John and I needed to go on an errand. It required going together in one car and coming home in two. I brought a quilt that needed hand binding to keep me busy on the way. By busy I mean, not hyperventilating over his driving. John has a stellar track record, which should be reason enough for me to stifle the urge to react with gasps and sudden clutching of my seat belt. But rationality has little to do with being a passenger whirling seventy miles an hour. Heck I can even break a sweat on the five mile trip to Trader Joe's. 

Occasionally I permitted myself a peek at the dashboard and a muffled squeak, but mostly I kept my eyes off the speedometer needle and on the one attached to brown thread. 

We chatted about work and the kids. In the margins around phrases, I noticed opinions, and assumptions vying for my attention. They were like the gnats that buzz around your face at the lake. 

Small enough to avoid my line of vision, but big enough to rankle. 

On the return trip, I followed him. I like following, since it means I can ignore the road signs and simply drive. Once or twice another car came too close to his and my protectiveness ballooned like an air bag. I became keenly aware of how precious he is, and how much I wanted him to be safe. I thought of a woman I heard of who was actually on the phone with her son when he was robbed and killed. The agony of her loss, even though I do not know her name, pierced me deeply. To be driving behind my husband when he was sideswiped by a truck would be excruciating beyond all measure. 

In the absence of opinions, and judgments about what John was or was not doing, there was space. Space to honor him in his fragility, to want him to be blessed. 

Even though we spoke no words on the way home, I felt oddly closer to him than on the way there. I have no explanation for it.