Not long ago, I returned from physical therapy to see Denis standing in the driveway, motioning me to park beside him. “How nice,” I thought, “he’s come out to greet me!” He must have been stalking me on Life360, to see if I was up to any shenanigans while driving around town.
He does this—stalking—far more than me, like when I’ve merely stopped to get a coffee and he texts asking, “What are you doing at Scooters?” “Getting a coffee. What do you think?!” The app allows him to know exactly where I am and when I will pull into our driveway.
He was looking severely baffled, as he urged me to “Come look at this!” I walked down to the edge of the lawn with him where he pointed to the mailbox. It was lying flat on the grass, broken off at the base of the post. He continued, “This is incredible! Look! Someone actually drove up on the lawn and knocked it down!”
I stood there silently recalling the funny little “Bump” I heard earlier as I was backing out. I pulled ahead, then put the car in reverse so I could look out the back through the backup camera. I didn’t see anything, which should have aroused suspicion, but I figured I might have gone up the curb a tiny bit and the tire bounced down when I came off. I didn’t bother to get out and look.
I blinked, looked at him and quietly admitted, “I did that.” I thought of not telling because I wasn’t sure how he’d react. I should have remembered how he’d react because he’s had to practice it enough.
After a moment of staring at me, he burst out laughing.
I was telling a friend about what I had done and Denis’ reaction. She said her husband would have been angry. And then, sarcastically added, “Of course, he was perfect. This never would’ve happened to him.”
Our housemate, Anita, very kindly built a new one and as you can see, it is beautiful.
Denis and I have lived together for many years. We, of course, know one another so well—all our deficiencies, vices, memory lapses, and obsessions. His deficiencies sometimes make me crazy.
Mine? They aren’t so bad, are they? I finish his sentences. I do not submit new plans in advance. I offer advice while he’s driving. I won’t admit when I don’t feel well. I cook eggplant.
When I accidentally threw a bucket of his expensive wild bird seed on the compost pile, he wondered what happened to it. I blamed it on him for using an old Menard’s bucket with a faded label on the lid that said, “Chick Mash.” I hadn’t needed chick mash for my hens for 2 ½ years. By now it had to be stale and breeding worms. So (without looking inside) out to the compost pile went the bird seed. Was it my fault he had used an old, mislabeled bucket to store his seed? He shouldn’t have been using it. Why admit it was my mistake?
I considered telling him I had no idea what had happened. After thinking about this deceitful option for a second, it flashed on me, “C’mon here is one of his greatest traits. He never gets mad at you for your mistakes. Tell the truth. So, I told him what I had done, and, yes, he laughed.
Why do I forget this about him?
I am blessed.
As old as our love is for one another, I still must pray for us. For myself. For patience. For love that is constant. For eyes to see and remember the good. There are many small, good things he does. Changes oil in the car and maintains it. Takes the trash to the curb every week. Turns down my bed every night. Buys a book he knows I’d like. Even goes grocery shopping with me. (I hate that chore.)
Even though we have spent more than half a century together, there are still times when it is hard, and we need Christ to help us love and be true to one another.
It isn’t always difficult to do this. To love. There is a precious moment coming up this Sunday when we celebrate his 77th birthday. After church we will go to brunch at a place with a secluded little patio shaded by tall oaks and ivy-covered walls with potted flowers all around. It is peaceful to sit beneath an umbrella, listen to the birds chirping their thanks for crumbs, share our favorite caramel roll with cream cheese icing and a hot latte, giving thanks for one more year together.
Photo credit: The author’s iPhone.
