And a special welcome to the Proverbs 31 Devotion Readers who have popped over for a visit. I am so glad you have come to my blog today and not my house.
Otherwise I would have to ask that you please excuse the towels on the floor, the crumbs on my counter tops, the pile sitting by the front door that has needed to be toted to the Goodwill for over a week now, and of course the unpacked suitcase you could possibly trip over. I haven't quite gotten to these things since my trip last weekend.
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Today's post is is about making the choice to lose a battle with my husband in order to win the victory of a great marriage.
Marriage can sometimes be stinkin' hard.
Think about it. You have two people who basically want what they want, when they want it. You join them together in one flower covered ceremony. Then the two shall become one and live happily ever after. Sounds like the perfect recipe for some good old fashioned friction.
Take for example the great TerKeurst microwave debate of 1995.
We moved into a new home with a new kitchen and new appliances. Except for the microwave from the early 1970's. Technically it was a Radarange that my husband had a great affinity for.
His motto: If it ain't broke, don't replace it.
My motto: If you have to stand beside it and count the seconds your food is in said machine because the turn dial timer no longer works, it is technically broken.
But since the food would still get hot, we hoisted the five hundred pound albatross of a hand-me-down microwave onto my new kitchen counter and called it a day. Never mind that your hair would curl if you stood too close. Oh I kid. Kinda.
Anyhow, there came the day that we forgot to tell the baby sitter about the whole "stand beside it and count down the seconds yourself because the timer is broken" thing.
She put a biscuit into the radarange and walked off. For a long time. Finally the smell of a charred pile of ashes reminded her of the little snack that no longer was.
I have never been so happy over one little cremated biscuit in all my life.
The radarange would have to be replaced. It smelled so horrible that you literally had to hold your breath when turning it on lest you die an instantaneous smelly death.
But this did not deter man cub o'mine. No siree. He just carried it out to the garage, placed it on a yellow little tykes table, plugged it in and we were back in the radarange business.
So let me make sure you get the full picture here.
To heat up food one would have to walk outside... place the plate of food inside the stinky machine... run far away lest the smell kill you dead... all the while counting the seconds of the food heating session... then run back to the radarange to hit the stop button... and finally retrieve your food.
Food that you had to fan before heading back inside lest you carry the smell of a dead biscuit with you.
With every fiber of my being I wanted to go to the joy called Walmart and get me a new $99 microwave. One with a digital timer. A digital timer y'all!
But Art liked the "outside radarange run and stink" arrangement.
I'm not sure which Sunday school lesson interfered with my desire to spite my husband. But I'm suspecting it had something to do with love being patient.
So, I pulled out a frying pan and chose to heat my leftovers on the stove top. And that's how I discovered the utter bliss of a fried biscuit.
You have never tasted anything so heavenly southern in all your life than a day old biscuit, cut in half, buttered, and then fried buttered sides down.
Thank you stinky radarange.
Thank you 1996 for being the year of the great radarange meltdown that let me finally spend $99 on a digital timer with a microwave attached.
And thank you Jesus for a husband that is money conscious enough to make sure me and my children have always had a roof over our heads and food on a table.
Even if it did stink really badly for one year.
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