Of Thought

Due to a Blogger malfunction, I was unable to post last night.  Had all things been working properly, here’s what I would have said:

My Love Language is evidence of thought.  I’m sorry, Mr. Chapman, but I had to ad lib a little. 

You see, once upon a time I thought my primary and secondary languages were Acts of Service and Quality Time.  I snobbishly believed anyone who needed Gifts to feel loved must be materialistic and superficial.  It was not for another couple of years, when I was finally in love, that I realized the truth.  My primary love language was Gifts.  

I loved bringing Philip home a Jell-O cheesecake mix from the grocery store or taping thoughtful cards to his steering wheel while he was at work.  

And I lamented when I thought of the long-awaited flowers I was never brought.

Why did it bother me so much?  To not receive something that would only die soon anyway?  I don’t care about things, so why do I care about gifts.  

And then I realized again – it’s not the object.  Just as with Acts of Service (my current secondary) – it’s not the clean dishes that result from the act.  It’s the thought behind it.  I don’t care if it’s vacuuming my car while I’m out of town (it felt wonderful, though!), or a silly CD of a Christmas musical I loved when I was a kid – it’s the fact that you were thinking of me.  

And more than that – you were thinking of me so much you wanted to do one thing that you just knew would make me happy.

That’s what makes me feel truly loved.

So, tonight, when Philip said he had an idea of what we could do when the chores were complete, but it was a little “dorky,” I didn’t care what it was – it could have been digging holes in the backyard for all I cared.  All I knew was that for once, it wasn’t me making the plans.  

It was my husband.  

My husband contemplating what he thought would really make for a wonderful and unique evening.  

And it was.

Freshly popped microwave popcorn, a couple bottles of soda, a laptop with an extension cord 

running from the outlet in the wall of the garage to the center console of the car, a couple of pillows and a Slanket in the backseat and a husband to snuggle with.  It didn’t even matter that the movie wasn’t that fabulous.  

My husband wanted our own private drive-in.  

And that had evidence of thought.

And now I’m kind of feeling warm and fuzzy inside.