At twenty-two, I loved him for his zeal for ministry and his big vision for his life. I loved him for the way he talked about God and how worn his Bible was. I loved him for his sense of adventure and his willingness to play pranks. I loved him for his solid group of friends (don’t underestimate the story a man’s brotherhood tells about him) and his excellent taste in music and … and, ahem, I loved the fact that I thought I’d have leverage toward the less desirable things about him like his wardrobe and how often he washed his sheets and how fast he drove his car.
Two decades and some change, later – on a Wednesday morning – this is what I love about him:
he fills my tea bags for me every day for the next day
I rarely pump gas – he knows I never watch the gauge
he talks to me about his weakness, and he admits fault, often
he reads to our littles every night (going on 15 years of nightly read-alouds)
he spends every single morning in quiet, with God and his Bible
he loads the dishwasher and, takes out the trash, and listens to me talk for hours about the same “hard” I spoke to him about the day before
I still love his worn Bible and the way he talks about God. But I don’t know what he listens to on his runs (we have seven kids to talk about ), and I’ve been unable to influence his wardrobe like I’d hoped, and we’re too tired to play pranks these days. We spend much time investing in the small and unseen, not the big vision ministry we once fell asleep thinking about. Adventure is take-out these days.
Small is the new big.
Weak is the new strong.
Not flashy, but alive and in love.
