Tonight, I came home late, my arms bulging with sacks of groceries. The hugest, giantest flying beetle followed me into the house, and before I’d even set anything down, started to dive bomb me. He flew around my head, bounced off my forehead, buzzed in my ears, and I was sure I could see a little man riding on his back, wielding a spear. I set the groceries down and grabbed the broom, figuring I might be able to flick the beast out the open front door.
My aim is not so good when fear is coursing through my veins. I held the broom at the ready and made some half-hearted jabs in the creature’s direction in a wimpy attempt to fend off the attack, somewhat reminiscent of Buttercup’s feeble attempt to free Wesley from the R.O.U.S. in “The Princess Bride.” I was having no luck whatsoever, and in my moment of despair, I cried out, “Honey!”
He must have heard something in my voice. Coming out of a deep sleep, he rushed to my aid, my knight in rumpled pajamas. He took the situation in at a glance. Relieving me of my ill-chosen weapon, he waited until the moment was right, and then with one swipe, the beetle was on the ground. Victory went to the champion – my champion.
Now, there are some women who could have dispatched the evil beastie all by themselves. They can change their own flat tires, wire their own light fixtures, and lubricate those things that need lubricating in a car. I’m not one of them. I can do plenty of other things, but there are some things I just can’t do for myself. It’s at times like that I’m even more grateful for God’s wisdom in giving us marriage. My weaknesses are made up by my husband’s strengths. I can use my strengths to support him when he needs it. And in the areas where we are both weak, we call my dad.
I feel so secure knowing that whether I need saving from the Monster Beetle from the Dark Side or a priesthood blessing, I can count on my husband to be there for me. I love knowing that as we strive to keep our covenants and grow together, we will have the chance to live as man and wife forever. And if, in some miraculous way, one of those beetles manages to repent and makes it to Heaven, my husband will be there to . . . well, not kill it, because I don’t think you can kill beetles in Heaven, but he’ll be there to very kindly point the way to the Roach Motel just down the road.
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Committing to Eternal Marriage