He loves me, he loves me not...






It's a steamy August morning and sweat beads across my forehead and trickles down my flushed face. As I put the basket of cameras on the bench under the oak tree and sit down to rest and cool off, I swat the skeeters that bite through my now wet socks, and conclude that my husband doesn't really love me or he wouldn't make me live in this subtropical misery.

For no good reason, I begin rehearsing a mental list of all the reasons I don't feel loved - and the morning that started out full of joy and gratitude for the lush green beauty that surrounds me turns to sulking and discontent as I entertain woe-is-me thoughts.

Sunlight sparkles on the dew-soaked flower heads and a fox squirrel scurries up a tall pine in the pasture when I'm sure I feel a tap on my shoulder and a still small voice whisper, hold on sister, you aren't all that loving yourself, you know. 

And just like that I see my own failings, and that mental list I'd been preparing of all the ways I think my husband fails me pales in comparison with the ways I see that I fail him, too.  

It's God's kindness that turns me on my heels and sets me straight - and love that covers a multitude of sins. I pick up my basket of cameras and wander out to those new-to-me orchids Louis showed me a few weeks ago, grateful for a husband who loves me and the subtropical beauty that's been placed at my feet.