In sickness and in health

I am in love. With my husband.

Not only because he is attractive (which he is) or charismatic (again, he is) or intelligent (3 for 3) or loving, romantic, or any of the other phenomenal characteristics he embodies. Or the fact that he can play a mean cowbell. But because he continually demonstrates Gods' love with such honor in my life.

My children and I have struggled this week with a particularly nasty illness. The three of us have been sick from sunup to sundown for the last several days, our existence not much more than a series of hazy, hurting, exhausted motions within deliberately close reach of a bathroom.

The man I am honored to call my husband has, gracefully, been spared the sickness the rest of us have endured. But his experience of sharing his home with three very sick individuals has not been easy or pleasant. In the course of the last several days, my beloved spouse has been vomited on. Twice. He has cleaned up endless messes of all kinds, stayed up late and woken up early and throughout the night to rock and soothe feverish, whimpering children while a sick wife was trying to sleep, wrapped in blankets on the bathroom floor. He has cooked meals, washed dishes, given baths, administered medicine, held heads, rubbed backs, wiped tears, and in all of this, has felt pretty helpless as this sickness swept through our house.

He has done this alone. I have been out for the count, awash in 103 fever and a stomach intent to consistently expel its contents with a flourish I'd just as soon not be a party to. Copper has held it together and cared for two really sick kids and a really sick wife with the grace and patience of a saint, and the love and concern of a soulmate.

When I am weak, he has been so lovingly strong.

I love my husband.