It's 4:17 in the morning when I rise and find him. He's waiting for me, and I realize: if I have something important to say, he never makes me feel as though it's too early, too late, or at all inconvenient.
I settle at his feet and pour out all the things I've been carrying: the anger, the resentment, the deep-seated fear. I talk and talk; I leak; I sob. He listens for a long time before saying:
"It's ok. I forgive you for saying things you didn't mean, and I forgive the way you said them. I hear you. I see you, and I'll do what I can to make things better. I love you: not because it's easy, all the time, but because it's what I do. I'll always love you. Now go back to sleep; I'll stay awake. Everything will be alright."
And I think: when I'm desperate and broken, it's a profound and gorgeous thing to commune with the Lord...or my husband...but, especially, the Lord in my husband.