The Birthday Eudemon

My wife turns 40 today. No, she won't mind this indiscretion. Other than toddlers, she's the least self-conscious person I've ever met. So what tribute can I give my wife on this occasion, her official entry into middle-agedom? How about this: The admission that I wrote a book about her. It was such a sappy thing to do, I've never admitted it to anyone, including her. It's not finished, but it's well past the novella length. I looked for something to paste here that might be interesting to TDE readers, but I didn't have much time and nothing was jumping out at me. This is probably the most interesting thing:

I have written a hagiographical work as a lesson to all husbands: Your wife is probably more lovable and virtuous than you know. At the beginning of this book, I cited Barbara Ueland's observation that, if you truly want to know someone, write a story about him or her. I had the outline of Marie's story in my head, but the sideline insights into Marie's character didn't come to me until I wrote.

The same would happen with any “average” housewife. Each housewife has her own set of virtues and traits (they wouldn't, for instance, necessarily have Marie's St. Therese-like quality of littleness). But these virtues and traits aren't appreciated until they're looked at objectively. If my experience is any indication, our wives' virtues aren't appreciated at all day-to-day. We're so wrapped up in the crises of the average day, so wrapped in our individual concerns, that objectivity is completely lost. When I come home from work after a long day, I'm rarely looking at anything clearly: Everything is a mess; life is a mess; the kids are loud. Everything affects me adversely, including Marie.

When that happens, I know I'm not looking at things objectively. Everything on earth is imbued with goodness. If the goodness of things isn't taking precedence in my vision at any given moment, I can be sure that something in me–like passion–is blurring my vision. As a husband and father, I walk with blurred vision; it is my regular mode of operation.

When I sit down to write, my vision clears. And when I sat down to write about Marie, my vision cleared and I was able to see the shining gem that I call my wife. It's a vision that I hope to keep in front of me always. The vision will blur, of course, for I am a sinner. But the vision will hopefully come into focus more and more as I learn to love more and more, thus shrinking the refracting lens of ego that throws everything into a blur.