He bounded down the hallway, into the living room, shuffling and stomping his toothpick legs like a stork with a smile. His lanky stance hovered on those towering legs, and he appeared like a robot atop those stilts.
I’ve watched his walk for the past 34 years, but now his hair atop his head is no longer brown, but his gait is the same. And his arms still wave with a quick back and forth whiz.
I wiggled on the sofa, “My goodness. Have you looked at yourself?”
My hubby, who swore to live with me until death-do-we part, swayed, “What’s wrong? I’m not sure what you mean.”
I sat up, uncurling my own puffy body, the new me who looks different than when I first married. “Look at your socks. They’re pulled up to your knees. And those old blue shorts. They hang from your hips to your knee caps. As for your T-shirt, it needs to go into the trash.”
He gazed down, lifted a foot to get a better glance, put it down, smoothed his shirt, and announced, “All I can say is, have you looked at yourself?”
Jumping to my feet, I saw my brown sleep pants which felt softer than ever, and allowed my skin from one leg to protrude through a rip in the fabric. On my hip, another hole in the fabric allowed extra blubber to fall loose too, and the shirt I adorned had a giant hole under the left armpit. I sucked in my words, letting them sail. “Well, I’m comfortable. I am. These are the best sleep clothes ever.”
Pointing, my hubby added, “What’s with that shirt? It’s barely a shirt. It’s a rag.”
“This is my Wyoming shirt. I bought this when we went on vacation. It’s a favorite of mine.”
He shook his head. “It’ torn up. It’s stained. I mean, have you looked at yourself?”
“I know, but I’m wearing history. See what it says on the front.”
He squinted, “Crazy woman?”
I laughed, “That’s a river in Wyoming. That’s why I have this shirt.”
“Again, if you’re going to point at me, I think you should look at how you’re dressed first.”
We both gave up the argument and I snuggled under my blanket on the loveseat, while he sat down on the couch grabbing his remote. We enjoyed being together the rest of the evening, in our comfy clothes and soft but dingy fabric.
You know, soon it won’t matter what we wear, if it’s torn clothes or if they match because our eyesight is changing with each birthday we have every January. Maybe he won’t notice my clothes and I won’t size him up in the future.
So I must ask, have you ever been guilty of assessing someone because of his or her clothes? Or hair? Or size? Or age? Or how they walk? Or act?
If we’re honest, I think we’ve all done this from time to time. We decide within minutes if we’ll consider being their friend. We listen for things we have in common. And for those we don’t. We shake our heads. And add up their faults. We think this is our job, when it’s not.
Thus, I’m reminded how God looks at the heart, knows the heart, changes the heart, calls to the heart, speaks to a heart, and opens the heart. He isn’t concerned with gray hair. Or knobby knees. Or holes in our clothes. He’s concerned with our inner being. With our faith walk. With our love for Him, and if we obey and serve Him.
So the next time my hubby comes into the living room wearing his “best”, I must remember how he obeys and is committed to living out his life passionately for God. This same man puts up with me too, the crazy wife. This same man is faithful. This same man trained up our boys in the way they should go. This same man loves me in spite of the sagging skin and wrinkles, those I’m collecting these days.
However I think it’s time to buy my hubby new T-shirts before the discolored ones drive me crazier! And I may toss the “Crazy Woman” shirt away, but I’ll have to order another one before I do.