He should have known me.
He should have known me better.
My husband this Saturday morning hands me a cup of coffee he made, for me. He offered to make it, he made it with love, he delivered it to me in bed.
I am so grateful.
I am so upset.
I am upset with me for the part of me that is upset.
"Is this the largest mug you could find?" I ask?
"I didn't really think about it," he said. "I saw you've been using this for your coffee."
"Yes," I say, "But I use the Keurig during the week. "When you make my coffee, I like to drink it from the bigger mugs." (You should know that, I imply.)
I couldn't not say it. I couldn't resist implying he should know better than to not use a giant mug when he makes me his custom coffee.
I sit up in bed sipping, but not quite enjoying, my morning brew.
I rewind to seven years ago, that October when my backpacking, solitude-loving, introverted husband took me to New York City for my fiftieth birthday. After an adventure-filled week, the morning of our departure we Googled Dunkin' Donuts and found one a mile from our hotel. The shop was a novelty for us, since at the time no DD's existed in Southern California, where we live. We had just enough time to squeeze in one last visit so took the mile walk. There I found a mug I wanted, and Brent bought it for me, an item celebrating both NYC and Dunkin' Donuts, a perfect souvenir.
While packing after hurrying back to the hotel, I was realized I had left the newly purchased mug at the donut shop. We phoned to verify it was indeed there, and Brent ran as fast as he could a mile, retrieved my souvenir, and ran back, mug in hand, to the hotel, where we caught our ride to the airport just in time to catch the flight home.
He was my hero, and I told him so.
This mug that brings back happy memories is the same mug I'm upset about this morning. It's the one he chose to serve my coffee in.
Even now, I see those words, he chose to serve, and I know I should be thankful!
I've been practicing gratitude, I really have. I know it should win over ingratitude, I really do. How I can see my husband go from hero to zero over such a thing, I don't know. But I sense it has very little to do with him and a lot to do with me.
I traveled a few steps (not a heroic mile, however) between the above paragraph and the one I am writing now. I found my husband in the garage and told him I had something I needed to ask forgiveness for. "Whatever could you have done wrong this early in the morning?" he asked. I stumbled through my apology. He somehow had failed to be offended by my remarks but accepted my apology, along with my thanks for his kindness.
"Next time," he said, "it's OK to just ask for a bigger mug."
I think I have some things to learn, about receiving, about receiving imperfectly the imperfect gifts given to me, about allowing even my gratitude to be imperfect.
Lord, I'm grateful. Help my ungratefulness.
Diane Mann 2020
