I wrap myself tighter in the blanket.
The wood stove is working overtime
as the cold wind that moans through the naked trees
finds all the cracks and crevices in this old farmhouse.
I love this place, uneven floors with wide cracks
that hoard crumbs and dust bunnies.
But it is cold, and the heavy stove door creaks again
and I spread the bed of coals out even and throw in more wood.
In minutes the gnarled piece of hickory bursts into flame
and my eyes watch the dancing red.
“Will it be cold forever?” Weston asks as he looks longingly outside.
“Spring will come soon, Buddy.”
But the seed catalogs under the coffee table whisper my longing too,
I’m dreaming of spring, and seeds bursting to life.
Of tulips all around my yard and young calves in the fields.
Of hope and life and joy.
I had one of those nights recently.
The day had been long.
I was exhausted, and after the little ones were tucked in and lights out,
I sat on the rocker and looked at my wise husband, and poured out my woes.
My heart echoed Weston’s question,
“Will it always be this way?”
I felt like a failure.
My heart felt tired.
And it all seemed too big.
And way too long.
But his words were kind.
He recognized my need when to me it all seemed so jumbled and foggy.
He saw it, clear and plain.
And he was so gracious. Understanding. Kind.
He could have laughed at this silly little teary wife,
and made me feel stupid and dumb.
But he didn’t. He listened. He smiled. He loved.
And he gave me some specific things to focus on.
To target, to avoid this level of frustration.
One step here, one step there.
It is here, in this sanctuary of marriage,
that I find myself at God’s feet again and again.
I listen to my husband’s voice, and hear God’s words.
I bare my heart, trembling in vulnerability and find that here,
I am safe.
This is a beautiful place to be.