What is it about husbands in the bedroom?
Mine is trying my already frazzled nerves lately.
First off, he’s a heavy sleeper and I’m not. So, to keep our togetherness in the bed, we both keep separate alarm clocks on our separate nightstands.
My alarm clock is a little black box with soft, red, lighted numbers.
When it goes off in the morning, there’s a gentle beeping that wakes me instantly. Before the clock beeps three times, I’ve already hit the big snooze button on top without even opening my eyes.
Then I push back the smaller turn-off button on the side, always in that order. My peaceful state is only momentarily disrupted before I nuzzle back into my down-filled pillow for an extra 15 extra minutes of bliss.
If only my alarm clock would work for him.
He requires about the same decibel level as a jet airplane taking off to rouse him out of his near-comatose state. So he decided that regular alarm clocks just won’t do. Instead, he has taken to using higher technology—his cell phone—that tiny little thing that he can hardly find when awake, let alone when near-comatose.
And if not being able to locate it quickly in the morning weren’t bad enough, his little cell phone has all these annoying alarm sound options. Of course, rather than choose some zen-like melodic wave that I would most certainly hear and lovingly nudge him to rise and shine, he had to choose the old-fashioned rattling bell option instead. You know, those old clocks our grandparents had with the two metal bells on top and that tiny, metallic baseball bat in between that goes berserk at the set time and deafens your ears, fries your nerves, and scrambles your brain before you have a chance to scramble your eggs?
Yeah. That one.
So, he sets his high-tech cell phone on the metallic bells and bat option, certainly not to bug me in the morning or anything, I’m sure. First couple times it goes off, I about have a panic attack over on my side of the bed, jumping up like it’s a fire-alarm fire or something, then quickly burying my head under my down-filled pillow to drown out the blaring techno-brass ringing. THREE TIMES IT RINGS before he hears and responds. (For the record, I’m not suggesting he sign up for the volunteer fire department due to his highly retarded response rate). I mutter in my head that I’m about ready to relocate to another bedroom. But, mature woman that I am, I ask for what I need instead.
“Honestly dear, couldn’t you find SOME better way to rouse yourself in the morning than with that obnoxious phone?!”
He thinks it’s funny.
I’m not laughing.
But since he’s basically blind before he puts his contacts on his eyeballs each morning, he can’t see that I’m not amused.
Finally one day he tells me he has changed his cell phone alarm clock option, just for me, sacrificial man that he is. No more brass bells with metal bat on steroids in the middle.
Praise the Lord! Miracles still occur in the here and now!
As I tuck myself in for a good night’s sleep, I can hardly wait till morning to discover how my husband has changed his ways to please me.
And then . . .
Morning comes . . .
And the biggest dang ROOSTER you can imagine MUST be hovering over our bed making ready to peck us awake (or to death—I don’t know which)!
ER—ER ER—ER—ERRRRRRR! It crows once.
ER—ER ER—ER—ERRRRRRR! It crows twice.
ER—ER ER—ER—ERRRRRRR! It crows thrice.
THREE ROOSTER CALLS IN A ROW before my dear husband hears the intruder in our bedroom!
The most unholy trinity of crowing I have EVER heard in my life is emanating from that tiny black cell phone my near-comatose, near-blind husband can’t find!
“SHUT THAT THING UP!” I cry.
“I can’t find it!” he defends. “It’s on vibrate and it moved.”
“WHAT?!” I ask in horror. “Your cell phone has chicken legs and just walks around on your nightstand?!” I think my heart has done-near exploded with too-high RPMs.
“I’m going to ring that rooster’s neck when I catch it!” I retort.
He thinks it’s funny, again! What? Am I just some free, theatrical production for his sole entertainment?!
I actually think it’s funny too, but I’m not letting on. It’s more fun to act like this techno-rooster has truly pushed me off the edge of the farm fence.
So, as of right now, out here in the middle of our 44 acres of pure bliss, I’m thinking about “wake-up calls”, as annoying and painful as they can be.
We have had a number of wake-up calls lately. Sometimes, it seems, wake-up calls need to be annoying and downright painful in order to get our attention and prompt action.
So, from that perspective, annoyances and pain can be good things. Gladly, I’m more awake and responsive now than I was even a few weeks ago. I’ve come out of my near-comatose state, made some hard realizations about kids and extended family and scheduling and other stressors that were knocking me right off my “farm fence”—scraped, cut, bruised, and broken.
I’ve heard the five-alarm call. I’ve jumped on the fire pole, slid down and into my working boots, my fireproof clothes, and my oxygen tanks. I’m ready to roll and take action along with my husband.
Following through on some new decisions will likely be the some of the hardest work we’ve yet done in this life. But hard work is not foreign to us.
In fact, we embrace hard work when it’s godly work—when the work to be done most probably will bring pain in the short term but most certainly will grow everlasting goodness for all involved, if others choose to do their own hard work and cooperate. If not, we will rest in the Lord, keep praying, and keep leaving what’s beyond our abilities in His able hands.