It doesn’t rain much here, but when it does it often comes as a deluge. The usually hot dry climate is rough on items made from rubber, and they don’t last like they do in other areas. That’s especially true of windshield wiper blades.
Two days ago there was a huge cloud in the sky. Giant. It was one of those ominous looking ones, all grey and threatening. I received a text at work from my sweetheart asking what year my car was. Huh? I sent him the information and carried on. We had tickets to a holiday concert that evening, and I wanted to make sure I got home in plenty of time to get ready. He had gone in early that day and was already home. I soon forgot about his question and wrapped up my day.
When I arrived home he asked me if I wanted to go with him. It was about an hour before we were scheduled to leave for the concert. Go where? To get wipers of course. Oh. Sure. We hopped in the car, drove a short distance to the auto parts store, and were faced with a wall of wiper blades. The nifty little computer thingie there told us which ones were correct for my car, and we found them on the wall. Not the cheap ones, though. He wanted me to have the really good ones.
We normally go places in my car. His is a sweet little gas guzzling, more or less two seater, high milage sports car. Mine is a gas sipping (ok, maybe not, but way better than his) sedan with plenty of room in the back for my gangly teenager. He noticed the last time it rained that my wipers weren’t really doing their job very well. He saw rain on the horizon and wanted to fix the problem. He is a doer. He doesn’t talk things to death. He acts. It’s his love language.
Have you read The Five Love Languages ? It’s brilliant. I don’t know about any kind of scientific basis for it, but when you read it, it makes sense. When I was newly divorced and taking a hard look at myself and what kind of person I was, and what I was looking for in a future relationship, I found this book. Call it pop psychology or fluff or whatever you want, but I read it and took something away from it that helped me to understand some of the relationships that I have in my life, not just romantic ones either. It helped me to better understand the dynamic between me and my mother, for example. We don’t speak the same language, love or otherwise, but gaining a little insight certainly has helped me to communicate with her better.
Back to the wipers. He put them on the car, and off we went to the concert. Sure enough it started to rain. “Merry Christmas, baby,” he told me, “these are your stocking stuffer.” I do love this man, and I love how he takes care of me, but clearly he is not a “gifts” guy in the language of love! With each silent pass of the wipers I will hear, “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas…” and know that I am loved.