My husband never...

My husband isn't.... My husband doesn't... My husband never...

(dot dot dot)  You fill in the blanks.

You fill in the blanks each day, painfully aware of all he isn't doing, all that's not been said,

The tasks that fill your waking life, until it's time again for bed.

And there he is wanting to be close, waiting to touch you in the dark,

but you've exchanged the foreplay of life, for a grumbling question mark.

How does it happen?  How does it go?

This journey from love to drudgery so?

From all that he is to all that he's not!

From the joy of our vows, to a martyr's long lot.

When did our men journey from their gifts to what's lacking,

In their character and marrow, their doing, their asking?

We once celebrated their bodies, dreams, and laughter!

But praises have faded, complaints reign in the rafters.

What happened as we grew their babies and birthed them -

staying home in the trenches of life, to raise them?

Was the cost of life's war, the death of a marriage?

But life's not war, and he's not the enemy I disparage.

We need a resurrection miracle to bring life from this wreckage!

Or maybe, just maybe, we need a little honey mixed into homemade granola.  

---

I'd done the shopping and planned meals that would bless, only to get the call that he wouldn't be flying home tonight.  Fists went to my hips with a sigh, as I looked out over my counter-space, mounded high with oats, separated egg whites, vanilla, nuts, and dried fruit. All set to make My Honey his favorite breakfast for the next morning - a culinary welcome home after long days away, but now he won’t be here.

I decide to make it anyway.  Not for him, today I need to make it for me; not for my belly, but to soothe my resentful heart. And as the wooden spoon moves around the bowl, grace finds her rhythm again. Round and round, pouring in then pouring out, letting all my plans and expectations fall and change.

Stirring in the honey, I realize that I like his wife better when she continues to love and serve, rather than grow bitter, weighed down by unmet expectations. I like My Honey’s Honey when she is sweet. But how do we keep our hearts tender and sweet, and words dripping with kindness?

Eat Honey Each Day!

Pleasant words are a honeycomb, Sweet to the soul and healing to the bones. (Proverbs 16:24) How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth! (Psalm 119:103) Eat honey, my son, for it is good; honey from the comb is sweet to your taste. Know also that wisdom is like honey for you: If you find it, there is a future hope for you, and your hope will not be cut off. (Proverbs 24:13-14)

I drizzled those verses into today's post for you... and for me. Because I'd forgotten in the busyness of my husband's travel, forgotten the blessing of his new job.  In the last minute itinerary change, forgotten our vows, "for better or worse, arriving tonight or tomorrow, till death do us part."

It took a spoon, finding it's way around the largest bowl I own, to hanker again for the taste of real, satisfying honey.  Honey to sooth the conviction: I haven't let God's sweet words heal my weary bones during the stress of our transition, amidst travels and travails.

The dot dot dot becomes suddenly clear.  

Our judgement says more about us than it does them.

Quick to fill in the blanks when we ourselves are running on empty.

I haven't... I never... I always... I want... I'm empty...

I pour the oats into the pan, patting them down, then slide them into the 400 degree oven.  As it bakes, the scent of cinnamon filling our home, I pick up God's Word.  And I read...

Because God’s Word is pleasant and sweet to my soul; And sweet sticky Wisdom doth make me whole. I sweeten with it, and am sweetened by God’s courage to persevere when I’m dry.

Another Grace-drenched mother of boys shared her father’s granola recipe with me (and the rest of the world) here. Ruth at Gracelaced, gave us “Baba’s Awesome Granola recipe”.   From the first hot crumbles straight from the oven, I knew this recipe would become my daily love offering to him.

Sometimes the offering is harder to give than other times.

There he is, home again, weeding my garden as an offering to me.

Honeysuckle vines, honey kind lips, honey baked granola,

and My Honey comes to the table to receive my offering back...

Smothered in vanilla yogurt with fresh berries.