... to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.
I've been sick lately. Actually we both have. I had the wrenching stomach flu last week and my poor love has it this week.
There is something about being sick and being married that is so sweet. Up until last week I hadn't had the opportunity to show my husband how deadly sick I look like I become when I get the stomach flu. In fact, it's so bad that sometimes I think I convince myself that I am dying too. Who knew that such a tiny microscopic bug could make a little tummy like mine react like I had succumbed to an incubous plague! Well, it does. Every time.
But I've been doing alot of thinking lately. It has to do with "in sickness and in health" that really makes my heart swell. There I was doubled over in the most unflattering fashion with the most horrible noises known to man and there he is waiting in a cozy little bed upstairs by the bathroom, waiting everytime for me to get back in so he can open up the covers for me and welcome me back in to a warm bed and his strong arms. Now if that isn't love I don't know what is. Do you have someone that still kisses you even when you have the flu? That checks your temperature by laying his cheek on your forehead? That holds your hand while you sleep and gets cold washclothes for your forehead and sippy cups full of gatorade? I don't think so. In fact I am pretty sure that I don't know anyone married to a guy like the one I have. I really feel sometimes like I don't deserve it. It's that good.
He even makes me my lunch for the day. Yes. My favorite too. Peanut butter and jelly. I love him so much I could just... well, smother him with lovin'. Mmmhm!
So on to getting better and taking care of my poor dear one that is nothing other then stranded at home taking a nap between watching the Mummy (see I told you he was super cute). And that brings me to the homemade bread....
See, I have this thing about homemade bread. This belief that a home just isn't a home until it has had real homemade bread baked in it's oven. My bread. My new home. My new bread pan. My oven. I guess you can see I am a bit passionate about it. And look, it turned out just as it should. Moist and spongey, light and flaky perfectly browned crust (believe me... that was a weird one even for me) and a heavenly taste and aroma. He was excited too! Oh yes, we both were. Waiting for it to rise, twice. Wiating for the oven to warm and heat. Waiting for the goodness to come up and show itself up out of that pan. Then holding it with glee as I placed it proudly on the counter and stood looking at it in amazement. "I did it. I made bread in MY home." Not my mom's house, not my girlfriends' homes. But mine. For MY little family. Just the two of us. And so came the moment to saw into that golden round heap and slather salty and sweet butter on it and gobble it up. One... by one... by one. Mmmm! Too delightful for words. And I smiled. Yep. My home was real and complete in someway. I had made it so... with my two own hands. Wow.
It made it safe somehow. Warm. Cozy. Full of good things. It truly is my Gingerbread House. My little brick house with it's warming oven and sweet treats and delicious meals, kisses, hugs, and nights in front of the television watching movies, praying and singing and living. It's just the way I've always wanted. Emily's house. Yes.
And that people. That's a good thing.
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