Greg was the ultimate bachelor when I met him. We didn’t marry until he was 28, so that’s a long time to be without the feminine touch. He drank out of 64-ounce plastic Thirstbuster cups and didn’t own any matching silverware. He didn’t have the proverbial beer and old pizza in his fridge; instead, it was more pastoral –orange juice and cheap onion bagels. Still, it was slim pickins’.

I don’t want to talk about the brown plastic couch with duct tape. True, it was comfy. And it was easy to clean (were he ever to choose to do that) after dozens of wet folks plopped themselves on it after waterskiing parties every week. (I learned to waterski back in those days, which is good as my cool days were definitely numbered.) We got rid of the couch when we married, but he still waxes nostalgia over it. He was fine with giving up his bed accommodations though—a sleeping bag thrown on a waterbed.

We kept Mouth, the fish, in those early days. Mouth was a man-eating barracuda that jumped out at you every time you passed it in the hallway. I mean, it was almost a security system, were an intruder actually to break-in through the… hallway. It had razor sharp teeth and an attitude. It was vicious. Greg caught him on the lake behind the house, and like Clifford the Big Red Dog, he just grew and grew until he filled the whole tank.

Greg values people over stuff and is always ready to serve Jesus at a moment’s notice. He is a good reminder of what’s important. That’s why he chose such simple living conditions back in the day. Things don’t matter much to him, which is a good way to be if you can balance it just right. He’s easygoing but not lazy. He frequently saves the day but is impervious to pressure. This makes him a great Taboo partner but also pretty descent missionary-type material.

The reason I’m thinking of this today is because of the mayhem of the day. I’m one of those types that can’t go to sleep with dishes in the sink, and it’d do me well to just let go once in awhile. I’d like to be Mommy with a soft lap instead of the chore drill sergeant, but you know, that’s my choice. I’ve got six babies, which I’ve been thinking, is a lot even by my standards. (Yesterday, some stranger called me “the old lady in the shoe” which was OK except for the “old” part.) The work is hard, but I’d like to balance things just right: to be available for God to speak through the tyranny of the urgent, to be a child of His, to keep things simple and remember what matters. In the end, it’s all my choice because a good reminder walks alongside me.