What Love Looks Like

This morning after the kids left for school, I found myself trying to express to Chad the reality that I am struggling. Oh, I’m okay, really, but I just don’t feel like myself these days and have been trying to sort out all of the feelings and realities that come with fostering and adoption. The future is bright. The present is pleasant. But there’s no doubt this has been a hard season. Becoming closely intertwined with other people’s lives can be complicated, both on the outside and on the inside.

I’ve been trying to keep a proper perspective and think in spiritual terms, with eternity in mind and with trust for Jesus in my heart. Key word: trying. Often I get bogged down by my selfish tendencies and my vivid imagination that paints worries and future fears in 3D. This was such a morning. I was bogged, and it showed.

Chad listened. He didn’t listen in the way that another woman might have listened, jumping in as often as possible to reassure and object to my self-deprecation. He didn’t listen the way a Pharisee would have listened, jumping in to show me all the ways that I am sinning. He didn’t listen the way a stranger would have listened, jumping in with empty platitudes and a hurried pat on the back. He just listened. And then, as he listened, he started making up the bed. He got the baby up and changed her diaper. He emptied the dishwasher and loaded it again, and he picked up baby toys and tossed them into a basket. He mopped up spots on the floor where the baby had spilled her milk. And then he left for work.

As he walked out, I thanked him for his help. He left to go to church and deal with a lot of people’s problems today. But first he dealt with some of mine.

Sure, these weren’t answers to major existential questions or huge promises about what will be in the future. He probably doesn’t know what to do about the way I feel on some days, but he does see the dishes and the toys and the unmade bed, and he knows that in those small things he can express love and care for me, reminding me that we’re on the same team.

It works. I feel his love. I see his love.

In my younger years I would have missed it. I would have lamented that he didn’t give me all the flowery words I wanted to hear, even though those flowery words don’t actually get the dishwasher emptied and filled again. I think sometimes we are just too hard and strict about what we will accept as love from our spouses. I realize it now. Now that I need a true partner and not just a poet. Love looks like the father of my children with throw pillows in his hands, making up the bed where he breathed next to me all night long.

He could have said lots of things, including right things about how my spiritual perspective needs correcting. He could have pointed out the fact that I have been letting too many things in our house slide. He could have reminded me that he, too, has had a hard year. But he didn’t. He picked up toys, and in this I saw the grace of God.