The Warden

The parties are behind us, the summer is before us. Scratch that. Summer is here and with a vengeance. It is 93 and humid as we speak—no make that as I type. Who knows what it is where you read. Let me know.

It’s been a short while now since I first referred to my better half as “the Warden.” It was a passing remark about how she wanted me to paint a bathroom before visitors arrived. It was made in jest, because it is not her normal manner to hound me to get stuff done around the house. As far as being the tyrant of a honey-do list, that is not her. But it’s fun to play the victim, so I gave her the needle about having to slave away painting.

She, of course, retaliated by pretending to be hurt. But then she wrote, “Warden, is it? Is it because I have the key to your heart that you call me that???????

I liked that imagery. She should hold the keys to my heart, and come to think of it, she does. At least in a temporal sense, she does. I guess the Almighty ultimately has the “master key.” The One who created me should really get first dibs. And He has put the Warden in charge here on earth. But being a slave/servant/prisoner to Him and her is about as good as it could get. That’s where my heart should be, and I pray that it is. If it strays elsewhere, it’s to my detriment.

So let me be enslaved to the One who loves my soul and the one who loves my . . . ah . . . body? Or should I say mind or manner or money?

Happy Anniversary, one month late. Should I mention to blog readers that I took you out for an anniversary meal, but my parents foiled my gift by making it their gift? They were gracious in giving us a gift certificate to the very place we were eating. And I never recovered to come back with another anniversary gift. So I take my time for important things, right? Maybe it will come soon. But please accept this 253 month anniversary down payment gift.