I love my husband. I really do.
He is an encourager.
He encourages me (loudly) to get out of bed every morning whether I want to or not
simply by yelling: "COFFEE!"
After I eventually make it downstairs after two or five prompts,
reach into the cupboard for my coffee bowl, give it its proper lumps and fat free 1/2 and 1/2,
he is still waiting for me in the Music Room.
He sits in his chair across from me, quietly, while I glare at him,
daring him with my eyes, to speak to me while I still have my coffee bowl in my hands.
I sit on the love seat, quietly, while he gazes lovingly at me,
waiting for me to finish the coffee in the bowl in my hands.
He doesn't mind my crankiness,
he isn't terrified that I will bite his head off and leave the room
and sit elsewhere if he speaks to me.
He's not even entirely put off by my groggy, puffy-eyed, bed-headed appearance.
No, he is truly a saint full of patience, and he knows that after my coffee,
I am no longer a momma bear who has woken up on the wrong side of the cave.
He has learned, through the years, that although I did say "I do" to him,
my mug and I are One in the morning until the bowl is empty.
So, in order to prove to me that he "gets it",
he made me a one-of-a-kind, personalized,
cheery mug for me at a paint-it-yourself ceramics place.
He designed and colored this all on his own, for me, Mrs. Cheer,
the godliest woman on the planet.
(This is a sunrise, apparently supposed to make me brighten up.)
(This is my name because apparently I forget it overnight.)
(This reads: HIS mercies are New!! (But without my brew I'd be in a ZOO!) I think he gets it!)
(Now we can talk.)
See, I told you he is an encourager!
I love you, Mark.