What happens when he doesn't practice speaking to his wife

As I stated in an earlier post, The Rev. practices his sermon before he delivers it. He is very good at delivering a sermon, and he uses all sorts of illustrations, gestures, and dramatic pauses to keep the attention of the congregation. Last night I wanted to ask him if he practiced saying things to his wife before they came out of his mouth, because I could have sworn that he did a text study, let the thoughts percolate, put them down on paper, and then delivered them to me...right before he put his foot in his mouth and I nearly put my foot in the other end.

I worked all day yesterday and then I had to go to a small birthday gathering on the other side of town for a co-worker. I was exhausted before I got to the party, and I was even more tired when I got in the car for the 40 minute drive home. It was dark. It was late. I thought I would be a good, thoughtful wife and call The Rev. to let him know I was on my way home. And that I was safe. And that I was sound. And that I wasn't sprawled in a ditch somewhere or stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire. I tried calling home first but the line was busy. No big deal. I tried calling his cell phone. It rang and then went to his voice mail. So I gave him 10 minutes before I tried calling again. The same thing happened. The house line was busy, but his cell phone went directly to voice mail. The turkey didn't want to talk to me! TO ME! HIS BELOVED FOR WHOM HE PROMISED (in front of 223 witnesses) THAT HE WOULD LAY DOWN HIS LIFE.

It gets better.

When I walked in the door (the dog hyperventilated upon my entrance--she loves me), The Rev. was just hanging up the phone.

"Did you see that I tried calling you?" I said.

"Yes, but I was on the phone." He replied.

"But you could have picked up."

"I was talking to my parents. Besides, that's rude."

"But I was trying to call you. Your parents would have understood if you answered your phone."

"But I was talking to them. I knew it was you. You were fine."

"How do you know? I could have been in a wreck, or had a flat tire."

"You would have called Triple A. I couldn't have helped you anyway; I don't have a car. Besides, you call me all the time anyway."

That was the part where feet would have met body cavities. But I didn't do anything. I just told him that after all of our years of wedded bliss, this should not be an issue. And then I went to bed. Yes, parents, internet, and world, I went to bed angry with my husband. And I was still mad when I got up this morning to feed the cats, make the coffee, and get ready for work. It was a silent carpool all the way to work. He didn’t speak, and I just stared out the window. And I was going to show him. I wasn't going to call him all day.

I know, I know. This is bordering on the immature, asinine, and ridiculous. In my rational mind I realized this was not modeling the forgiveness that the Dear Lord grants me everyday. I should forgive him for being a man, because I was acting liking a girl. But I am a stubborn southerner and I would rather dig in my heels and wait you out than give one iota, one molecule of understanding and forgiveness. I get it from my mother. Just ask my dad, who, upon witnessing this behavior once before, apologized to my husband and said, “Two peas in pod.”

The Rev. called my cell phone once today and I put it to voicemail, just to show him I could press that button too. I would have answered it, to model the desired behavior that I was seeking, but I was in the middle of a conference call and I didn’t want to be rude. The second time he caught me when he called my work. He had ‘fessed up to his secretary and a teacher, but I am sure they only got his side of the story.

We’ll kiss and make up before the end of the night.