I’m thrilled to be visiting over at Fancy Little Things, sharing about marriage growing, thriving, blooming despite a less than perfect example in my childhood.
I was putting the dishes away, scrubbing the kitchen counters, tidying up the house. I imagined the smile on Nathan’s face. How relaxed and thankful he would be when he came home. “The house looks great, hon.” His exact words, every time. Bursting with gratitude and love.
I smiled to myself, and told my toddler, “Daddy is going to be so happy.” In that moment, I felt a tug, a memory from my childhood. As if my mom were speaking those words over tiny little Marie. I choked on the thickness of the two worlds, standing in two kitchens. These two mothers, decades apart, cleaning their homes, waiting for their husbands to come home, a child in each kitchen watching.
I remembered the dysfunction of my parent’s marriage. The ups and the downs, both members with their faults, daily dealing deadly blows to their union. A marriage that the cleanest kitchen in the world couldn’t save for the lack of Christ, in the home that was crumbling all around.
There I stood in two kitchens. As a child, watching a marriage gasp for air, parched and dehydrated. Surrounded by a loveless desert, my mother fruitlessly sweeping at all the sand. As a woman, I continued, watering my marriage with prayer, service, honesty, sacrifice.