We have been together how long? Through how much?
Children, projects, trouble, cooking, ministry . . . misery.

Your brand of love . . . you don't just share my hurts.
You take my spear and stick it in your own heart.
You don't just hug me, you rock me.
You don't just love my children,
you take them as your own.
You don't just pray for them, you serve them.

You don't just pray for me, you hear His voice to
your heart when I can't. You're there when
everybody else has been gone for hours.
You clean up the after mess.

You think you're lazy.
The Proverbial woman should be so industrious.
You think you're disorganized. Then how come you get
there on time, have your cake baked and mine as well?

We've had our tussles. That's why you have my heart.
You're not afraid to solve it 'til it's solved.
And you always come out of the ring loving.

You think you are small. But your soul is large, so large.
Your heart takes in all God sends.

You think you aren't so smart. But it's you who can strip
away the fat and find the meat, when others can't.
Or don't.

Who is it I seek out and ask for straight talk?
Who is it I ask to share my load?
To whom do I give my scratch for doctoring?
Dearest friend, you.

I left you waiting in the cold. You never mentioned it.
I made you miss the meeting. You didn't notice.
I acted selfishly. You pretended I was good.
I agonize over my failures. You point to my successes.
But when it needs to be addressed for my eternal growth,
you will take my hand and face me.

You let me cry, but don't label me crybaby.
You believe in my best self even when she is hiding
so well that I no longer believe she exists.

You're cool, not afraid I will fall.
So I don't. My confidence often rides on yours.

When it comes time to get His great reward,
His "well done,"
you are going to be pleasantly surprised,
but I won't.

Copyright © 1985 Martha Kilpatrick