My husband is an imperfect man.
He’s often distracted.
Sometimes he can’t (won’t?) hear or focus.
He likes to cut trees, sit in duck blinds, and build things, so he wears that extra spicy man smell. All of the time.
His eyes twinkle when mine are angry.
And I’m never really sure he gets me, you know?
But I’m so thankful for every little thing I nonsensically perceive as a flaw. Because I’m imperfect, too. And with him, I’m safe to be me.
It’s like our peculiarities were divinely paired. Apart, we’re a menagerie of quirks. Together, we’re a spectacular Picasso piece.
But he’s also extraordinary all on his own.
My husband works all day — long hours — and then more at home. Then he plays with the kids. Then he helps with the dishes and the laundry.
He fixes the things that are broken, and so often the most broken thing is me.
He looks at me like he believes I deserve him, even when I know I don’t. Actually, he looks at me like I deserve the world.
My husband makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel important. He makes me feel needed.
He loves that I can take care of myself. But he also wants to protect me — because that’s what you do when you love something so fiercely.
He admires my independence, my intelligence, and my unwillingness to back down from what I believe is right. And he tells me so.
When my hand shakes, his is steady.
When I doubt it all, he is certain.
My husband is my anchor, and I hold on tight.
He’s the calm when I’m the storm.
He’s the light when I’m in darkness.
He’s my comfort in the pain.
He shows me wonder and possibility, when I see only fear.
He forgives me when I can’t forgive myself.
He holds me when I cannot stand alone.
My husband lifts me when I fall, and he nudges me forward to try again.
He carries me.
And I thank God every day that two imperfect people can use two broken brushes to paint a beautiful life together.