This evening my husband came home and found me sitting outside the house on the swing. I was wearing pajamas and sunglasses, crying because life is hard and I am sensitive and the two are ganging up on me.
For the past week my husband has been dealing with horrendous back pain and an unusually heavy workload. He is a School Psychologist, in case you were wondering and didn’t know. He works mainly with children with special needs, which is important work but heavy, both emotionally and mentally. I know how tired he is when he gets home so I did my best to smile and stiffen my lips as he walked from the car toward the swing. He set his lunch pail down on the grass and took a seat beside me. I asked how his back was feeling. He said better and I smiled and said Good, I’m glad. He took a deep breath before asking how my day was. I replied Oh . . . not so good, actually. A little rough. Of course he already knew that. He didn’t need to look at my eyes to see the pain sitting like knuckles between my eyebrows.
We sat on the swing and swung, four feet in the grass, two slippered, two loafered, gently pulling ourselves to and fro, to and fro, not saying anything. One thing I do love about the time change is longer evenings. The weather here was warm today, but not too warm; mild and soothing, like vanilla tea. And I am no expert on avian behavior, however the birds were doing something fine with their melodies; something jaunty and abandoned. The sun was setting behind us, and in that light my husband’s chestnut-brown hair almost looked blonde, or maybe auburn, I don’t know. Tears were brimming in my eyes, making it hard to tell.
When I sat up and arched my back, he put his hand between my shoulders blades, meaning to rub out the tension; only there was a good deal more tension built up behind my eye sockets; thus released, several enormous, sticky tears fell from my eyes like glue droplets. I gave in, let it come until my face was hot and my glasses fogged. We didn’t speak. Michael is a quiet man, and in sadness I am a quiet woman. I prayed, told Jesus how much my heart was hurting. About thirty-five minutes passed.
Then I broke wind. I apologized wearily and said “It’s going to stink.” And Michael replied, “That’s okay.” But what we were really saying to one another is I love you, only we didn’t need to say it using those words because sometimes love sounds like a forgiven fart.
Happy Monday, again, my friends. If it’s been a rough one, perhaps you too might try breaking the wind. It helped me.