Only a very patient man could stay married to me for thirty-one years. And one of the greatest blessings God has given me – in addition to two great kids, parents who loved me, siblings who support me and a great haircut – is an incredibly patient husband.
Every night he asks about my day. He listens while I gush about the good things and rant about the bad things, like computers that refuse to burn DVDs like they’re supposed to – not that I’m obsessing about the topic, but it takes a few days to calm down.
When I can’t comprehend mechanical stuff, he patiently explains engines to me, even though I have never in thirty-one years been able to get beyond the power switch of any appliance and I have trouble with that unless the one and off ends are labeled.
He likes my cooking. He’s my biggest supporter so far as my writing and speaking go. He puts up with all my errors in the checkbook.
He’s seen me at my best and at my worst, and he still loves me.
And every once in a while, not very often, he reads this blog. I’ll know when it happens. Because after thirty-one years, when I tell him something nice, he still blushes.
