We have a family of deer–eight, as of this morning–a slender-legged, soft-eyed herd that gently wanders to nibble ground cover in our back woods. After a time they amble from backyard to front, down the slope of our broad yard, toward the road. They are quietly graceful, calm as three speckled little ones prance beside and behind, happy to follow the leader: a handsome buck with a growing rack.
In my early morning glimpses of such summer beauty, I have yet to see a deer left behind.
I find myself solemnly cheering on one doe with a lame hind leg. A fractured limb that never quite touches the ground but dangles awkwardly, prompting her stilted gait, so unlike her graceful comrades. For two years I have observed her, and to my joy she has survived, enduring last year’s brutal winter.
Walk her home, I whisper to the buck, as they cross our cul-de-sac into the thick woods. The air is close and muggy, the humidity oppressive.
The doe limps into the thicket, and it hurts my heart to watch her struggle. The buck pauses, turning as though he heard my plea. Just then I am startled by the whir of a hummingbird, a ruby-throated beauty hovering at our feeder, eyeing me suspiciously. When a female of the same species attempts to alight on the feeder, the male drives her away like a playground bully before returning to fill himself with sugar water.
You are no gentleman, I say as he drinks.
My gaze shifts back to the buck.
But he has vanished.
***
I notice a friend struggling quietly in her marriage. She is a limping doe, untended. Her husband understands biblically that he is the head of their household, and she agrees. Yet instead of doing nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, humbly considering others more important than himself, he beats his proverbial chest and growls, governing like Napoleon. Any questioning of his decisions, no matter how respectful the tone, is dismissed as brazen craziness.
I am watching another friend aching within her marriage vows. She is a thirsty hummingbird, longing for sweet relational refreshment, yet her husband shoos her away without a word, holding an unwavering devotion to his phone rather than his bride. The device’s perpetual glow is an aura around his face. She told me, with a sob, that she prays without ceasing but has abandoned all hope for meaningful conversation, given that her frequent attempts are met with “hmmmm?” or, worse, a plague of sullen silence.
I have long observed a woman ruling the roost. She bosses as she rants, refusing to serve her husband (or anyone else, for that matter) in any meaningful way. He shrugs his shoulders and does as he is told, murmuring Happy wife, happy life, which is a passive weapon, another lie in Satan’s toolbelt, born in Eden’s garden.
***
A godly marriage is a rare jewel forged from selfless love. An exquisite and sturdy gem formed in time as the wife graciously submits to her husband as unto the Lord—yes—but also as the husband loves his wife and leads her into Christlikeness, living with his bride in an understanding way, showing honor to her as the weaker vessel, that his prayers might not be hindered. (1 Peter 3:7)
***
Inside every Christian wife is a doe who longs to be tenderly led, not trampled, neglected, or passively allowed to boss. Inside every Christian wife is the heart of a hummingbird, thirsty for sweet water, longing for her husband to govern strongly, gently, as he leads the way, walking her safely home to heaven.
The Palest Ink 