For a number of years now, I’ve been telling tales of how God showed up in my war-torn marriage as the husband I’d always wanted. Even the other day, at coffee with a friend, I said something about God coming to husband me through our eventual split. She replied, “Oh, but you’ve been saying that for years, long before the divorce.” She was right; she retold my own story to me. It’s the one I can’t stop telling. My friends have all heard it. Maybe you have too.
It sounds lovely, God being my husband. I just wonder how much I believe it.
I mean, really. It’s a nice idea. I can support it scripturally, if you want. I can make a strong case about why the metaphor works. But what’s far more interesting is, when I need a husband, whether or not I believe he can be what I need.
It gets especially tricky in practical matters. I like to push on his chest a bit, “Well, you can’t actually warm my feet at night, can you. You can’t drive my car to get the oil changed or rake my leaves, God, and that’s what I need, so...” Let me introduce you to my attitude, impressively brimming with faith and thanksgiving.
But he’s been pushing back. The vibe has been nothing like proving or punishing, but decidedly playful.
Case in point, I had a mouse. He was a terrifying little creature who kept scurrying under the couch while I sat on it, and I do not have the composition of a woman who can consent to the traps that do the mouse murders. So, Houdini (yes, okay, I named him) was having a time every evening behind my couch and in my kitchen. One night, in total exasperation, after sleeping with a towel jammed under my door for 3 weeks, I told God that if he was really my husband, he was going to have to do something. I was surprised when I heard in my spirit, “I’ll take care of it.” The rest doesn’t make sense, but two days later, I awoke to Houdini chilling in an empty, high-sided shipping box I had left in the kitchen that he had no logical way of getting into, but also no way of getting out. My son escorted him to a field and bid him farewell.
Second push back. I have two massive maple trees that dropped nearly every leaf after some aggressively windy days, and conveniently prior to our street’s annual leaf-pick-up day. The only obstacle I had was getting them all into the street for the sweeper. My kids were gone, and post-covid, I knew my own physical stamina wasn’t going to be enough for the massive job. I worried about this for a few days, and it was one of those single-woman problems where my aloneness felt horribly pronounced. I did not even think to pray.
But the morning of the project, my elderly neighbor across the street saw my predicament. Of her own accord, she texted some college boys in the neighborhood. And in five minutes, I was joined by three more people each carrying a rake. I was stunned, speechless. Humbled to pieces. The job was done in an hour, and I had made some new friends who will be getting fresh-baked cookies.
If that’s not the most practical, personal, fully-partnered “I see you” love, I don’t know what is.
I do not care if you already have a husband. It doesn’t matter if you have a wife. Are you open to a god like this? One who seems to be willing to get his hands dirty, who doesn’t even kill the mouse because his tenderness knows no bounds? Who shows up for something as menial as yard work in the form of providing capable folks when you don’t even ask?
As I type this from my bed, the dog just jumped up, curled around my feet and is warming them quickly. I’m completely serious.
When God moves in these very real ways, my brittle beliefs are like autumn working in reverse, pushing life back into each leaf of my faith, softening and hydrating the brown places.
He knows you. He knows not only what you need, but also the fears that keep your eyes open in the night and the desires that have gone unmet for too long. Are you open to this god? Are you willing to even want his husbanding? How brittle have the leaves of your faith grown and are you ready for rehydration? You can push on his chest; he’s up for the challenge.
He will show you what it means to be loved, and he will have fun doing it.
make this.
Mom’s Holiday Potato Bake (rebranded “Potato Cereal”)
This is the one. The dish. The Thanksgiving recipe everyone likes the most. In full disclosure, it is probably the least healthy too. But we do not care at a time like this, do we. I promise, it is a no-fail crowd-pleaser and it is so special, the kids decided to rename it. Have they renamed your stuffing or your green beans because they are so delicious? I think not.
Ingredients
1 32 oz bag of plain, diced frozen potatoes (not the ones with peppers!)
1 chopped brown onion
1/2 C butter
1 C cream of mushroom soup (let it go, you can do this)
12 oz shredded cheddar
1 tsp salt and 1 tsp pepper
1 pint sour cream (here is where I sometimes cut it back)
2 C cornflakes
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Step 1: Get your largest skillet and sauté the onions in 1/4 C butter for 5 minutes. Then dump in the frozen potatoes. Here is the only tricky part. Patiently stir and cook down the potatoes until they thaw and are starting to break down, making the mixture a bit mushy. You don’t want defined cubes of potato in the final product, if that makes sense.
Step 2: While those are cooking down, add everything else to a big bowl. Add potatoes when they are getting softened. And stir it all together.
Step 3: Dump everything in a greased 9x13 baking dish and bake for 40 minutes.
Step 4: Meanwhile, melt a 1/4 C butter and toss with 2 C cornflakes. Add to the top of the dish and bake for a final 10 minutes or until the cornflakes are nice and browned.
Holiday Pro-Tip: Make this the night before, but do not bake it. Pull it out of the fridge the next day, and throw it straight in the oven, even with other things in the oven, baking for just a bit longer than directed above. It is so delicious!
read these.
I will not do justice to this recommendation, I assure you. These books minister to and convict me so deeply, I keep referring to them as a daily vitamin I need to take.
Father Gregory Boyle is a Jesuit (Catholic) priest who founded and runs an organization in Los Angeles called Homeboy Industries, the largest gang rehab program in the world. He has written three books, the third of which came out last month. I have read them all. His books are very similar in structure - a series of reflections woven with stories from his life’s work with gang members - and Father Boyle himself reads all of them on Audible. He is an absolute gem of a human, and I love listening to him tell his own stories.
I will warn you that I’ve never cried more through a book than his first, Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion. Start there. While his heart for the suffering and his perspective on our collective woundedness will make you weep, he is also hilarious and you’ll be laughing through your tears.
His second book is Barking to the Choir: The Power of Radical Kinship. His latest, which I’ve just finished, is The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. If you don’t believe me about how good these books are, look at the reviews on Amazon. What author has three books, each with solid 5 stars as the average review?
These books have changed me. They have deepened my understanding of the utter tenderness of God and the things that truly heal us. And they make great gifts, especially for those friends and family members who - how shall I put this - are open to dialogue around issues of race, class, and the complexities of poverty.
Honestly, I need this softening, always. And maybe that’s why I cry so much while reading, and maybe that’s why I feel anything which broadens my compassion (versus that which fuels my judgement - I’m looking at you, Facebook) is a daily vitamin I need.
Footnote: if you were raised, like I was, being taught that Catholicism is suspect because they might worship idols and they do strange things like light candles when they pray, I give you permission to set those questions aside, read Father Boyle’s first book, and see if God’s heart isn’t radiating through this person and his commitment to mercy in our hurting world. I know, we have a lot of religious obstacles. I do too. I keep climbing them; I keep trying to embrace.
I hope you feel the extravagant tenderness of your husband-god this week.
I hope you are surprised at the playfulness of love.
You are the beloved,
Leslie
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I resonated deeply with this. I always felt so “patronised” and “less than” when friends (usually the happily married ones) said “well God is your husband now”.. yeah right!!! Exactly like you describe and authentically admit to .. where was “God… the husband.. with skin on” when the house was looking like a dump, four kids, chronic pain and just needed someone to make me a cup of tea for a change!!! I, like you find him/her showing up in places that I know no-one else could see or know. Places that really mean something to me. Your article has also really highlighted an area I still really struggle with and am trying to “work on” which is “asking for help”, allowing myself to be “needy..” and believe me that is not something I am comfortable with at all. I hate the word, hate the feeling BUT like that psycho movie when Jack Nicholson shouts “heres Jonny”.. I think yep .. “Here’s God.. he’s coming for this painful part of me too..” and your article has SO encouraged me, invigorated my faith and hope that he’s got it all in hand… though I do wish at times he would actually have the hoover in his hand at the same time! I’m so glad I’ve found you and your writing one of the top highlights of my year.
Leslie, your faith in God and the way He works the little miracles in your life are amazing!
Your writings are always such a blessing and I love reading them. So glad you are continuing to be so real about life and sharing with all of us.😊❤️