I really should be working on holiday stuff. But… I’m not. I’m here blogging.
I’m thinking today about what an ungrateful wretch I really can be.
You see–my husband is home. He is here in the flesh. He has been for quite a few months in a row now. And it’s wonderful. I love it. It delights me. It especially delights me that he is going to be here this holiday. He’s here to see the wonder in Carolyn’s eyes and help with preparations. This year we get to just be together as a family. And I really just love that.
But sometimes…. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am for all of that. And sometimes…. Sometimes I get irritated with him. Or sometimes I have the tail end of a cold and can’t hear anything because my ears are blocked and my kid is sick and I’m grumpy in general and then I get extra grumbly at him.
And I hate that. I hate that because I of all people know what an incredible blessing it is to have him at home. To have him at all. I know I shouldn’t take him for granted. I know that I shouldn’t let minor irritations cause me to blow up and be the Hormone Queen of Antagonism. I shouldn’t. I know how limited our time is together. I know that a deployment could be and is just around the corner. I know that even outside of deployments, I’m lucky to have him here on this earth. I am a Navy wife and the friend of many who’ve lost their beloveds. I *know* these things.
But some days, I forget. And sometimes I am antagonistic, and grouchy, and irritated and irritating.
And I hate myself for it.
How quickly it seems I can go back to taking it for granted that he’s next to me. And how ridiculous that is. Because when the months drag on and on and on when I would give anything to feel his hand brush mine or see his eyes lock onto mine, I’m haunted by these moments of shortness and grouchiness.
In the midst of my off and on grumbles today, I found two letters that he’d sent me from Iraq. I have no idea how they ended up in the middle of the floor in the kitchen–I don’t have a clue what book they might have been tucked into to cause them to land there, but I picked them up and I read them….
And they were two of my favorite letters that he’s ever written. Real, love letters. Solid love letters–all about how when the long, weary days and his job and the distance get the better of him, it’s thoughts of me and Little Miss that pull him out of that and help him to keep going until he can be in our arms again.
And I stood there in the kitchen and whispered, “Oh….” and wished that we could remember all that as we work through our Christmas projects, and deal with our sick kid, and the long hours he’s working, and watches til midnight. I wish that we could hold those feelings between us always and not so easily forget what we mean to one another.
And it convicts me to get past the grumbles.
I am encouraged because I know…. that even with the grumbles that crop up now and again… All of the love is still there, and some part of us will always resonate with those letters and find refuge in those words.
Now I remember. I love being my husband’s wife.