It’s no secret to those who know and love me best, I can be a real brat. If the last month of pregnancy and ensuing 6 weeks of newborndom revealed anything to me, it’s that my brattiness can reach epic levels at the most inconvenient of times. Yes, I can blame hormones and emotions and the like, but it’s completely unfair of me to write it off on circumstances and not accept responsibility for my princess-like tendencies.
And yet.
When I stomp around in the mornings, bitter over senselessness, he hugs me.
When I can’t put my best face on and get frustrated with the kids a little too quickly, he makes breakfast.
When I mope and stare into space, when I’m quiet and I withhold, he takes the children out of the house on errands.
He loves me best when I need it most.
He is my real-life, in-house picture of grace.
Completely undeserved.
Never demanding.
Always seeking the good of the whole, the Shalom of our home.
Some people would get mad. Some would show me what life is like on the receiving end and return it as medicine. Some would point out my flaws and suggest I try to work on that – and all would be fair responses. But he doesn’t.
He loves harder, digs deeper and forgives quicker.
Completely. Undeserved.