Last week, my husband and I retreated to the Texas Hill Country. Compared to our city surroundings, it was certainly a change in scenery.
And the colorful change was welcomed heartily.
There’s another panoramic alteration not so easily embraced.
The one instigated internally.
Let me explain.
On any given day, I can pass through our bedroom and notice two lumps under the covers of our neatly made bed. Sheets pulled tightly, quilted bedspread placed perfectly, pillows aligned just so. But, near the footboard, foreign mounds. Invaders on mission to destroy perfection.
My husband’s socks. They find their way off his feet during the night and hide until morning. After the bedding is put back into its place, they arise. And to remove them means un-making the bed because they thrive right near the bottom edge of the mattress.
For years, these rascals got the best of my morning. Frustrated and intolerant of their shenanigans. Yet, of course, my anger was targeted at the one who wore the socks.
Until the day I heard the story of a lonely heart. The testimony of a widow.
Having recently lost her husband, the love of her days, she shared her life with a group of women gathered in Dry Creek, Louisiana. I sat among those ladies. Eager to draw closer to Christ.
And I listened. Ears open to the words which changed my vision.
Emotions still raw, she tenderly expressed the ways she missed her husband.
And the words which pricked my heart.
I miss his laundry.
I miss picking up his dirty clothes.
Because having his laundry lying on the floor would mean he’s still here.
My mind shifted quickly. I could see my husband’s clothes on the floor. And hear my complaining. I saw his socks taunting me from under the bedspread. And felt my frustration.
Yet, this widow would be giddy to walk into her home that afternoon and find a sign her husband was alive. Even a pile of dirty laundry he’d worn that day.
A new pair of spectacles were provided on a November afternoon in Dry Creek for this blurred sight of mine.
And now, even this morning, I pass beside our bed and smile. The lumps give me joy. Often, reaching down and gently tapping each one, I find peace.
Because those socks under those covers mean my husband slept beside me last night.
And I won’t take that for granted.
With the posture of my heart realigning, my vision is corrected.
I have a change in SEEnery.