Five years ago today I realized I was in love with the man I now call my husband. It had taken me a while to reach that conclusion, but I'm forever glad I did, even though at the time I kept the knowledge mostly to myself (with the exception of a two or three close friends). I knew that if I continued living on the path I was travelling, that eventually all things would work out. So a week later I turned in my mission papers and trusted that I would have my chance to fall in love in person (and not through letters) eventually.
Now I have that chance every day.
Most of the time I use this blog to write about the things that help me realize I am a good mom, a good friend, a good daughter, or a good person (even when I don't feel like any of those things). I realized today that I rarely talk about what I am doing to make myself a good wife.
There are several possible reasons for this. It is easy to write about being a mommy. People forgive you for your bad mom moments, and sometimes admit that they have made the same mistakes or feel the same way you do. But somehow, in all of our mommy blogginess, it is rare (though not unheard of) that women write about becoming a better wife.
I feel like it is easy to point out my mistakes as a mom. I have time to learn. I'm just a novice. I haven't screwed up my daughter that much yet. But my mistakes as a wife? That takes a lot more humility and a bit of eating crow. I don't like either of those things most of the time. And my marriage is something that needs constant nourishing and attention, and some days, I just don't have the energy. But I guess that is my lesson to be learned: it doesn't matter whether you have the energy or not, marriage is messy and it takes work to keep up with it. It takes work to make it thrive.
The truth is, I married someone who deserves far more than what I am. But he loves me anyway. He adores me. He does the dishes because he knows they make me gag. He gets up with our daughter at night because he knows how much I need my sleep. He finds ways to help out around the house, even when he has a dozen other things that should take priority. He comes home for lunch when he can tell from my emails that I am having a bad day. He is the kind of person who, when I ask where in the USA he would want to go for our anniversary trip if money was no option, tells me he wants to go to Texas because he wants to see why I love it so much and I know he also wants to go there because he knows how my whole body lights up whenever anything Texan is mentioned. He wants to go because it will make me happy. He is also the kind of man, who, after several days of pondering and looking up hotels and airfare and having "can we really afford it?" conversations, lets me be the one to bring up the fact that we should really go somewhere else and save that extra money to use in other ways, even though we both really want to go and neither of us know when this chance may come again. He is the type of person that helps me call my visiting teaching partner because she speaks French better than English, even though it is my assignment, not his. He is the kind doesn't complain when I am too tired to do anything but sit on the couch at night and watch celebrities dive off 33 foot platforms. He lets me "go at" his school papers, even though I know he hates when I get into my red-pen editing mode (I am a paper's worst enemy, and he hates when I tell him he needs to revise things). He calls me at lunch, when he is running stuff to the mail, and when he is on his way home, just to say hello and see how my day is going. He encourages me when he knows I have reached my limit. He makes it possible for me to live my dreams.
And, like his brother Dave told him he would have to during a toast at our wedding luncheon, he does everything.
And what do I do?
What I can.
But it isn't enough, when I want to be the one doing everything. It is easy for me to point out my mistakes as a wife, but it isn't easy for me to admit to them, to him or to anyone else.
And you know what?
He loves me, even when he recognizes my faults and I don't admit to them. He tells me to stop beating myself up about our dirty bathrooms and cluttered closets. He tells me to leave the dishes and go read a book. He puts up with my constant sickliness, and jokes with me about how I might as well just get pregnant because I am nauseous all the time anyway.
And now you know my not-so-secret secret: he is how I survive.
It would be too cliché for me to simply write, "I'm going to try and be better sweetheart" or "I married superman" (as if you don't all read that on facebook every day and wonder how true it really could be if they are posting it on facebook and not saying it to their honey's face), so I won't. I also won't spend time today telling you all of the ways I don't measure up. I spend too much time doing that anyway.
I heard a quote a couple of weekends ago that has been running through my mind: "Marriage is God's gift to us. The quality of our marriage is our gift to Him."
My husband is my greatest blessing, and he shows me every day how much he loves God by how much work he puts into our marriage. There is quality here, because there is love and there is friendship. And so we will continue on, every day, working and doing and being better--for our daughter, for each other, for Him.
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