I was having a tough week. It culminated in a rough day. My husband came home carrying roses.
We stood in the entryway and kissed like when we were eighteen and just fallen in love–the way we’ve tried to do for each day since and for every night with an unspoken promise never, ever to stop. (Sometimes, sadly, we forget. Thankfully, those days are rare exceptions.)
I put the flowers in water, set them on the dinner table; he tells me a story about what happened as he brought them to the check out line. He says, laughing:
The sales guy told me, ‘You’ve been in the doghouse too long. I hope they work.’ Yeah, I know. I told him I wasn’t in the doghouse as far as I knew.
I shake my head and shrug along, overwhelmed because I know that here is something. This realization that here right in my arms is this big-hearted man, gifting me with flowers and kisses for no good reason at all–and for every reason. The question presses heavy on my heart.
Why do we wait?
Men, why do you wait for doghouse days to give flowers to your brides? And women, what’s with waiting for roses to kiss our husbands like we never left eighteen?
Why, why, why do we wait until things are bad or better or otherwise remarkable, before we do what we should have done all along?
I know what you’re thinking, because believe me, I’ve thought it, too. It’s so easy to get caught up in the current of all that’s rushing by so fast–and when I stop to catch my breath, I know that’s just exactly and precisely it. It’s all. So. Fast.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to wait another day. I want to reach into the stream, hands wide to catch these sacred mundane moments rushing past my fingertips. I don’t want to wait until the falling apart or the kind gesture or the long-withheld apology again, not ever–because what if it never comes? And anyway, what would be the point?
With or without the roses, the kiss is just as sweet.