There’s just so much to us.
Legos on the floor. Seatbelts. Spilled Gatorade. Unfinished homework. Incomplete grocery lists. Leftovers for dinner. Missing winter coats. Knots in shoelaces. Piles of Laundry. Arguing. Whining. Clutter. Broken toys. Wayward Nerf bullets. Decisions. Grace. Love. Forgiveness. Laughter. Tears. Wounds. Worries. Healing. And heaps of so much patience.
In our earliest days together, I was embarrassed to let Peter see the magnitude of all of this. I mean, come on. We are a lot.
See, there is a deep wound in me, a lie that has written itself into my mind. It’s a fear that has whispered in a dark, shadowy voice, “Why would anyone ever want to do this with you? There isn’t a man in the world who would ever want to finish the work another man started, no matter how beautiful the mess. You – this and all of your everything – are too much for anyone.”
I asked him one frazzled evening, “Peter, why would you ever want to do this with us? We’re so much. Too much.”
He put his arms around me, resting his chin on my head. “Come here,” he said. “Tell me why you would say that.”
“Because we are one seriously hot mess. You could just quietly walk away before this gets further out of control, Peter. You could. You probably should.”
He lifted my chin so my eyes met his. He said, “Well, that’s what you’ve decided. Do I get to decide?”
(Sometimes there comes a moment of clarity when I realize that what sounds like an exit strategy is really just my own pride and fear getting in the way.)
I looked down. I leaned into him with my ear against his chest, listening to his solid heartbeat. “Yes, you get to decide.”
He wouldn’t let me break eye contact. He brought my eyes back to his.
“Tricia, I want to do this. All I can tell you is that this isn’t an effort for me. It’s where I want to be. Any who have told you that you’re too much have only been weak men who don’t know how to lead and love well. As long as I get a vote, I’m in. You’re not too much for me.”
This man holds my pieces.