It has been years since I have fretted about what to get my wife for Valentine’s Day, Easter, Mother’s Day, our anniversary, her birthday, Thanksgiving or Christmas. She cherishes my love letters above all other gifts. More than flowers, or jewelry, or chocolate, or the authentic RAMS shirt with her name on the back from the NFL Shop. She especially appreciates that it does not cost anything — beyond my many hours of attention and affection — because this banker’s daughter loves to balance the checkbook and has the thrifty nature of her Scottish ancestors, the clan McBain. Our routine is thus: on each occasion she opens the envelope and reads the letter to herself. Then she hands it back to me, to read it out loud to her, and to anyone else who is part of the celebration, like a birthday party. You can count on tears; they are part of the gift, part of the letter, part of her nature. She has given me permission. Here is one of her favorites.
Love Letter to Liza: “She Waters Things”
In my office, at the keyboard, looking out the window. It is a terrific view, our yard. The hibiscus is in flower, the liquid amber stretches to the sky, throwing shade over everything late in the day. The bougainvillea reaches out over the shoulder of that small citrus tree that is offering up its annual gift of fifteen oranges, and our old and dependable lemon tree – espaliered across the back wall – is heavy with fruit and ready for the picking. It is our third or fourth crop this year, an abundance we and our neighbors have enjoyed for many seasons.
Much time and attention has gone into this garden of ours, mainly by your hand; and there you are, in your tartan shirt, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, jeans, muddy shoes, floppy hat, wielding the magic watering wand, now to the grapefruit, now to the gazanias, now to the potted plants on the patio. You will ask me to finish the watering, to give the roses and the privet a good soaking; the very least I can do, my contribution to the care and feeding of our lovely oasis.
Most of my jobs come at the beginning of things: digging, laying sprinkler lines, bricks and borders, plotting and planting. Yet like so many areas of our garden and our lives; you are the finisher, the caregiver, the pruner, the one who keeps things going, the one who remembers to feed and medicate and water our plants… and me.
You medicate me by counting out my pills each week; you have always loved sorting activities. You have faithfully chronicled every appointment, every blood draw, every prescription, every co-pay and every setback in my cancer book. You remind me to take my morning cocktail and bring the half-banana. You know when my tank is running low; because just at the right moment, you appear with a glass of water.
You are a gift from God, Liza; and when I pause to give thanks, there are so many names, titles and metaphors to call upon the Lord — like Yahweh, Adonai, Jehovah, Jesus, King, Lamb, Strong Tower, Rose of Sharon, Savior, Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father and Prince of Peace.
But today my gratefulness for you compels me to call Him Living Water.
After all these years, I am still crazy about you.
Love, Me
Tidings from Tim 