Irish My Husband Is

Yesterday, I posted a wonderful poem about the Irish that I wish I could take credit for but can't. Unfortunately, I can't even give credit to the author because I don't know who wrote it; but to the poet out there who composed that gem, I must say that when it comes to describing the heart and soul of an Irishman, you nailed it.  When I read it, it reminded me so much of my husband, a full-blooded Irish American.

My husband definitely stubbornly refuses to bow in defeat.  He has always been a competitive guy, which served him well as a high school athlete who excelled at both football and basketball and as a college rugby player.  He's a peace-loving man; but if you challenge him on something about which he knows more than you do and/or feels very strongly about (matters of Faith come to mind), you better watch out: you are not going to win that argument.  It's not that he's always spoiling and ready to argue and fight; but make no mistake, he will fight--whether it means to win a friendly game of HORSE or to defend beliefs he holds dear.  He's the least wishy-washy person I know; like the poem says, there is no middle ground on which he will stand.

The smile of a child fills his soul with delight, and it always has.  My husband was delighted by the smiles of his younger siblings when he was a boy, those of his own children (and their cousins) when they were growing up, and to say that he is delighted by the smiles of his twin granddaughters is the understatement of the century.

His eyes are the quickest to well up in tears these days.  For most of their lives, our sons never saw their dad cry; but the older he gets, the leakier his eyes have become.  Just ask anyone who was there when he opened up my Christmas gift to him this year.

A fleecy blanket printed with a photo of Papa and his beloved  granddaughters.

My husband is the bravest, strongest person I know.  He is my rock, my hero, the fierce protector of his family.  Tears might sting his eyes when he opens up gifts like the one he's modeling for you in the above picture, yet his strength is the strongest to banish your fears. Just having him nearby makes me feel like I'm safe from harm and all is right in the world.

This Irish guy I married is enamored with beauty wherever it lies; he could sit and stare out at the lake in the back yard of his childhood home for hours and never get tired of it, and he says that the view from his "office" (the cockpit of an airplane) is simply the best there is.

There are some adjectives in the poem that don't remind me of the nearly perfect Irishman I married; he's not proud, though he'll tell you that's a flaw he needs to work on; he's rarely sad, never bad, and I don't believe in the almost 40 years I've known him that he's ever been a clod.  But the last line of the poem says the most important thing you need to know about my husband: he's in love with his God.

I was too busy on our anniversary back on the 27th to write much, so this post is dedicated to my husband as we mark 32 years of married life together.  I certainly had the luck of the Irish when I snagged him, didn't I?  Irish my husband is, and Irish he will always be...and that's a very good thing.