At the end of a week, I sit in my chair and look over my computer at this man. This man who has been given to me. This man who is the father of my sweet babies. This man who knows me and loves me anyway. This man who loves Jesus and longs to be a good and faithful servant. This man is my gift.
If he is my gift, why do I treat him so carelessly?
I have a confession to make. I have never taken the time to read the ministry plan that Thad spent months preparing before we began this work in Rocky Mount. He prayed and journaled for a year. He lost sleep and fasted. He labored over the invitation to join the Lord here. We spent countless hours in conversation over the dinner table. We cried and fought and argued and ultimately, I did what good Christian wives do: I told him that he was responsible for making the decision. I would go wherever he felt led to go. And he did what godly men do: he went into 40 days of prayer and gave me his answer from the Lord. He compiled his “ministry manifesto” and gave me the document to read over.
I have never read it.
This man, who loves his family enough to spend months wrestling with the Lord to accurately discern a call, has never gotten the affirmation from me, this woman who was given to him as a gift. What kind of gift am I?
I am a gift that this man never gets to completely open. I am tied with more ribbons than he can ever untie. When he unveils one box, he finds another one just as tightly wrapped as the one that he has just unwrapped. My pride never lets him unwrap the whole me.
My pride never lets me experience the full gift of this man. This man,who will love me even when he unwraps the whole gift. This man, who was chosen for me, to love me and always lead me back to Jesus when I am wandering far away. This man, who is my gift.
And if I am to be his gift, I have some unwrapping and some reading to do…