Helping

Most mornings, I read my neighbor's blog.  She usually has something interesting to say and I'm always interested in what those around me think.  I'm still mulling her "Who's the Boss" column.

Last night, after my second suggestion for his upcoming workday in which he will be meeting the new boss of his boss, my husband told me to stop 'helping' him.

These are not unrelated.

I had been thinking pious thoughts for a couple of weeks after reading Pam's blog.  What woman can't relate to her list of the endless details that women attend to and keep stored in their internal rolodex?  But God's the boss of our marriage, I thought.  (Trust me, it sounded even more smug in my head than it does in print). Then Mr. Wonderful, then me.  When I have time, I thought, I will write a wonderful blog post explaining the God given hierarchy in marriage.  I will even pull out the verses we picked for our marriage ceremony:


Two are better than one, 
   because they have a good return for their labor: 
¹⁰ If either of them falls down, 
   one can help the other up. 
But pity anyone who falls 
   and has no one to help them up. 
¹¹ Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. 
   But how can one keep warm alone? 
¹² Though one may be overpowered, 
   two can defend themselves. 
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.  Eccl. 4:9-12

I will wrap that up with an elegant explanation of Who the third strand is and send my blog out into the cyberworld desperately in need of my wisdom and pontification.

Every so often--though not nearly as frequently as I would like--God stays my hand and prevents me from presenting myself as not only trite but also the pompous Hundred Acre Woods Owl that I am.

Because really, a lot of our marriage has been a struggle for me to get my rightly ordered head knowledge to be reflected in my actual actions.

Last night was but a small example.  When I am nervous, I often feel like I need to 'help.'  The more I don't have control over a situation, the more I need to help it.

Surprisingly(?), Mr. Wonderful isn't a fan of those times.  And I imagine God probably isn't either.   And you know what, I'm really not either.  I remind myself of Peter being an idiot in Matthew 17--uh, Pete?  They're transfigured--they don't a shelter built.  Every time I read that passage I think Peter is talking just to talk.

I understand.

So, the question remains Who's the Boss?  Wouldn't it be wonderful if my actions so reflected that answer as to make my blog post about it unnecessary?

Blessings,
Holly