I Feel Loved When….

A week before Christmas I had one of those moments.  You know what I’m talking about—it’s a look in the mirror that reveals a new wrinkle or blemish; it’s the pair of pants that are tighter today than a week ago; it’s a bad hair day that turns into a bad hair month. For me, it was a glance down at my hands.  You see, I have my mother’s hands.  And although I love my mother dearly, her hands are something I could have lived without (sorry mom).  My hands have looked old as long as I can remember.  While getting dressed one morning I had a hormonal moment of disgust over my aging hands and I blurted to my husband, “You know what I would love for Christmas?  Something to make THIS go away.”  The “this”, of course, referred to the freckles (ahem…sun damage…Ok…age spots) on my hands. Of course, I was only half serious.

JP didn’t say a word. After more than 25 years of marriage he’s become a very, very wise man that way. Truthfully, after my little vent I didn’t give my hands or my words another thought.

Until Christmas morning.

There, under our Christmas tree among the other gifts, was a beautifully wrapped little box.  When I opened it I laughed out loud.  I carefully removed the “Clinique EVEN BETTER Dark Spot Hand Cream” as JP enthusiastically explained that the women at Nordstrom were all in agreement—this hand cream was the best on the market.  The one he definitely had to buy. I pictured my sweet man standing in the unfamiliar territory of the cosmetics department asking for advice to fulfill his wacky wife’s request to make her hands look like they were sixteen again.

That gift was more than hand cream; that gift was love.

Because love is making what’s important to someone else, important to you.

Let that sink in for a minute.  JP doesn’t care about his hands.  He doesn’t give a thought to age spots or wrinkles or tight pants.  He doesn’t spend his time looking for beauty products or anti-aging miracle creams.  He doesn’t feel at home surrounded by women in a department store cosmetics department. That stuff isn’t familiar or even important to him. Except when it’s important to me.

So I have to ask myself: do I extend my husband the same kind of love he gives to me?  Do I make what is important to him, important to me—even if it seems foreign or trivial to me?  Or do I dismiss what’s important to him? Do I discount it?  Ignore it? Forget it? Fail to prioritize it?

Do I even know what is important to him?

A good marriage is based on love.

And love in its most practical form is making what’s important to you, important to me.