A Good Man is Hard to Find

My husband is a good man. You might think I would be too biased to know this for sure, but I have empirical evidence. When our church was looking for someone to play Jesus in the Passion Play, they picked him. He also played St. Francis which I think was a bit of a stretch. It is a family secret that my good man hates animals, especially dogs. He would never say he hates dogs, he just hates licking, chewing, barking, and wet dog smell. Using his logic, I can safely say I don’t hate laundry, I just hate washing, drying and folding clothes. I also don’t hate cleaning toilets (just smelly water, hardwater stains, and the boys’ lack of aim). Despite his animal aversion, my church was right, he is a good man. I know this for certain because he chooses to live with me, on purpose, and has for 20 some years. Nobody else has done that, I’m not sure I would if I had the option. The church never asked me to play Jesus for some obvious reasons, I mean, aside from gender.

When all our children were little we were “that couple”.

You know the one, the people in church whose children lay on the kneelers

to practice their swim strokes. Who look like they are performing their newest juggling routine as they pass children back and forth between them, upside down cause they don’t wiggle as much that way. Whose children loudly asked as they slid into the pew- late, if it’s time to go yet. That was us. And in the middle of it all, when my husband would take a little one into the lobby and miss much of Mass, people would come up to me and say, ”Poor Frank, he’s such a good Dad, he’s always got his hands full.” or as he broke off conversation to grab a wayward toddler headed for the hills, “Poor Frank, a father’s work is never done.”

I have to admit; my likability factor never went up because I never once felt sorry for Poor Frank. My husband was the reason we had five children. And what people didn’t know, although I think it was blatantly apparent, is that he loved every minute with them. He took them out of church so he could look at their little faces as they ran around the lobby. He raced after them and caught them, not just when they were in danger but to hear them giggle in his arms. My husband adored his children, they were his world and having them made him the richest man I have ever known. Poor Frank is my hero and theirs. He loves them and leaves me to discipline them. It may seem unfair, sometimes it does, but when I want them to change their ways, I only have one thing I say, “Be like your Dad.” That’s a pretty heavy burden I put on the shoulders of Poor Frank, but I have empirical evidence he can handle it- our poor children, who I think are as rich as kings with a Dad like him.