprang to my eyes. I don't think that was the response he was looking for. They weren't the tears that you'd expect. The ones overjoyed with happiness that my husband loves me so much. The tears felt more like, "I can't receive this right now." Did he not remember that just moments before this saccharine oration I had woken up and my first words were, "Do you SEE where you are sleeping?" Insert a bit of sarcasm as he was sleeping right down the middle of the bed leaving me mere inches to cling for dear life at the edge of the bed all night long. His immediate response, "I love you! Happy Anniversary!" This and other unsavory wifely moments played through my head as he continued to gush over a glossier version of me.

I am confident Stephen didn't really hear my complaint. Just as he doesn't see brown speckled chunks in my teeth when I finish an oreo. Just as he doesn't see the soft middle pooch that developed six babies in and just as he never sees the laundry left undone. Well he does see it, but instead of saying anything he just folds it.

I recently stumbled upon this reflection in my journal more than 15 years ago.

"I remember one day not feeling up to par. The only thing I accomplished (and I mean the ONLY) was to clean one toilet. that's it. I was embarrassed when Stephen and the kids arrived home from school and work to a house in shambles, but at the time I just couldn't will myself to do more. Nothing was said about the house. We went on with our night. I'll never forget though that as we sat down to dinner Stephen paused before prayer to comment to the kids about what a great mom they had and asked if they had seen the sparkling toilet upstairs."

For over thirty-one years he has told me the same story. 

My offering is good enough.

I am better than I think I am.

In some moments of our marriage this has bothered me. "Should I wear my hair up or down today?" To which he would say, "I love your hair however it is!" If it was up that moment he would then say, "wear it up," and if it was down he would say down. I think he just wanted to get out the door faster most of the time, but underneath that he continued to tell me a story. 

You are not hair.

You are not a body. 

You are not an emotion. 

You are not an unsavory moment. 

You are not your worst day.

You are loved just as you are! 

And nothing can change that.

The consistency with which that message has been sent is astounding. He is unwavering. I've never had just the right words to describe his approach until I heard them this last weekend.

I was rereading (this time listening to) Adam Miller's book, 'Original Grace' (for the fourth time because it is just that good) and toward the end there is a chapter on forgiveness. In it, Adam speaks of the grace with which his father spoke about his grandfather. Though he was an alcoholic throughout his childhood, Adam's father was not shy in offering the truth of how hard that was but always layered his descriptions of his father with grace, seeing the goodness of who he was and gratitude for the good he offered to his life. Adam's words struck me to the core. 

"Gratitude is the work of forgiving things for being whatever good they are, rather than what I wanted them to be."

He later contemplates his own future and restates it this way,

"Will my own children be able to forgive me for being what I am, instead of what they needed?"

Gratitude. 

Forgiveness.

Grace.

Those are the words to describe the man I have lived with for thirty-one years. 

Those are the secrets to a happy marriage.

And as the morning has wandered on, I have considered what my life might look like in the next thirty-one years. What is it I hope for?

Grace.

I have hope that it will be filled with more offerings of grace made by me, not just the grace that I know I will continue to receive.