Who Are You?

Who are you?

The question rolled off my lips the other morning when my husband pawed through the cabinet above our kitchen sink.  You know the one— too full of drinking glasses and bottles of vitamins and medications that come with being on 50’s doorstep.  His voice rattled with the morning wake-me-ups, “Why do we have a plethora of glasses and bottles falling out on me?”

“Plethora?” I ask.  After knowing him for almost 32 years, this is the first time this particular word has introduced itself from his vocabulary stockroom.  Ranks right up when frustrated with Portland’s rush hour traffic, Cliff popped off a foreign phrase, “This is a menagerie of stupidity!”  Menagerie?  Seriously. And everyone thinks I’m the dramatic one.

Honestly, he’s more of a number and science guy, where I thrive on painting articulate masterpieces with vibrantly flamboyant word delineations.  For instance, I use the p-word a plethora of times every day as I talk about the menagerie that is my life.  In fact, it’s lost its ‘wow’ factor from the cacophony of overuse.

But this doesn’t only happen with words.  After being married several multi-hued years of  me buying him brilliantly flowered Hawaiian shirts and canary yellow coaching shorts, I learned Cliff’s favorite color is tan.  Tan.  No one’s favorite color is tan. Why was this not covered in the premarital counseling?  “Who are you?” I asked as I pulled on my shocking pink sweater over my electric blue stirrup pants.  When we got married, I said ‘I do” to a rough and rowdy cowboy.  After seven years of wedded bliss I discovered he had led a past life as a baseball fanatic.  This completely threw me when he traded in the rope canister for a bat bag, and we hit a plethora of roads sprinkled with diamonds.  Diamonds I wouldn’t trade for a silver buckle the size of a turkey platter if you hog-tied me and stole my bright red Ropers off these size 10 feet.

Constantly, he surprises me with who he is.  What he likes to eat, what he wants to watch, how he reacts to things, and the newest hobby-growing roses.  So maybe I was wrong when he commented on the beauty of the flowers in the Portland Rose Garden, and I accused him of merely being relieved of getting out of the then very sketchy Chinatown with our lives. Instead, he was up to his smeller  wondering  how to graft their cuttings to make a stunning beige bloom.

While we both have been molded and shaped in life’s fiery crucible, I suspect there is a lot Cliffie Poppins can’t  wait to pull from his magic bat bag.  Always astounding me and challenging me, but never allowing me to be bored.

Once again, God has used Cliff to teach me more about his character, his attributes, and his love—in a plethora of ways—each and every day.  Treasures waiting for me to discover that I could never dream of, imagine, or have possibly misunderstood on occasion..

My purpose is that they may be encouraged in heart and united in love, so that they may have the full riches of complete understanding, in order that they may know the mystery of God, namely Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.  Colossians 2:2-3


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