I always see the husband in a man,
a king in the boy before he understands the crown in his hands.

I see what hides behind dark brown eyes,
the parts pressed down, pushed aside.
My gift…
X-ray sight to the truth under the skin,
so I tried to stay shallow…
but he let me in.

I am a wife.

My problem?
I once believed that meant
I should be a wife to every man I met.

Until each one showed me the same thing
they see the wife in me,
but not a life with me.

They see the beauty.
They see the strength.
But they choose distance
when it comes to depth.

Still…
I always see the husband in the man.

The man who lost pieces of himself
in careless hands.
Handled rough.
Touched wrong.
Cut down slowly by the weight of words.
Hope worn thin.
Spirit discouraged.

And something in me answers that pain.

Because I recognize the man
who wants to be seen beyond his name.

I see the king in him.
I see the one he was made to be.

Too quickly
I picture myself beside him
a helpmate,
a steady light,
showing him the road back to his life.

I’ve done it more times than I can count.

Only to hear,
“No one asked you to do that.”

After they’ve taken my light,
tested my heart,
and walked away full
from what I poured out.

But here’s the truth

My light doesn’t die.

You can drain it, doubt it, misuse it
still it shines.

Because I cannot stop being a wife.

I will always see the husband in a man.

I saw one recently.

I could tell where life had worn him thin,
where someone had chipped away at him.
Where pieces of his armor
had been carved out
until he forgot the strength within.

And my instinct
is always the same.

First responder to a wounded name.
Running in
where others ran away.

I wanted to study him longer,
to find the boy in him again
the one he was before the world
told him who to pretend to be.

Because I saw the husband in him.

And for a moment…

I wanted him
to see
the wife
in me.