After what must have been about the millionth discussion we've had about matching socks,
I was inclined to put on some lingerie, march back into the room where my husband was and ask him
"Which would you rather have, a wife who dresses like this, or a wife that matches socks?"
But I already knew the answer.
"I was broken when I met you."
That's what he told me.
No. He was more like this magnificent, rare orange bird I found thrifting. Turned on it's side, under a bunch of junk and just odd enough that it hadn't attracted any attention on the shelf yet.
I grabbed it as soon as I saw it. Something that didn't belong just anywhere. Fragile. It looked like the sort of thing that should be in a pair, but I searched the whole store and couldn't find a mate.
I carefully checked it over, looking for flaws. I found the teeniest place where a fleck of gold was gone, missing a bit of luster and brightness, but other than that, perfect. Not broken at all.
Me: I wish I could write about that but I can't.
Pastor: Yes you can.
Me: That's the trouble. The really good stuff - the stuff you say - I can't write about it.
Pastor: Yes you can. You can write about it. You just can't write about it. You could write about it but not do anything with it.
Me: You mean like leave it in my journal, or on my computer?
Me: For Nate to find someday? That's the memory you want to leave him with?