When I was a little girl my dad played the guitar for me and my sister before bed at night. I'll never forget it. When I fell in love with my husband, he was a mediocre guitar player. I mean, he played-Stairway-to-Heaven mediocre. But I knew it would be ok, somehow it would work out. And it did.
My girls both love music, as do my husband and me. We play guitar, piano, drums, recorders, harmonica, whatever is at hand. We're not great at it, but let's just say that he plays a lot more than Stairway to Heaven, now.
Last week my husband's father passed away somewhat unexpectedly from Stage IV lung cancer. No one knew he was sick. In reflecting on how this has affected us, I find myself mostly being thankful for the kind of father my husband has been to our kids. I might blog more later on my dads and what they've meant to me, but this one is for my husband.
We fell in love because we enjoyed being together and having fun. Having kids hasn't changed that. He's still my best friend.
He works hard, too. And he's teaching our girls what that means.
He's patient, he's kind, and he knows how to communicate. He might object to the subject of this blog post because he is truly more humble than he'd like to let on.
He's not perfect, but he's mine. And I'm so thankful that he is. This man loves his kids and he loves Jesus. Isn't that a great thing?