My husband thinks I’m perfect.
Seriously. Sometimes I say, “Hey, honey, is there something I could change, do differently, you know, anything I’m doing that annoys you or you wish I wouldn’t do?” He always says something along the lines of, “No, baby, you’re perfect and I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”
Now, I know and you know that I’m not perfect. My blinded-by-love husband, though… he doesn’t see the flaws. Or if he does, he thinks they’re cute. And we’re past the honeymoon stage; at least we’re supposed to be. We’re six years, three (and 1/3) children into this thing. We’ve done stupid stuff, said stupid stuff, made mistakes, and we’re still figuring this whole “life” thing out as we go. There’s been more than enough imperfection on my part. But he doesn’t see it.
Sometimes it’s tough having a husband who thinks I’m perfect.
Really. He does something minor like come home late from work and I am well on my way to working up a good, satisfying MAD… One of those seething, cupboard-door-slamming mads where you can grit your teeth and feel justified because of the wrongness of it all. Except then he walks in the door and says something like, “Hey, baby, I’m sooo glad to see you and the kids. So sorry I was late tonight, I had to finish a work project and then help a crippled man across the street and then stopped to fix an old lady’s car on the way home. Can I help with dinner?”
How the heck can I be mad after that?
Impossible. Though I’ve tried. Trust me. Because I enjoy a good mad just as much as the next girl.
But, alas, I am married to the Good Samaritan.
He is an infinitely capable Good Samaritan, too, because he knows how to fix stuff. Cars, lawnmowers, go-karts, bicycles, tire swings, dryers, dishwashers, highchairs, boats, chainsaws, lights, chairs, scraped knees, me…
Honestly, the only good reason for a mad in six years of marriage that I’ve found is this: sometimes he helps other people when I want him to ignore all those other people and pay attention to me. Only me.
And if I tell him that, he does. He pulls in, slows down, says no. Pays attention.
I’m not a naturally merciful or generous person. I lean more to the “prophetic” side of things (thanks, Dad!), as in, if I see a bum on the street with a cardboard sign, I think, “Hey bum, go get a job and then you won’t need other people’s money!” I don’t think,
- “Poor guy. He’s probably had a tough life.” I don’t think,
- “Hmm, we should be generous to the poor.”
I roll up my windows. I don’t carry cash. I drive on. I don’t even feel guilty.
Generosity is still not a natural instinct,
but in the six years of being married to the most generous and merciful person I have ever known, I’ve learned a little bit:
- It’s fun to be generous. Even when you can’t afford it. Especially when you can’t afford it. It’s a risk you take, offering out of the little you have.
- It doesn’t matter what the person does with your generosity. That’s not your part of the picture. Your part is just to be generous.
- Giving isn’t just about giving money; it’s about giving time, giving resources, giving energy, giving help, giving service. When you clutter up your life with obligations that don’t matter, you end up with nothing left to give other people.
- There is a priority in giving; you shouldn’t give what isn’t yours to give, for instance. You should meet your responsibilities. You should make sure your family has their needs met, but the thing to remember is need isn’t the same as want. We can all live with much less than we think we can.
Last week a lady knocked on my car window
in the parking lot of St. Louis Bread Company. She launched into a somewhat reasonable explanation of why she was asking for money. I stopped her. I didn’t really care what her reason was. I gave her the $20 I had in my wallet, prayed for her, and when she left I wished I’d had more to give.
Maybe she’s a drunk. Maybe she’s a drug addict. Maybe she’s somebody’s daughter and she’s had a tough life. I don’t know, and I don’t need to know.
You know why my husband thinks I’m perfect?
Because he has what I understand now as generosity of the spirit; he doesn’t just give the cash he could use for himself. He doesn’t just give his time or his abilities. He gives grace, freely, recklessly. He gives enough grace to me to cover all the times I’ve been mad, or rude, or ignored him, or messed something up, or forgotten something important, or hurt him, or demanded, or controlled, or manipulated, or accused, or proved in some other inexcusable way how imperfect I really, truly, deeply am.
His generosity is what causes him to love me as much as he does. It’s not me. I’m not perfect. I don’t deserve it. I didn’t earn it. But I receive it, with open arms. And that’s why, sometimes, when I think, “Darn it, I wish Joe would quit offering to help, I really just want a weekend at home!” I try to stop before I say it out loud. Because when I put words out there, he will listen. And he will downsize his own generosity in order to make me happy.
And then he might figure out I’m really not perfect.
Image by Kjunstorm.
