This morning neither Brooke nor I had to be up early for work. We stayed in bed and read and talked.

Also this morning, as Brooke was getting ready for work, she noticed her favorite jeans had a tear in them.  On the butt.  It doesn’t look professional to wear jeans with holes in them, let alone holes on the butt.  Brooke, with appropriate disappointment, tossed the jeans aside and searched for new ones.  New jeans, naturally, necessitated an entirely new outfit, which led to some frustration.  No one likes to see their favorite jeans become unwearable.

Last Sunday we talked about battling with a “lion, in a pit, on a snowy day,” as one of David’s mighty men did.
I have a confession: ever since I saw the movie “Braveheart” there’s a line in there that I secretly wish/think describes me.  William Wallace says, at the end of the movie, “They fought like warrior poets.  They fought like Scotsmen.  And they won their freedom, forever.”  It’s a stirring line (helped by some inspiring bagpipes in the background) and I’ve always thought, “I want to be called a warrior poet.”

I’m sure some of you are thinking, “warrior poet? are you serious?”  But, I studied literature in college, and I like to write, so poet fits.  The warrior part, I think is self-explanatory.  Every male I know, in some way, wants to be a warrior.

There aren’t, however, many lions awaiting me in snowy pits.  Literally.  There’s none.  I’ve looked.

And I tend to think that a “warrior poet” ought to constantly fight huge battles, like casting out demons or writing novels that people will still be talking about in fifty years.  But those things don’t happen much in my routine life.  Things that happen a lot are things like: I brush my teeth, I talk with Brooke, I watch television, I eat a meal.  I know, probably no blockbuster movies will chronicle such a life and label it “Gabe: Warrior Poet.”  My battles seem small.  I struggle with the checkbook, or with the leaky washing machine.

What if I don’t see the battles I could be fighting?

As Brooke and I talked in bed this morning I gave her a hard time.  It wasn’t really about anything, I was in a sarcastic mood and I let it out on her.  She wasn’t offended, she laughed.  But I didn’t build her up.  I tore her down, however meaningless my words may have been.  I didn’t think anything of it until later.  It was harmless joking.
But what if, while we were together, I had told Brooke what the deeper parts of my heart think about her: her beauty, her grace, her innate goodness?  What if I’d shared more of myself — a fear I’d never mentioned, an unspoken hope?  What if I made her laugh at me without being sarcastic and cutting her down?

She probably still would have been frustrated when her favorite jeans had a hole.  Maybe though, with life and hope shared with her first thing in the morning by someone who loves her passionately, maybe she wouldn’t have been as frustrated.  Maybe she would’ve laughed it off more easily.

Maybe finding a lion in a snowy pit means actually looking for the pit.

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