The Language of Love

As I look over at our tree I see two gifts with tags that say "To Robin, From George".
Two.  I'm spoiled - I know.
But here's the thing, what lies beneath the pretty wrapping is no secret.
A blender and a pair of boots.
The blender I picked out and not so subtly gave my husband the coupon for.
The boots he picked out, but I was with him and I tried them on.
There they sit, waiting for Christmas morning.
I am thrilled! With all sincerity I couldn't be happier.
But it has nothing to do with the gifts under the tree (although I really can't wait for my first smoothie in my new KitchenAid blender!).
No, I'm trilled because of the AH-HA moment I had last week Sunday morning.

If the ghost of Christmas past paid a visit to our house he'd find a whole lot of Christmases with a whole lot of nothing under the tree marked "To Robin, From George".  Nothing.  Well, unless you count the Christmas that he grabbed my "list" (subversively and hopefully hung on the fridge with care), headed to Shoppers Drug Mart and bought me everything, EVERYthing, on my list.  That was Christmas on crack.

My AH-HA moment comes in two parts over a long period of time.
Part 1 was in 2006 when our church brought Gary Chapman, author of The Five Love Languages, in to speak for a Valentines Day event.

It's on sale at Amazon right now!

AH-HA:  My husband is NOT a gift giver.

And that's where it stalled.

For almost six years I've decided to be ok with the what he is NOT.
He is not a gift giver.

And then came Part 2, this past Sunday.
The long story short.
I said I would be at church at 8:30am to help decorate for Christmas.
I did not count on the fact that my dear son would refuse to wear his Christmas sweater causing serious delay, and that we would in fact not leave the house until 8:40am.
I stepped out the door only to see freshly fallen snow and to realize that I forgot to pull my car into the garage.

Shoot.
Double shoot.

And then, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but my car, windows scraped and ready to drive.
I whispered a word of thanks to my dear husband and jumped in the car.
And as I waited for the car to warm up I took a look around.
In the driver's door was an umbrella and a pair of gloves.
On the passenger's side floor was a scraper and brush.
In the sunglasses compartment were my new Foster Grant sunglasses (that he found on the road while biking to the gym!).
This was all George's doing.  He did all this for me.
Oh, and he cleared the garage so I could park my car in it.
And he plugs my phone in to charge it, every day.
And he folded four loads of laundry.
And he emptied the dishwasher.
And he gets the mail every day.
And he takes out the garbage every week.
And he makes the bed.
And he ...
And he ...
And he ...

And there it was ... AH-HA.
AH-HA: My husband's love language is ACTS of SERVICE.

I am really, really slow.
For nine years I was bitter.
For six years I was focused on what he is NOT.
And it was right in front of me all this time.
I've wasted so much time.
And now, all I can say is Thank you.

Thank you.
Thank you for 15 years of service.
Thank you for all the little things you do for me that I take forgranted.
And thank you for the blender and the boots.