I don't usually cry when I read books. I can tell when a writer wants me to get emotional, and some stubborn streak in me just wills me to keep it together and not lose it. But there are books out there that have made me cry a bit ... The Fault in Our Stars by John Green, The Iron Queen by Julie Kagawa, These Is My Words by Nancy E. Turner. So it happens. I'm not a robot. But rarely do I find myself in a full out breakdown after reading a book, weeping uncontrollably, unable to process anything other than tremendous, overwhelming grief. Well, last night I finished a book that had me weeping ... and weeping, and weeping and weeping. For like an hour. I was a complete mess, and my poor children didn't know what to do with me. Herman and and the older three were away at Youth Conference for church, so I was home with the youngest four. I kept trying to explain that I was totally fine. It was just the book I read, but I could tell that they were not buying that explanation at all. But it was true.
Really. It was.
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But here is where I get to the reason for this post. I was feeling so much emotion for this story that I had just finished, but I had no one to talk to about it. I don't think any of my friends have read it (I'm waiting for you to read it, Laurenda, so we can dish!). I NEEDED to talk to someone about it. The lucky someone who conveniently arrived home in time to hear my glowing review of this book? Herman.
Herman loves to read. It is one of the things that I love so much about him. He reads the classics and has a soft spot for Louis L'Amour books (which I do not consider classics at all -- sorry Grandpa Jack!). I love to listen to him talk with the girls about the books they are reading for their high school lit classes because he has such an amazing ability to remember minute details about books that he read twenty or twenty-five years ago. It's uncanny.
But Herman does not really like anything that seems remotely like a fluffy romance. I, on the other hand, love books with romantic story lines. Outside of our love for some similar classic novels, our tastes in literature are pretty different. So I knew heading into this conversation that Herman was going to have absolutely no interest in any part of this story that I was going to relate. But I didn't care. I just had to share my feelings with someone who would listen to me.
Herman had just come home after a few days at the Lake of the Ozarks State Park with our youth, and he had not slept well while he was there, so he was lying down on the bed when I knelt beside him to share my book experience. The big problem? In order to fully explain exactly why I was so distraught at the end of this story I was going to have to explain what had happened in the entire series. And it is a fairly complicated series to explain. There were several characters to explain. I had to explain why there were these robot-like creatures in 19th century London causing destruction. I had to explain how everyone came to be in the house they were in. I had to explain what was motivating everyone's actions and emotions. Like I say ... complicated.
The more I spoke, the more I realized just how convoluted and confusing my explanation was becoming. I could tell that the story was making no sense to Herman, and there was going to be no way for him to understand exactly why the ending made me so sad. To top things off, just explaining the story was getting me all weepy again, so I was struggling to say my words without breaking down again. Since Herman couldn't understand the background story he couldn't understand why I would be crying as I related a particular event or important plot point. Yet I went on.
Well, as I continued to talk I started to recognize something about Herman that I really love. I know he doesn't like hearing about these romantic story lines that I relate to him. I know that he could not understand exactly why I was so moved by this story. I know that he will never, ever read this book, no matter how highly I recommend it. And yet he listened, nodding at appropriate times, giving a grunt when there was a pause that called for a reaction. He stopped what he was doing to listen to me, and he showed sympathy for my feelings, even though he did not share them.
And I love him for that.
Being in love does not mean that we have to love every single thing equally. We have our own distinct personalities and interests. But it is sure wonderful to be married to a man who tries to be supportive of me when I find something that causes me to feel great emotion. Watching Herman's face as related an incredibly long and rambling story to him that would not hold his interest, I felt so incredibly lucky to have him for my husband. His patience in listening to my completely unimportant ramblings is only an example of his total attentiveness when it is something terribly important that I have to share. Twenty years later, I find that I love him more completely every single day. It is a blessing to share my life with someone who is so attentive and willing to get excited about things I get excited about, even when he has no idea exactly what the big deal might be.
So today Herman got some extra points for sitting through my long novel explanation. I'll earn a few back when I attempt to show appropriate excitement when he begins to talk about another rental house to purchase or his ten point plan for expanding our business. My secret for staying appropriately interested during these discussions? Lots of smiles. They go a long way. :)
***As a side note, I do recommend this book with some reservations because steampunk is not a genre for everyone. Lots of people might find it incredibly weird. It is kind of a combination of historical romance, paranormal, and science fiction. This is a young adult book, so the content is clean, but you might think it is weird to read about humanoid robots and mechanical creatures wreaking havoc on 19th century London. I didn't mind, so I could enjoy the story.
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