By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
I’m sitting here in the early morning hours, listening to the cicadas sing their unnecessarily loud song. They’ve thrown caution to the wind and are belting out, at full volume, the tones that herald oppressive humidity and afternoon thunderstorms. And as I listen, I’m struck by the fact that I’m not compelled to write about nature. I could—if you’re a regular reader, I dare say you already know this—but that’s not what’s at the front of my mind today.
Today, I want to have a bit of a boast.
No, I’m not about to become a proponent of pride, and I’m certainly not bragging on myself. But I do feel like my husband deserves a few words said about the kind of person he is. True, I’m biased—but I’ve got examples to back up my exultation, so what I write will be based firmly in truth.
I’ll start with something small—but it made me very proud.
My husband, daughter, and I were on our way to a birthday dinner, if I’m not mistaken. The destination doesn’t really matter, because the significant bit happened along the way. We passed a subdivision with a well-manicured entrance: shrubs, flowers, and a crew tending from all angles. A pretty deep ditch separated the sidewalk from the road, and while I didn’t notice anything particularly out of the ordinary, my husband suddenly said, “He’s stuck.”
It took studying his gaze in the rearview mirror and asking a few questions to figure out that he was referring to a man from the landscaping crew—one driving a lawnmower. I had seen the man but hadn’t noticed his wheels, which were wedged at a precarious angle on both sides of the ditch. He was jerking, leaning, accelerating—trying every trick to free himself, to no avail.
We’d already passed him by, but my husband turned at the nearest drive and circled back. He pulled off on the side of the road.
Now, I need you to understand—he was freshly showered and dressed in nice clothes. Yet he didn’t hesitate. He walked up to the man and gestured for him to get back on the mower. With a few big pushes and some maneuvering from the driver, he freed the wheels from the embankment. I don’t think a word was exchanged. The man simply got off his mower smiling and shook my husband’s hand.
When he got back in the car, our daughter told him she was proud of him. He didn’t have to stop. He had every reason not to. But he’s the type that—if he can help, he will. And if it had meant getting filthy or putting his back out to do so, he would have.
That might seem like a little thing, but it doesn’t stop there.
Right now, his work is demanding. Project after project has been piled on him. You’d think having a helper would lighten the load, but apparently, this particular helper isn’t especially helpful—unless my husband helps him be so. It’s the helpful equivalent of putting ice in your coffee to keep it warm. So now, not only does he have extra work, but thanks to this unhelpful help, he has extra-extra work.
And next week, he’s off to Italy for business. Sounds lovely, right? I’m sure there will be perks—if nothing else, the food. But he says the timing couldn’t be worse. He’ll return only to lead a massive departmental overhaul a few days later.
But I’m not telling you all this just to describe his stress. I’m telling you what he told me: yes, it’s a lot. Yes, it’s overwhelming. But for him, failure isn’t an option. For him, if the job isn’t done impeccably, it’s not done right. “Sufficient” isn’t good enough. He’s ambitious. He’s hardworking. And—if I do say so myself—he’s absolutely invaluable at his job.
But that’s still not all.
As I type, he’s running around finding capacitors for our home’s broken air conditioner—which is a huge deal in the South in the summer. If he hadn’t found the right parts (which, thank the Lord, he did), he would have set up our little portable AC in the bedroom and had the three of us camp in just to keep us cool. He’s mowing our sizeable property before he leaves the country so I won’t have to worry about it. He made a second grocery trip last night when he realized he’d forgotten the pizza he promised our daughter for supper. We’re getting up early on a Saturday for a family breakfast at church—and he’s making gravy while I bake biscuits.
It’s a never-ending list for him.
He may be weary, but he works just as diligently, always trying to do the best possible job. I’ll admit—I have a lazy streak. I’ll get a job done, but I won’t promise to go above and beyond and then three steps beyond that, plus a few hours of overtime. He will, though. And the job he does will be exceptional.
You can pile a ridiculous amount on his plate, and he’ll just grab three saucers and a bowl while helping you serve everyone else’s. He’s that kind of guy.
And I am honored and blessed to call him mine.
Prose and Possibilities 