love and socks

One pair of socks on the other side of the bed this morning.  His, the keeper of my heart. The one who wakes up three hours before the rest of us and eats breakfast in the a quiet house and dresses for work in the dark.

Once I read a story about a couple on the verge of martial ruin.  I can’t tell you where I read it, maybe you can tell me.  In the counselor’s office, she unleashed years of bottled up frustration because every single day she had to pick up his $($&# socks and if he just respected her, he would pick up his own dirty socks. So the years went by and she felt unappreciated and the resentment burrowed deep down and rotted away at precious things.  Then something else happened, but I forget, maybe he almost died, maybe they just came to a great understanding and healing, I can’t recall.  All I know is that after this dramatic turning point in their marriage, everyday when she picked up his socks, she no longer muttered hostility under her breath, but she thanked God that he was there to leave his dirty socks on the floor.

It was a moving, life-changing story, but I only remember the sock.  The socks, perhaps that is the whole point?  How the small things are the big things, when it comes to love and marriage, And by love and marriage, I mean all of life too.

At the same time every afternoon, the key goes in and the door rattles.  Two little creatures practically jump out of their skin.  He barely has one second to take off his coat and set his things down, before they are in his arms. Then for as long as possible, there they stay.  Daddy is a commodity worth more than gold around here.

I fill the French press with steaming water and watch the dark grounds dance and soak and become one. A few minutes later, I pour two mugs and bring one to him where he is the bottom layer of the pile. 

Next to the yellow chair, his socks and shoes are cast off on the floor. 

Linking up with Just Write