If my soul would risk idolatry, I would have it be for her. She is (and always has been) my only love. Our eyelids grow weary together in the middle of a thriller.
“Honey, are you asleep?”
“Me, too. Should we go to bed now?”
We retire early and wake before sunrise even on a weekend like today. That is just fine with me.
On Monday, we’ll pray together after morning eggs and Scripture. We keep praying, though answers seem long in coming.
When she leaves for work, I think of her all day. I don’t have a picture of her on my desk; no matter: there is no soul in a flat image. I prefer to look at her through my mind’s eye--to recollect her heart which has more color than a portrait. Faces are best seen from the inside, I've learned.
When I talk to her on the phone during the day, it picks me up. There is always something to laugh about.
She is more precious than Super Bowl tickets (which seem to be more precious than gold this weekend). I would not trade her for anything. She is determined when the situation calls for resolve and flexible when God would have her stand hands-open, receptive to changing direction.
She is a loyal friend, accepting and gracious, hospitable and generous, thoughtful and encouraging.
I thank God for my wife. She is a rare catch these days.