Pink Roses and Beer

Today my husband left early for his golf lesson, ran a few errands, and returned with a Trader Joe’s bag and a case of beer. When I peeked in the brown bag, I saw a bright spray of pink poking to the top. Miniflora tea roses? I couldn’t help but go through a quick, mental check list. Not my birthday. Not Mother’s Day anymore. Anniversary was in February. Recent problem? No—well, that depends on your definition of recent—but not terribly recent. So, I’m thinking, “What’s up?”

Standing in the kitchen holding a bouquet of popsicle-pink treasures in my hands, I watched my husband unpack the rest of the bag as though it were any ordinary day. He was being himself, basically a good guy who loves his wife and beer. Both. In return, he got a hug and some love and moved on with his day.

But, for me, this wasn’t just any ordinary day. He thought of me when he saw those roses at Trader Joe’s. I liked that. I don’t care what they cost or didn’t cost. What mattered is that he thought of me and wanted to make me happy. The beer was definitely for him (I’m not a beer fan), but the roses were mine.

I pulled out a gorgeous, white ceramic pitcher that my granddaughter gave me for my birthday last year. On the front, the word “Blessed” is etched in lovely script. I love that pitcher. Nice cold water, some trimming, and purposeful arranging followed. Voila—pink roses lovingly displayed in a meaningful vase on an ordinary day from a thoughtful man.

As I cleaned up the kitchen, I put his beer away. He would have gotten to it sooner or later, but I beat him to it. Just to make him happy.