Whenever I get stressed out about anything (usually money) my husband clicks into “chill surfer” mode and assures me with a smile that “God provides.”
In response, I will usually snort or say something flip just to shock that zen-ass smile off his face.
Sometimes, he reminds me to be careful. “Words are powerful. You could be sending away some serious blessing.”
“Oh, please,” I reply. “I’m not that well-connected.”
The truth is, I’d really like to be more like my darling husband, with faith as my default setting. But it so isn’t. When presented with a situation, I hold by Murphy’s Law, assuming that the worst possible thing will always happen. (It’s a healthy way to live; you don’t even have to try, because anything you do, ever, will inevitably go down in flames.)
But even I couldn’t help but side with my man just recently, as we finished cleaning out the last of our old house. By then, we had been living in our new home for over two weeks, but my husband still had a shed packed with random collectibles he’d acquired with the hope of selling online. (Because everyone needs bar stools that look like beer kegs.) Among his prizes was a pair of three-foot-tall brass candleabras straight out of a gothic novel set in a dingy, neglected castle (which later burns down when said candelabras are knocked over). My husband envisioned them adorning our dining room table, while I envisioned them in a junkyard. From the minute I saw them, I hated them. They were too big, too clunky, too..much. There was for sure no practical place for them in our tiny house. Hubby agreed, but insisting that he loved them, he relegated them to our shed until we moved into a cathedral where they could be put to good use. I, meanwhile, forgot about them and prayed he would, too.
Alas, three years later, we bought a house with high ceilings. My husband’s life was made: Finally! His half-ton candleabras could stand on our wooden dining table and not singe the ceiling! He carried them out of the shed with extra care while I squawked at him that those things were not allowed anywhere near my beautiful new house – as people poking at the curb alert at the end of the driveway pretended not to hear. I threatened, I grumbled, I railed. I got really real with him – “Dude, they’re tacky!” – but Husband would not be swayed. They were coming along, right after he dropped off the boxes in the back of the trunk at the new place.
I threw myself into my car and zipped off, desperate to take one last look at my new house before my husband’s brass monstrosities ruined it forever. I ignored Hubby as he unloaded the boxes and left again. After some lunch and a personal pep talk, I drove back to the old house to help, and found my husband shaking his head in wonder.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Look around,” he said.
The pile of metal he had set aside for our friend Jay was gone. “What happened to it?”
“One of those street hockers took it!”
“That sucks,” I said, trying to sound like I cared.
“Look around again,” he said. “Something’s missing.”
And then I realized: the candleabras were gone.
My head dipped back in the deep, soul pleasure of victory. “YAAAAAAAASSSSSSS…..”
“I was gone for 15 minutes. 15 minutes….”
I wanted to feel bad, but I so didn’t.
Eventually, Hubby collected himself. “See?” he said. “Words are powerful.”
I smiled at him. “God provides.”
