Boyfriend-Who-is-My-Husband is home, and our house is a different world.

Giant, Bean, Short Son, Smalls and I did just fine while BWIMH trudged uphill with a wheelbarrow full of cement blocks, dug trenches, mixed and poured concrete, and his fingers stumbled through misspelled conversations with deaf children. I thought my week was hard.

But no. Perhaps challenging would be a better word. My church family rallied around us, called to see how we fared, brought dinner and adult conversation (Thank you!), and otherwise let us know that they love us. What a wonderful thing when the Body of Christ acts like a body. By the end of the week, we’d barely suffered at all.

Nothing could’ve made that more clear than  the scene we chanced upon at the gate outside of U.S. Customs. Arriving at the same time as BWIMH–whom I’d missed like mad for seven long days–was a plane full of soldiers returning to their spouses and children after . . . much longer than seven days. We clapped and cheered for their valiant efforts and perseverance. Did I say that I was humbled or that I felt ridiculous for complaining about missing my husband? (You probably read between the lines, but I thought it bore repeating obviously). The wives and children who stood at the gate near us deserve a medal of their own.

Still, when I locked eyes with BWIMH, the shouting crowd disappeared. All I knew was my family. Chattering, hugging, giggling, we dogpiled politely.

And do you know what? When we were back home, kids sleeping soundly for the first time in a week, I looked at BWIMH and the Writer quieted. Those itching fingers, the words clamoring for attention and release? Everything stilled. All I wanted was to hear how his week was. I didn’t write the next night either.

Or the next. I was busy taking part in the Daddy’s Home revelry.

I’ve been pondering what makes life so different when BWIMH is around, reminding myself not to take a second for granted. I think it’s this: I am designed to be a wife and a mother. A nurturer and encourager. I absolutely have the ability to lead and to make decisions, and BWIMH knows that. It’s why he’s able to go and spend a week rebuilding a broken-down wall and hugging deaf Jamaicans. He trusts me to lead and decide well. But when BWIMH is home, I don’t need to. I am free to love, play, teach, cheer, cook, and create a sanctuary for my brood. I relax. The pressure is off.

And my kiddos see that.

God’s design is a beautiful thing. I’ve got to add that I realize we live in a fallen world. No one does a perfect job of fulfilling the role they were designed for. Many men fly to extremes, either opting for the lazy, self-centered approach or the cruel and domineering one. And many women believe that “submission” is a four-letter word. By the world’s standards, I’d have to agree.

It’s God’s standards that make submission so great. I’m not afraid of the word, or of being a submissive wife, because BWIMH loves me more than he loves himself. He values me, cares for me, laughs with me, listens to me (and genuinely hears), and encourages me in each of my ministries. He leads me and sharpens me, challenging me when I need it (often), and helping me to keep my priorities in order.

And since I recognize him as the head of our family, the bonus is, when Kaczmareks mess up, he gets to answer for it. See? Pressure’s off.  *wink, wink*

I know that I answer to God for my actions and attitudes, too. (I’ll write about those another time). For now, I’ll relish the Wife-being, because my favorite blessing of the day is this: I can peek around the corner and see BWIMH. I get to live with my best friend.

And he’s cute, too.