Cold Feet

I didn't realize how cold they were until I put my feet on Ben's legs. Suddenly he was jumping out of bed and screaming insanities into our dark room, "Get away from me crazy woman! Liquid nitrogen has nothing on your frozen toes!" Instead of an apology, a feeble plea drifted from my side of the bed, "Please come back and warm up my feet!" As any truly loving, sacrificial husband would do, he sweetly climbed back into bed. But as I moved my feet back over for some of that coziness, a stark reality hit me: he was ON TOP of the sheet, making sure that my tootsies, which were under the sheet, couldn't reach his toasty warmness. "No fair," I screamed, as I moved my feet higher, attempting to get past his barrier. Then there was a blur of arms, sheets, and a face with my feet on them, as we both scrambled and fought to prove our own point. Our bellies ached with laughter, and as we settled back to say our evening prayer, the Lord's reminder moved through me like a breeze on a warm summer's day: "You are so blessed, my child."