Hubby called the other night to tell me he was running late and would be leaving the office in ten or fifteen minutes. Hah! As if I didn’t know better. I’ve been married to the man for over thirty years now, and I know from long-suffering experience that when he says ten or fifteen minutes, he really means at least thirty minutes. Not that I’m not grateful for a husband who is considerate enough to let me know he’s running late, mind you. It’s just that I’ve learned his timetable predictions are always a tad underestimated.

When we were first married, I used to wait dutifully for him to finish up whatever he had to do that was only going to take thirty minutes so we could spend time together. As a newlywed, I liked to hang out with Hubby. But I found myself sitting around twiddling my thumbs and waiting. And waiting. And waiting. By the time two hours had passed, I became a little cranky. After a while, when I learned to decode his estimate of how long something was going to take, I realized his estimates meant nothing. Then, over time, I got smarter and started doing things without him while I “waited,” like watching what I really wanted to watch on TV. If I waited for him, I either got stuck watching something I really didn’t care for, like airplane documentaries, or not doing anything at all because it was “too late.”

Early in our married life, Saturday nights were often a source of contention as he taught Sunday school and needed an hour every Saturday night to prepare for his lesson. Now don’t get me wrong. I was thrilled to have a husband who taught Sunday school. But I soon came to the realization that before he finished preparing, I could watch three consecutive hour-long shows on Saturday night, including a trashy evening soap that he wouldn’t have been caught dead watching. Later, he graduated from Sunday school teacher to pastoring a church, and he devoted Saturday nights (plus mornings and afternoons and often weeknights) to sermon preparation. For the last fourteen-plus years, Saturday night timetables have been open-ended.

So, the night he called to tell me he would be leaving in the next ten or fifteen minutes, I automatically allotted him a minimum of thirty minutes and planned dinner accordingly. The fish I put in the oven finished baking right as he walked in the door. After thirty-plus years, I’ve learned to plan pretty well. The next evening, which was Saturday, Hubby didn’t have to prepare a sermon as we had a guest preacher scheduled. He asked me if I wanted to do something. Since doing anything with Hubby on a Saturday night is a rarity, I said sure.

“Okay,” he said. “Just give me ten minutes to finish up this business I need to take care of.”

During those “ten minutes,” after I got bored playing solitaire, I wrote this blog.