I've said it before, and I'll say it again: it is not easy to be my husband. Even on a good week. And this week was definitely not a "good week." But in an attempt to lift my spirits and lighten my burdens, David took me out on Saturday night. We went and watched Craig Ferguson's comedy show at the Arts Center, because David knows that I think he is hilarious. And he thought I needed to laugh. When we found our seats David looked around and said, "I don't see anyone here that I know." I grinned at him. It was his way of saying how much he loves me. (Do you know anyone else who would be here with you? No, I do not. Thank you, love.) After a week of misunderstandings and distances, the greatest blessing of my week came as David walked with me, my hand in his, down the dark streets towards the Arts Center. He insisted we go out and do something he knew that I would love, that he knew I needed. I felt forgiven and cherished and known. But especially forgiven. When it was over we sat on our couch and ate french fries and a strawberry-cheesecake concrete together. And I felt so grateful for a husband who orders strawberry-cheesecake because he knows I will like it best, and does it, without a thought, when I deserve it the least.