Two young women were recently on the Today Show talking about their book, I’d Trade My Husband for a Housekeeper. I doubt they were writing from a uniquely Christian perspective, but I liked what they had to say about things related to dissatisfaction: No one’s perfect and too often we judge our marriages by an unattainable ideal that doesn’t actually exist.

Sometimes when I talk about Tony, people get the idea that he is perfect or that I think he is, despite my assertion that no one is. Well, he is not the exception. But I no longer care about what he isn’t or what we don’t have. I’m just immensely grateful for what he is and what we do have.

In order to show you how I’ve come to such a lovely place in life, I’ll break my general rule, with his permission, and talk awhile about some of the things he doesn’t do well (or more precisely, didn’t do well—suddenly and remarkably, past tense). I’ll also explain how I finally came to see what he does do, has always done, tender graces I have foolishly overlooked in the past.

Let’s start with Tony’s inability to say complimentary things that women like to hear. Both of my daughters married men who, though they have very different personalities, are very good at telling them how beautiful or “hot” they are. They did not learn this from my husband.

Well, okay, I’m sure that wanting to hear nice things is an insignificant, terribly vain thing to care about, but I think a lot of women feel this way. I would really like Tony to think and then say he thinks I’m pretty. This has been little more than a fantasy for me, though. Oh, if Tony had only known what might have happened if he had even plagiarized Solomon’s Song of Songs.

You are beautiful, my darling . . . lovely as Jerusalem, majestic as troops with banners.

I really love the next two lines: Turn your eyes from me’ they overwhelm me.

Actually, I’m afraid if Tony chose two lines to quote, they would be the next two: Your hair is like a flock of goats descending from Gilead (6: 4-5).

Sometimes after I’ve worked hard to look especially nice for some event we’re attending together, I forget my vow NEVER to do it again and ask him, “So, do you think I look nice?“ At least he has the decency to say, “Of course,“ and to smile an appreciative little smile.

It isn’t even easy for my husband to say, “I love you,“ something we all love to hear, probably need to hear. In fact, my advice to people who grew up without hearing or saying words of affirmation, making it hard for them to, is “Get over it!“ Really, it’s important to the people you love to hear your love expressed.

But strangely, I don’t have the heart to say that to my husband. He grew up in a home full of love, but it was demonstrated in faithful giving to one another and seldom—maybe never—expressed.

So it is hard, I know that. And, honestly, his attempts to verbalize his love have seemed painful, though he’s getting really good at picking out cards. He stands there while I’m reading them. I look at him when I finish, and he nods; sometimes he says, “See!“

But I learned before he got so good at picking out cards that he says I love you, and much better than I do, without words.

For instance, when he worked at Empire District Electric Company, officers were sent to Mayo Clinic every other year for a rigorous physical. During one of these check-ups, a doctor told him to take a baby aspirin each day in order to reduce the risk of heart attack. Shortly after his return, I sat down at my vanity to put on my makeup, and there by the orange juice he had brought me was a tiny pink baby aspirin.

Long before the book, The Five Love Languages, was written, I looked in my mirror and asked myself, “Can you hear?“