He Loves Me

Sometimes, I confuse myself. I am a study in opposites. I am unreadable, even to my own mind.

My poor husband.

Do you remember when I wrote about not liking to receive flowers? I went on and on about them being too expensive, too useless, too expected. I wanted something heartfelt if I was going to get anything at all (which I don't really deserve anyway, seeing as how I'm so terribly picky) and flowers just didn't do that for me. I thought, if I'm going to be getting a gift, I'd rather have something that matters to me. And isn't it reasonable to assume that the gift-giver would want to know my feelings on what matters?

Oh, how I made sure my husband knew how I felt about flowers. They were nice, but they kind of fell on blind eyes where I was concerned. Especially roses. Blech. Like I said, though: I confuse myself. Because almost as soon as the anti-flower words were out of my mouth, I started regretting them. How shallow do I have to be to refuse a show of affection just because it's not my favorite showing? How difficult must I be to live with?

I feel pretty strongly that if I want my husband to adore and treasure me, I need to be someone he wants to adore and treasure. I need to be the light at the end of his tunnel, the honey in his cup of bitter tea, the sweet flower in his field of thorns. Not picky and demanding and unappreciative. I need to be treasure-able.

Thinking back over all the times I told him 'and whatever you do, please don't get me flowers!', I wondered if he'd been planning to do that very thing. I wondered if I'd crushed his hopes of pleasing me with a thoughtful gift, thereby pushing his willing affection a little further away and causing him to worry about ways to please his bossy, heartless wife.

Before Valentine's Day last week, my ashamed thoughts reached the boiling point. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'd not be getting any flowers. I'd made sure of that over the past few years. I knew Justin would do something sweet, get some small token for me to celebrate this silly, overblown holiday.

But as I thought about what I'd done by being so specific in my distaste for flowers as a gift, I suddenly wished for the very things I'd forbidden. My attitude about flowers hadn't changed: yes, they're beautiful, but they're still too expensive and too fleeting and too expected. What had changed was my attitude towards my husband's feelings. I felt like I'd crushed his ability to show affection in such a simple, time-honored way.

I tried to hint around that if he wanted to get flowers, I'd actually appreciate them. And I'm pretty sure my hints were none too hidden. He'd have to have been deaf and blind to not pick up what I was putting down. But I felt so awful about shutting out the possibility of him showing his adoration for me with flowers that I didn't want to waste any time in clearing up my unfortunately stubborn past opinion.

That husband of mine, that handsome, sweet, thoughtful husband saw right through my regret and did the once-unthinkable: he got me flowers for Valentine's Day. Even though I barely deserved such a sweet gesture after being so obstinate, he sought out the prettiest bouquet he could find, for me. To show his love. To prove that even though I'm confusing and unreadable, he still appreciates me. And what's more, he tries to understand me.

A task which may take him all of eternity to unravel.

Oh, and the flowers? I've never gotten flowers as beautiful as these. He picked out three different colored tulips: bright, soft, spring-like, perfect. They were in a sweet, round, lavender vase that made me gasp with pleasure. He knew I'd appreciate that the money he spent wasn't going to be thrown into the trash right along with the wilted flowers several days from now. He knew me well enough to know that I'd love some part of the gift to last.

And it will last -- right along with my new resolve to appreciate every loving action of my husband's, no matter what form they take.