It was dirty. Really ugly. Digging in the dirt in my crocs without socks kind of dirty. The kind of dirty that soils even those who haven't had direct contact with the dirt itself. And I don't mean the cool kind of dirty. Like when you're feet are so dirty that they leave footprints on the floor in front of the bathtub as you prepare to clean them off. Nope. This kind of dirty stains even the pretty little pouffy thing I use for my shower gel.
It started with unfulfilled expectations that not even I knew I had. He failed to meet my unspoken demands.
Then it drifted over to the eight-year-old. She didn't get what she wanted either. Except I was not nearly as merciful of her temper tantrum as he was of mine.
The ugly then found itself in the kitchen surrounded by more dirt. Old food stuck on dishes kind of dirt. That's when it smeared itself all over my attitude and contaminated every single person in my family.
Soiled, we each went on with our tasks. Clean out the garage. Clean up the kitchen. Plant the new flowers before they die.
And the ugly in mommy's attitude muddied the afternoon.
But then evening came. And the shower-mercies rained and washed away the dirt.
And he loved me anyway.
Because that's what he does. Because that's what He does.
And I bask in the unyielding, forever love that Love Himself gave me in the man I call husband.