Wednesday, August 31, 2011

My Husband And I Don't Always Get Along.

The other day my husband referenced me as being 'crazy'.  You know ~ *that* kind of 'crazy' . . . the woman with the wizened eyes, the wild hair brought about by intense emotion of the enraged sort; the about-to-stick-my-nails-in-you kind of 'crazy'.

I stopped to ponder this comment.

You see, no one gets my goat the way my husband does.

No, not that goat.

So close, so intertwined are our lives that the buttons that push the door marked CRAZY are easily accessed by  any casual or careless, or :gasp: innocent remark or look that has no ill-will attached to it whatsoever.

I know you know that which I speak of.

So last night, I decided I'd take him supper (an act of service, which he loves) as he was working on a late night project for his employer.

While it wasn't his favorite meal or anything, I do believe he was touched by the kind gesture, and he greeted me with a smile and a pleasant demeanor.

This, of course, made me very happy, because I don't like grumpy.

I didn't say I was never grumpy, I said I don't like grumpy ~ whether it be mine, his, hers, or . . .

Anyway, for some reason, our conversation took a turn that referenced the aforementioned negative 'crazy' comment.  In a flash, a memory was in my mind, fresh as if he had just penned it, the words of my Beloved, typing on a keypad, sending forth good vibes in hopes of snagging me, the one in whom he'd developed a strong attraction.

He said, and I quote:

I loved speaking with you last night.  Your laugh reveals a heart that is full of joy, the 2nd of the gifts of the spirit.  The little side conversations with your children reveal the 1st, 4th, 5th, 6th, 8th, and 9th gifts of the spirit.  Your drive to and from Houston, the 7th gift.  Hmmmm, #3?  Peace.  May the peace of the Lord be with you always, Angela!  You revealed so many gifts to me in our zigzaggy conversation . . . I am blessed richly . . . each gift a gem.  Where shall I put them?  Proverbs says that an excellent wife (a wife of valor) is the crown of her husband.  I see.  The gems belong to you.  But an excellent wife crowns her husband.  I see.  The gems of the spirit of an excelent woman (wife means woman in Hebrew, eh?) make her husband into a king.  I guess I feel like a prince, then.

With this memory, I placed a question upon the table.  A simple question:

"Do you remember [that] you said I encapsulated the gifts of the spirit?"

He declined a response until he could refresh his memory with a reread in the archives.

I smiled, because, being a woman . . . a romantic woman at that, I remembered every word, and that quite clearly.

I drove home in the inky black night considering this state of being in a committed relationship.  The one that argues passionately on the one hand, deeply embedded in frustration or other negative emotion ~ and the equal and opposite reaction:  that of euphoric thrill of knowing the company of your heart partner, deeply embedded in joy and and intense love that overlooks all fault.

Perhaps this marriage thing is all about those unseen rough edges that our partner manages to tackle with gusto.  Sandpaper to board, whistling while working on smoothing out the splinters that keep catching and encroaching upon the finer points of relationship.

While I'd rather stay on the smooth side, I'm beginning to [finally] understand a few of my husband's beefs' with me.  And he's right.  They ain't pretty.

I guess fruit, even spiritual fruit, is plucked from the tree, and is consumed to the benefit of those who come in contact with it's lush goodness.  But every harvest demands a winter, a sleep, until spring comes again, and the production starts all over again.

I suppose I'll need some grafting done, to assure that the wild fruit of crazy is pruned out of me.

Meanwhile, I'm going to put myself in remembrance of more of the GilGuy's words to me, oh so long ago:

If you find me attractive, perhaps it is because you see in me a dim reflection of Jesus Christ our Lord and savior, as through a glass darkly.

That I do, my love, that I do.  . . . Splintered wood from the cross and all . . .

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