DOWN HOME: Tax time reminds him of wife’s love_40504

Posted: 4/02/04

DOWN HOME:
Tax time reminds him of wife's love

Every now and then, someone says something that puts life into perspective.

This just happened to me.

Joanna looked across the room and told me: “Here. I need you to sign this.”

Jo repeats those same seven words words at exactly the same moment every year. Right before she hands me our tax statement and a ball point pen.

“Here. I need you to sign this.” They're seven of the most loving words my wife says to me all year long.

Not because they're romantic. Not because we don't have to pay taxes. Not even because she doesn't tell me she loves me every day.

But when she speaks those words and hands me that pen, she's showing me she loves me.

See, the last time I completed a tax return, it fit on a postcard, and the largest number on it had four digits. OK, maybe three.

This was long ago. Jimmy Carter lived in the White House. “Small” computers were the size of a Buick. Baptists only sang hymns in church. I had hair on the top of my head.

The year was 1979, and we were about to get married. I completed my tax return, which took all of about, oh, three minutes.

I dropped it in the mailbox at Hardin-Simmons University, where Jo and I were seniors. She still lived near the edge of a shadow cast by an authoritarian youth guru, and she announced: “Next year, you should do our taxes, because you'll be the head of our household.”

I still remember my exact response: “That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say.”

There I was, a religion and journalism student who didn't know anything about money, about to marry a business education major who knew all about money. I loved words; she adored numbers. Why should I ever fill out a tax return when I was about to marry a woman who could complete a dozen tax returns while I balanced my checkbook?

So, praise God from whom all blessings flow, all I've had to do every April is sign my name, wish the IRS happy returns and thank God for a numbers-savvy wife.

That's not to say we don't have a complementary marriage. I'm better at some things: I can change lightbulbs and clean the kitchen better than she can. I'm more patient with the dog and less afraid of bugs. I'm really good at polishing shoes and (when appropriately inspired) re-caulking the shower. Let's see now … I can clean out leftovers and organize the medicine cabinet.

And that's it. She's better at everything else, from giving our daughters practical advice to organizing vacations to whipping up dinner to knowing when to “chill,” as she advises me.

So, while the rest of America moans and groans as the IRS beckons, I thank God for my wife, who complements all my weaknesses. And loves me enough to do the taxes.