Yesterday I read a story about a young woman named Lois who  could no longer smile. One day she woke up and half of her face was paralyzed. Instead of reflecting her changing emotions, her lips and eyes  were frozen in an expression of disdain. She could no longer  communicate joy, compassion or contentment through the once effortless  language of the face. Lois can still feel those things, but the message  is undeliverable. Even her ability to say it with words is compromised  by slack lips and cheeks.

I had a  friend in high school who it seemed was always smiling. It was fun to be  around her. I later realized that sometimes the smile was more about  nervousness than happiness, but it still felt great to be with her. What I  wished I had had the maturity to learn was that I could smile more too. I  smiled as a natural response when I felt happy, but I could have smiled as  a conscious effort to engender cheerfulness around me.

I have been  surprisingly sluggish in realizing how much my smile means to my husband. I  smiled plenty when we were dating, because, well that is what you do.  Peacocks spread their tail feathers, frogs inflate their necks, Humpback  whales sing and teenage girls smile. But the need to attract John slipped  away, or at least the urgency of it did. He was here, and for the  foreseeable future was staying, so why would I smile?

Sometimes the  smile is a reaction to the feeling of happiness, while other times it  precedes it. It is like gratitude. People can become numb to the feeling  of thankfulness, even for things that once inspired generous  amounts.

When my daughter Mercy first rested in my arms 28 years ago,  the feelings of wonder and indebtedness squeezed out any other  possible emotion. I was oblivious to comments about the weather, or  the political landscape, or my husband's income. Nothing  mattered but this incredibly sweet baby.

She is still wonderful, yet my gratitude can slide behind  other more pressing matters. just like when I open new windows on my Mac and they cover up the ones that were there first. My love for Mercy  was here first, yet it can get covered up.

It works that way with  marriage too. When John would call me on Saturday mornings, while we were  betrothed and living 1000 miles apart, the world stood still. The  excitement of talking with him for a whole expensive hour was enough to  block out any annoyances or distractions. I was talking with my sweetheart.  

So where does that feeling, once so overpowering, disappear to when he  calls me now? I am not comfortable with the suggestion that it is any less  a miracle. Is a baby splendid only if the people around her think she is?  Is a husband, attentive to his wife's needs, only noble if she is  mindful of it?

Once when I was talking with a friend whose husband of  only two years had died of cancer, she mused that she would welcome the  sight of his socks strewn on the floor. The floor was clean now, but he was  gone. I thought of my own impatience about scattered trousers, or  open cupboards, and realized that they are a reminder that my husband  is alive and present. That is no less of a blessing now than it was  when we went to the Catskills on our honeymoon. Come to think of it, he  may have left his clothes on the floor then too, but I had more  eloquent things to say than "Pick up your socks, dude."
 
Mother Teresa  changed the world she touched. Some of us may wonder if we too could make a  measurable difference. Yet one of the simple mandates she gave to people  asking her what path to take in healing the pain of humanity was merely  this.

"Smile at your husbands. Smile at your wives."