I anxiously scanned charges on my bank app in disbelief. Damn, I thought, my husband’s bank card must have been swiped through a skimmer. Three large charges—much larger than the commissary snack purchases appearing every few days—glared back at me. I futilely tried to make sense of the foreign words detailing them.

I took a quick screenshot, circled the amounts in a vivid red and quickly sent my husband a picture message. “Are these charges legitimate”? “No, I don’t think so”… he messaged back a short while later.

I found myself immediately fretting about the money and the headache I faced disputing fraudulent charges from halfway around the globe.

I will forever be a “financial worrier”. As a young child, my mother supported our family of four on a meager secretary’s salary, while my dad attended medical school in California. We often relied on the kindness of family, friends and church members who lovingly gave boxes of hand-me-down clothes, food and housewares.

It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I finally felt like we had reached a middle class lifestyle. My husband and I live comfortably, but the nervousness I felt regarding money growing up “poor” has remained.

On a phone call later that afternoon I inquired again about the charges. My husband recanted, “yes, those charges are right, I made a couple of ATM transactions,” he said. I instantly wondered why he needed that much money, as he is on an overseas military deployment. Frustration slowly began to creep in. “He should know we are on a budget,” I vexed to myself. I recently took a hiatus from my art director career and admittedly fear relying on just his income, even though the numbers easily balance in our favor each month. I became angry.

Then he began sharing about the migrant workers he encountered pumping gas, cleaning bathrooms, and making a meager wage. He described the elderly men from places like the Philippines, India and Bangladesh working humble jobs in the more affluent middle-eastern nations. He went on to say, “I pulled out extra money so that I am able to tip well…I want to help them.” At that moment my heart began to beat a little faster, my ire dissipated. I was left only with love for my husband, his golden heart, and a big bite of humble pie for getting angry.

• 

• 

You see, my husband—who necessitates no accolades for HIS sacrifice and the hardships of a deployment—only ever wants to give more. He is the guy who buys your coffee if you’re lucky enough to pull up behind him in the Starbucks drive-through. He is the guy who walked down the street to buy me breakfast when I didn’t care for the menu at the vegetarian restaurant he chose. I thought he had gone to the restroom—I watched as his food grew cold before he returned. He handed me a bag with some strips of bacon, but I definitely ate humble pie that day too. And later, at that same cafe, he flagged our waitress over and discreetly motioned to the people whose breakfast he’d like to buy…a single mother, a young family, an elderly couple…

After spending a few years as a military girlfriend and now wife, I believe there are two types of people who join the armed forces—those with the heart of a warrior and those with the heart of a servant. My husband has the latter, and it is one of the things I love most … he undeniably has the better heart in our marriage and I guess that’s a bite of humble pie I can bear to swallow.

“And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.”
—Hebrews 13:16

Love,
L.N.