Comfort

My husband keeps all of his t-shirts for too long.  He won't let me throw a single one away, or make them into a quilt, or hide the tattered ones in the far back corner of the closet.  He is on to my schemes.

Mike does have one old shirt I love.  It comes through the laundry with all the others, but it is still incredibly special every time I fold it.  Thousands of washings have not removed the waterproof mascara on that undershirt, from when I buried my head into his chest that day.  I sobbed so hard.  Dad was dying.  

Mike and I had dated for less than a year, but he was my rock in that valley.  Instead of running away from my brokeness, he ran toward my tears and embraced me.  He gave me a diamond ring under a waterfall and said he wanted me to know that when I cried again and again and again he would be the one to hold me.  He wanted me to know that when my world felt like it was crumbling, he would be solid and constant and strong.  He wanted me to know that he loved me, forever, so he married me.

His arms have been my comfort countless times, always my strong and steady.  He knows God is stronger than both of us, so he has held me tight while he prayed over my pain.  He still lets me use his undershirt as a tissue while he is wearing it, after all these years.  Now I see him hold our children in those same strong arms and I know how lucky they are.  How lucky we are.  That his are the fearless arms that hold us.  I love you, Mike.

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After Mike proposed under Yosemite Falls we rushed to the hospital to tell dad before visiting hours were over.  It was the first time I couldn't stop smiling in a long time. 

THIS man.  I will always be happy in your arms, Babe.  

 Now he has three of us to hold.  But he is strong enough.  We love you!

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